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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 + + +Title: The Diary of an Ennuyée + +Author: Anna Brownell Jameson + +Release Date: March 26, 2006 [EBook #18049] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DIARY OF AN ENNUYÉE *** + + + + +Produced by Carlo Traverso, Diane Monico, and the Project +Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net. (This file was produced from images +generously made available by the Bibliothèque nationale +de France (BnF/Gallica) at http://gallica.bnf.fr.) + + + + + + +</pre> + + + + + +<h2>THE DIARY</h2> + +<h4>OF</h4> + +<h1>AN ENNUYÉE.</h1> + +<h4><i>A NEW EDITION</i>.<br /><br /><br /></h4> + +<h3>BY MRS. JAMESON,</h3> + +<p class="center"> +AUTHOR OF "VISITS AND SKETCHES AT HOME AND ABROAD,"<br /> +ETC. ETC.<br /></p> + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="poem"> +<tr><td align='left'>Sad, solemn, soure, and full of fancies fraile,</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>She woxe: yet wist she neither how nor why:</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>She wist not, silly Mayd, what she did aile,</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Yet wist she was not well at ease, perdie;</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Yet thought it was not Love, but some Melancholie.</td></tr> + +<tr><td align='right'><span class="smcap">Spenser.</span></td></tr> +</table></div> + + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> + +<p class="center"><big>PARIS,</big></p> + +<p class="center">BAUDRY'S EUROPEAN LIBRARY,</p> + +<p class="center"><small>SOLD ALSO BY AMYOT, RUE DE LA PAIX; TRUCHY, BOULEVARD DES ITALIENS;<br /> +THEOPHILE BARROIS, JUN., RUE RICHELIEU; LIBRAIRIE DES ÉTRANGERS,<br /> +RUE NEUVE-SAINT-AUGUSTIN; AND HEIDELOFF AND CAMPE,<br /> +RUE VIVIENNE.</small><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="center">1836.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p> + + + +<h2>DIARY OF AN ENNUYÉE.<a name="FNanchor_A_1" id="FNanchor_A_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_1" class="fnanchor">[A]</a></h2> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>Calais, June 21.</i>—What young lady, travelling for the first time +on the Continent, does not write a "Diary?" No sooner have we slept +on the shores of France—no sooner are we seated in the gay salon at +Dessin's, than we call, like Biddy Fudge, for "French pens and +French ink," and forth steps from its case the morocco-bound diary, +regularly ruled and paged, with its patent Bramah lock and key, +wherein we are to record and preserve all the striking, profound, and +original observations—the classical reminiscences—the thread-bare +raptures—the poetical effusions—in short, all the never-sufficiently-to-be-exhausted +topics of sentiment and enthusiasm, which must necessarily +suggest themselves while posting from Paris to Naples.</p> + +<p>Verbiage, emptiness, and affectation!</p> + +<p>Yes—but what must I do, then, with my volume in green morocco?</p> + +<p>Very true, I did not think of that.</p> + +<p>We have all read the <span class="smcap">Diary of an Invalid</span>, the best of all diaries +since old Evelyn's.—</p> + +<p>Well, then,—Here beginneth the <span class="smcap">Diary of a Blue Devil</span>.</p> + +<p>What inconsistent beings are we!—How strange that in such a +moment as this, I can jest in mockery of myself! but I will write on. +Some keep a diary, because it is the fashion—a reason why <i>I</i> should +not; some because it is <i>blue</i>, but I am not <i>blue</i>, only a <i>blue devil</i>; +some for their amusement,—<i>amusement!!</i> alas! alas! and some +that they may remember,—and I that I may forget, O! would it were +possible.</p> + +<p>When, to-day, for the first time in my life, I saw the shores of +England fade away in the distance—did the conviction that I should +never behold them more, bring with it one additional pang of regret, +or one consoling thought? neither the one nor the other. I leave behind +me the scenes, the objects, so long associated with pain; but +from pain itself I cannot fly: it has become a part of myself. I know +not yet whether I ought to rejoice and be thankful for this opportunity +of travelling, while my mind is thus torn and upset; or rather regret<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span> +that I must visit scenes of interest, of splendour, of novelty—scenes +over which, years ago, I used to ponder with many a sigh, and many +a vain longing, now that I am lost to all the pleasure they could once +have excited: for what is all the world to me now?—But I will not +weakly yield: though time and I have not been long acquainted, do I +not know what miracles he, "the all-powerful healer," can perform? +Who knows but this dark cloud may pass away? Continual motion, +continual activity, continual novelty, the absolute necessity for self-command, +may do something for me. I cannot quite forget; but if I can +cease to remember for a few minutes, or even, it may be, for a few +hours? O how idle to talk of "<i>indulging</i> grief:" talk of indulging +the rack, the rheumatism! who ever indulged grief that truly felt it? +to <i>endure</i> is hard enough.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It is o'er! with its pains and its pleasures,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The dream of affection is o'er!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The feelings I lavish'd so fondly<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Will never return to me more.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With a faith, O! too blindly believing—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">A truth, no unkindness could move;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My prodigal heart hath expended<br /></span> +<span class="i1">At once, an existence of love.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And now, like the spendthrift forsaken,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">By those whom his bounty had blest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All empty, and cold, and despairing,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">It shrinks in my desolate breast.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But a spirit is burning within me,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Unquench'd, and unquenchable yet;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It shall teach me to bear uncomplaining,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The grief I can never forget.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><i>Rouen, June 25.</i>—I do not pity Joan of Arc: that heroic woman +only paid the price which all must pay for celebrity in some shape or +other: the sword or the faggot, the scaffold or the field, public hatred +or private heart-break; what matter? The noble Bedford could not +rise above the age in which he lived: but <i>that</i> was the age of gallantry +and chivalry, as well as superstition: and could Charles, the +lover of Agnes Sorel, with all the knights and nobles of France, look +on while their champion, and a woman, was devoted to chains and +death, without one effort to save her?</p> + +<p>It has often been said that her fate disgraced the military fame of +the English; it is a far fouler blot on the chivalry of France.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>St. Germains, June 27.</i>—I cannot bear this place, another hour in +it will kill me; this sultry evening—this sickening sunshine—this quiet, +unbroken, boundless landscape—these motionless woods—the Seine +stealing, creeping through the level plains—the dull grandeur of the old +chateau—the languid repose of the whole scene—instead of soothing,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span> +torture me. I am left without resource, a prey to myself and to my +memory—to reflection, which embitters the source of suffering, and +thought, which brings distraction. Horses on to Paris! Vite! Vite!</p> + +<p><i>Paris, 28.</i>—What said the witty Frenchwoman?—<i>Paris est le lieu +du monde où l'on peut le mieux se passer de bonheur;</i>—in that case it +will suit me admirably.</p> + +<p><i>29.</i>—We walked and drove about all day: I was amused. I marvel +at my own versatility when I think how soon my quick spirits were +excited by this gay, gaudy, noisy, idle place. The different appearance +of the streets of London and Paris is the first thing to strike a +stranger. In the gayest and most crowded streets of London the people +move steadily and rapidly along, with a grave collected air, as if +all had some business in view; <i>here</i>, as a little girl observed the other +day, all the people walk about "like ladies and gentlemen going a visiting:" +the women well-dressed and smiling, and with a certain jaunty +air, trip along with their peculiar mincing step, and appear as if their +sole object was but to show themselves; the men ill-dressed, slovenly, +and in general ill-looking, lounge indolently, and stare as if they had +no other purpose in life but to look about them.<a name="FNanchor_B_2" id="FNanchor_B_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_B_2" class="fnanchor">[B]</a></p> + +<p><i>July 12.</i>—"Quel est à Paris le suprême talent? celui d'amuser: +et quel est le suprême bonheur? l'amusement."</p> + +<p>Then <i>le suprême bonheur</i> may be found every evening from nine to +ten, in a walk along the Boulevards, or a ramble through the Champs +Elysées, and from ten to twelve in a salon at Tortoni's.</p> + +<p>What an extraordinary scene was that I witnessed to-night! how +truly <i>French</i>! Spite of myself and all my melancholy musings, and +all my philosophic allowances for the difference of national character, +I was irresistibly compelled to smile at some of the farcical groups we +encountered. In the most crowded parts of the Champs Elysées this +evening (Sunday), there sat an old lady with a wrinkled yellow face +and sharp features, dressed in flounced gown of dirty white muslin, a +pink sash and a Leghorn hat and feathers. In one hand she held a +small tray for the contribution of amateurs, and in the other an Italian +bravura, which she sung or rather screamed out with a thousand indescribable +shruggings, contortions, and grimaces, and in a voice to +which a cracked tea-kettle, or a "brazen candlestick turned," had +seemed the music of the spheres. A little farther on we found two +elderly gentlemen playing at see-saw; one an immense corpulent man +of fifteen stone at least, the other a thin dwarfish animal with gray +mustachios, who held before him what I thought was a child, but on +approaching, it proved to be a large stone strapped before him, to +render his weight a counterpoise to that of his huge companion. We<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span> +passed on, and returning about half an hour afterwards down the same +walk, we found the same venerable pair pursuing their edifying +amusement with as much enthusiasm as before.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>Before the revolution, sacrilege became one of the most frequent +crimes. I was told of a man who, having stolen from a church the +silver box containing the consecrated wafers, returned the wafers next +day in a letter to the Curé of the Parish, <i>having used one of them to +seal his envelop</i>.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>July 27.</i>—A conversation with S** always leaves me sad. Can it +then be possible that he is right? No—O no! my understanding rejects +the idea with indignation, my whole heart recoils from it; yet if +it should be so! what then: have I been till now the dupe and the +victim of factitious feelings? virtue, honour, feeling, generosity, you +are then but words, signifying nothing? Yet if this vain philosophy +lead to happiness, would not S** be happy? it is evident he is <i>not</i>. +When he said that the object existed not in this world which could lead +him twenty yards out of his way, did this sound like happiness? I remember +that while he spoke, instead of feeling either persuaded or +convinced by his captivating eloquence, I was perplexed and distressed; +I <i>suffered</i> a painful compassion, and tears were in my eyes. I, who +so often have pitied myself, pitied him at that moment a thousand times +more; I thought, I would not buy tranquillity at such a price as he has +paid for it. Yet <i>if</i> he should be right? that <i>if</i>, which every now and +then suggests itself, is terrible; it shakes me in the utmost recesses of +my heart.</p> + +<p>S**, in spite of myself, and in spite of all that with most perverted +pains he has made himself (so different from what he once was), can +charm and interest, pain and perplex me:—not so D**, another +disciple of the same school: he inspires me with the strongest antipathy +I ever felt for a human being. Insignificant and disagreeable +is his appearance, he looks as if all the bile under heaven had found +its way into his complexion, and all the infernal irony of a Mephistopheles +into his turned-up nose and insolent curled lip. He is, he +<i>says</i> he is, an atheist, a materialist, a sensualist: the pains he takes +to deprave and degrade his nature, render him so disgusting, that I +could not even speak in his presence; I dreaded lest he should enter +into conversation with me. I might have spared myself the fear. +He piques himself on his utter contempt for, and disregard of, women; +and, after all, is not himself worthy these words I bestow on him.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>Aug. 25.</i>—Here begins, I hope, a new æra. I have had a long +and dangerous illness; the crisis perhaps of what I have been suffering<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span> +for months. Contrary to my own wishes, and to the expectations of +others, I <i>live</i>: and trusting in God that I have been preserved for +some wise and good purpose, am therefore thankful: even supposing +I should be reserved for new trials, I cannot surely in this world +suffer more than I have suffered: it is not possible that the same +causes can be again combined to afflict me.</p> + +<p>How truly can I say, few and evil have my days been! may I not +say as truly, I have not weakly yielded, I have not "gone about to +cause my heart to despair," but have striven, and not in vain? I took +the remedies they gave me, and was grateful; I resigned myself to +<i>live</i>, when had I but willed it, I might have died; and when to die +and be at rest, seemed to my sick heart the only covetable boon.</p> + +<p><i>Sept. 3.</i>—A terrible anniversary at Paris—still ill and very weak. +Edmonde came, <i>pour me désennuyer</i>. He has soul enough to bear a +good deal of wearing down; but whether the fine qualities he possesses +will turn to good or evil, is hard to tell: it is evident his character +has not yet settled: it vibrates still as nature inclines him to good, +and all the circumstances around him to evil. We talked as usual of +women, of gallantry, of the French and English character, of national +prejudices, of Shakspeare and Racine (never failing subjects of discussion), +and he read aloud Delille's Catacombes de Rome, with great +feeling, animation, and dramatic effect.</p> + +<p><i>La mode</i> at Paris is a spell of wondrous power: it is most like what +we should call in England a rage, a mania, a torrent sweeping down +the bounds between good and evil, sense and nonsense, upon whose +surface straws and egg-shells float into notoriety, while the gold and +the marble are buried and hidden till its force be spent. The rage +for cashmeres and little dogs has lately given way to a rage for Le +Solitaire, a romance written, I believe, by a certain Vicomte d'Arlincourt. +Le Solitaire rules the imagination, the taste, the dress of half +Paris: if you go to the theatre, it is to see the "Solitaire," either as +tragedy, opera, or melodrame; the men dress their hair and throw +their cloaks about them <i>à la Solitaire</i>; bonnets and caps, flounces +and ribbons, are all <i>à la Solitaire</i>; the print shops are full of scenes +from Le Solitaire; it is on every toilette, on every work-table;—ladies +carry it about in their reticules to show each other that they are +<i>à la mode</i>; and the men—what can they do but humble their understandings +and be <i>extasiés</i>, when beautiful eyes sparkle in its defence +and glisten in its praise, and ruby lips pronounce it divine, delicious; +"quelle sublimité dans les descriptions, quelle force dans les caractères! +quelle âme! feu! chaleur! verve! originalité! passion!" etc.</p> + +<p>"Vous n'avez pas lu le Solitaire?" said Madame M. yesterday. +"Eh mon dieu! il est donc possible! vous? mais, ma chère, vous +êtes perdue de réputation, et pour jamais!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span></p> + +<p>To retrieve my lost reputation, I sat down to read Le Solitaire, +and as I read my amazement grew, and I did in "gaping wonderment +abound," to think that fashion, like the insane root of old, had power +to drive a whole city mad with nonsense; for such a tissue of abominable +absurdities, bombast and blasphemy, bad taste and bad language, +was never surely indited by any madman, in or out of Bedlam: not +Maturin himself, that king of fustian,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"——ever wrote or borrowed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Any thing half so horrid!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>and this is the book which has turned the brains of half Paris, which +has gone through fifteen editions in a few weeks, which not to admire +is "<i>pitoyable</i>," and not to have read "<i>quelque chose d'inouie</i>."</p> + +<p>The objects at Paris which have most struck me, have been those +least vaunted.</p> + +<p>The view of the city from the Pont des Arts, to-night, enchanted +me. As every body who goes to Rome views the Coliseum by moonlight, +so nobody should leave Paris without seeing the effect from the +Pont des Arts, on a fine moonlight night:—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Earth hath not any thing to show more fair."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>It is singular I should have felt its influence at such a moment: it +appears to me that those who, from feeling too strongly, have learnt +to consider too deeply, become less sensible to the works of art, and +more alive to nature. Are there not times when we turn with indifference +from the finest picture or statue—the most improving book—the +most amusing poem; and when the very commonest, and every-day +beauties of nature, a soft evening, a lovely landscape, the moon +riding in her glory through a clouded sky, without forcing or asking +attention, sink into our hearts? They do not console,—they sometimes +add poignancy to pain; but still they have a power, and do not +speak in vain: they become a part of us; and never are we so inclined +to claim kindred with nature, as when sorrow has lent us her +mournful experience. At the time I felt this (and how many have +felt it as deeply, and expressed it better!) I did not <i>think</i> it, still +less could I have <i>said it</i>; but I have pleasure in recording the past +impression. "On rend mieux compte de ce qu'on a senti que de ce +qu'on sent."</p> + +<p><i>September 8.</i>—Paris is crowded with English; and I do not wonder +at it; it is, on the whole, a pleasant place to live in. I like Paris, +though I shall quit it without regret as soon as I have strength to +travel. Here the social arts are carried to perfection—above all, the +art of conversation: every one talks much and talks well. In this<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span> +multiplicity of words it must happen of course that a certain quantum +of ideas is intermixed: and somehow or other, by dint of listening, +talking, and looking about them, people <i>do</i> learn, and information to a +certain point is general. Those who have knowledge are not shy of +imparting it, and those who are ignorant take care not to seem so; but +are sometimes agreeable, often amusing, and seldom <i>bêtes</i>. Nowhere +have I seen unformed sheepish boys, nowhere the surliness, awkwardness, +ungraciousness, and uneasy proud bashfulness, I have seen in +the best companies in England. Our French friend Lucien has, at +fifteen, the air and conversation of a finished gentleman; and our +English friend C—— is at eighteen, the veriest log of a lumpish +school-boy that ever entered a room. What I have seen of society, +I like: the delicious climate too, the rich skies, the clear elastic atmosphere, +the <i>out of doors</i> life the people lead, are all (in summer at +least) delightful. There may be less <i>comfort</i> here; but nobody feels +the want of it; and there is certainly more amusement—and amusement +is here truly "le suprême bonheur." Happiness, according to +the French meaning of the word, lies more on the surface of life: it is +a sort of happiness which is cheap and ever at hand. This is the +place to live in for the merry poor man, or the melancholy rich one: +for those who have too much money, and those who have too little; +for those who only wish, like the Irishman "to live all the days of +their life,"—<i>prendre en légère monnaie la somme des plaisirs</i>: but +to the thinking, the feeling, the domestic man, who only exists, enjoys, +suffers through his affections—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Who is retired as noontide dew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or fountain in a noonday grove—"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>to such a one, Paris must be nothing better than a vast frippery +shop, an ever-varying galantee show, an eternal vanity fair, a vortex +of folly, a pandemonium of vice.</p> + +<p><i>September 18.</i>—Our imperials are packed, our passports signed, and +we set off to-morrow for Geneva by Dijon and the Jura. I leave nothing +behind me to regret, I see nothing before me to fear, and have +no hope but in change; and now all that remains to be said of Paris, +and all its wonders and all its vanities, all its glories and all its gaieties, +are they not recorded in the ponderous chronicles of most veracious +tourists, and what can I add thereto?</p> + +<p><i>Geneva, Saturday Night, 11 <a name="oclock" id="oclock"></a>o'clock.</i>—Can it be the "blue rushing +of the arrowy Rhone" I hear from my window? Shall I hear it to-morrow, +when I wake? Have I seen, have I felt the reality of what +I have so often imagined? and much, <i>much</i> more? How little do I +feel the contretemps and privations which affect others—and feel them +<i>only</i> because they affect others! To me they are nothing: I have in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span> +a few hours stored my mind with images of beauty and grandeur which +will last through my whole existence.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>Yet I know I am not singular; others have felt the same: others, +who, capable of "drinking in the soul of things," have viewed nature +less with their eyes than their hearts. Now I feel the value of my own +enthusiasm; now am I repaid in part for many pains and sorrows and +errors it has cost me. Though the natural expression of that enthusiasm +be now repressed and restrained, and my spirits subdued by long +illness, what but enthusiasm could elevate my mind to a level with the +sublime objects round me, and excite me to pour out my whole heart +in admiration as I do now! How deeply they have penetrated into my +imagination!—Beautiful nature! If I could but infuse into you a +portion of my own existence as you have become a part of mine—If I +could but bid you reflect back my soul, as it reflects back all your magnificence, +I would make you my only friend, and wish no other; content +"to love earth only for its earthly sake."</p> + +<p>I am so tired to-night, I can say nothing of the Jura, nor of the superb +ascent of the mountain, to me so novel, so astonishing a scene; +nor of the cheerful brilliance of the morning sun, illuminating the +high cliffs, and throwing the deep woody vallies into the darkest shadow; +nor of the far distant plains of France seen between the hills, +and melting away into a soft vapoury light; nor of Morey, and its delicious +strawberries and honey-comb; nor of that never-to-be-forgotten +moment, when turning the corner of the road, as it wound round a +cliff near the summit, we beheld the lake and city of Geneva spread at +our feet, with its magnificent back-ground of the Italian Alps, peak beyond +peak, snow-crowned! and Mont Blanc towering over all! No +description had prepared me for this prospect; and the first impression +was rapturous surprise; but by degrees the vastness and the huge gigantic +features of the scene pressed like a weight upon "my amazed +sprite," and the feeling of its immense extent fatigued my imagination +till my spirits gave way in tears. Then came remembrances of those +I ought to forget, blending with all I saw a deeper power—raising up +emotions, long buried though not dead, to fright me with their resurrection. +I was so glad to arrive here, and shall be <i>so</i> glad to sleep—even +the dull sleep which laudanum brings me.</p> + +<p><i>Oct. 1.</i>—When next I submit (having the power to avoid it) to be +crammed into a carriage and carried from place to place, whether I +would or not, and be set down at the stated <i>points de vue</i>, while a +detestable laquais points out what I am to admire, I shall deserve to +endure again what I endured to-day. As there was no possibility of +relief, I resigned myself to my fate, and was even amused by the absurdity +of my own situation. We went to see the junction of the Arve<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span> +and the Rhone: or rather to see the Arve pollute the rich, blue transparent +Rhone, with its turbid waters. The day was heavy, and the +clouds rolled in prodigious masses along the dark sides of the mountains, +frequently hiding them from our view, and substituting for their +graceful outlines and ever-varying contrast of tint and shade, an impenetrable +veil of dark gray vapour.</p> + +<p><i>3rd.</i>—We took a boat and rowed on the lake for about two hours. +Our boatman, a fine handsome athletic figure, was very talkative and +intelligent. He had been in the service of Lord Byron, and was with +him in that storm between La Meillerie and St. Gingough, which is +described in the third canto of Childe Harold. He pointed out among +the beautiful villas, which adorn the banks on either side, that in which +the empress Josephine had resided for six months, not long before her +death. When he spoke of her, he rested upon his oars to descant upon +her virtues, her generosity, her affability, her goodness to the poor, and +his countenance became quite animated with enthusiasm. Here, in +France, wherever the name of Josephine is mentioned, there seems to +exist but one feeling, one opinion of her beneficence and <i>amabilité</i> of +character. Our boatman had also rowed Marie Louise across the lake, +on her way to Paris: he gave us no very captivating picture of her. +He described her as "<i>grande, blonde, bien faite et extrêmement fière</i>:" +and told us how she tormented her ladies in waiting; "<i>comme elle +tracassait ses dames d'honneur</i>." The day being rainy and gloomy, +her attendants begged of her to defer the passage for a short time, till +the fogs had cleared away, and discovered all the beauty of the surrounding +shores. She replied haughtily and angrily, "Je veux faire +ce que je veux—allez toujours."</p> + +<p>M. le Baron M——n, whom we knew at Paris, told me several delightful +anecdotes of Josephine: he was attached to her household, and +high in her confidence. Napoleon sent him on the very morning of +his second nuptials, with a message and billet to the ex-empress. On +hearing that the ceremony was performed which had passed her sceptre +into the hands of the proud, cold-hearted Austrian, the feelings of the +<i>woman</i> overcame every other. She burst into tears, and wringing her +hands, exclaimed "Ah! au moins, qu'il soit heureux!" Napoleon +resigned this estimable and amiable creature to narrow views of selfish +policy, and with her his good genius fled: he deserved it, and verily he +hath had his reward.</p> + +<p>We drove after dinner to Copet; and the Duchesse de Broglie being +absent, had an opportunity of seeing the chateau. All things "were +there of her"—of her, whose genuine worth excused, whose all-commanding +talents threw into shade, those failings which belonged to the +weakness of her sex, and her warm feelings and imagination. The +servant girl who showed us the apartments, had been fifteen years in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span> +Madame de Staël's service. All the servants had remained long in the +family, "elle était si bonne et si charmante maîtresse!" A picture of +Madame de Staël when young, gave me the idea of a fine countenance +and figure, though the features were irregular. In the bust, the expression +is not so prepossessing:—<i>there</i> the colour and brilliance of her +splendid dark eyes, the finest feature of her face, are of course quite +lost. The bust of M. Rocca<a name="FNanchor_C_3" id="FNanchor_C_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_C_3" class="fnanchor">[C]</a> was standing in the Baron de Staël's +dressing-room: I was more struck with it than any thing I saw, not +only as a chef-d'œuvre, but from the perfect and regular beauty of +the head, and the charm of the expression. It was just such a mouth as +we might suppose to have uttered his well-known reply—"<i>Je l'aimerai +tellement qu'elle finira par m'aimer.</i>" Madame de Staël had a son +by this marriage, who had just been brought home by his brother, the +Baron, from a school in the neighbourhood. He is about seven years +old. If we may believe the servant, Madame de Staël did not acknowledge +this son till just before her death; and she described the +wonder of the boy on being brought home to the chateau, and desired +to call <i>Monsieur le Baron</i> "Mon frère" and "Auguste." This part +of Madame de Staël's conduct seems incomprehensible; but her death +is recent, the circumstances little known, and it is difficult to judge her +motives. As a <i>woman</i>, as a <i>wife</i>, she might not have been able to +brave "the world's dread laugh"—but as a <i>mother</i>?——</p> + +<p>We have also seen Ferney—a place which did not interest me much, +for I have no sympathies with Voltaire:—and some other beautiful +scenes in the neighbourhood.</p> + +<p>The Panorama exhibited in London just before I left it, is wonderfully +correct, with one pardonable exception: the artist did not venture +to make the waters of the lake of the intense ultramarine tinged with +violet as I now see them before me;</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"So darkly, deeply, beautifully blue;"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>it would have shocked English eyes as an exaggeration, or rather impossibility.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><b>THE PANORAMA OF LAUSANNE.</b><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Now blest for ever be that heaven-sprung art<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which can transport us in its magic power<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From all the turmoil of the busy crowd,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the gay haunts where pleasure is ador'd,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Mid the hot sick'ning glare of pomp and light;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And fashion worshipp'd by a gaudy throng<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of heartless idlers—from the jarring world<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And all its passions, follies, cares, and crimes—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And bids us gaze, even in the city's heart,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On such a scene as this! O fairest spot!<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span> +<span class="i0">If but the pictured semblance, the dead image<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of thy majestic beauty, hath a power<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To wake such deep delight; if that blue lake,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Over whose lifeless breast no breezes play,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Those mimic mountains robed in purple light,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yon painted verdure that but <i>seems</i> to glow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Those forms unbreathing, and those motionless woods,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A beauteous mockery all—can ravish thus,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What would it be, could we now gaze indeed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Upon thy <i>living</i> landscape? could we breathe<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy mountain air, and listen to thy waves,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As they run rippling past our feet, and see<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That lake lit up by dancing sunbeams—and<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Those light leaves quivering in the summer air;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or linger some sweet eve just on this spot<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where now we <i>seem</i> to stand, and watch the stars<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Flash into splendour, one by one, as night<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Steals over yon snow-peaks, and twilight fades<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Behind the steeps of Jura! here, O <i>here</i>!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Mid scenes where Genius, Worth and Wisdom dwelt,<a name="FNanchor_D_4" id="FNanchor_D_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_D_4" class="fnanchor">[D]</a><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which fancy peopled with a glowing train<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of most divine creations—Here to stray<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With <i>one</i> most cherished, and in loving eyes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Read a sweet comment on the wonders round—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Would this indeed be bliss? would not the soul<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Be lost in its own depths? and the full heart<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Languish with sense of beauty unexprest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And faint beneath its own excess of life?<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><i>Saturday.</i>—Quitted Geneva, and slept at St. Maurice. I was ill +during the last few days of our stay, and therefore left Geneva with the +less regret. I suffer now so constantly, that a day tolerably free from +pain seems a blessing for which I can scarce be sufficiently thankful. +Such was yesterday.</p> + +<p>Our road lay along the south bank of the lake, through Evian, Thonon, +St. Gingough: and on the opposite shores we had in view successively, +Lausanne, Vevai, Clarens, and Chillon. A rain storm pursued, or +almost surrounded us the whole morning; but we had the good fortune +to escape it. We travelled faster than it could pursue, and it seemed +to retire before us as we approached. The effect was surprisingly +beautiful; for while the two extremities of the lake were discoloured +and enveloped in gloom, that part opposite to us was as blue and transparent +as heaven itself, and almost as bright. Over Vevai, as we +viewed it from La Meillerie, rested one end of a glorious rainbow: the +other extremity appeared to touch the bosom of the lake, and shone +vividly against the dark mountains above Chillon. La Meillerie—Vevai! +what magic in those names! and O what a power has genius +to hallow with its lovely creations, scenes already so lavishly adorned +by Nature! it was not, however, of St. Preux I thought, as I passed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span> +under the rock of the Meillerie. Ah! how much of happiness, of enjoyment, +have I lost, in being forced to struggle against my feelings, +instead of abandoning myself to them! but surely I have done right. +Let me repeat it again and again to myself, and let that thought, if +possible, strengthen and console me.</p> + +<p><i>Monday.</i>—I have resolved to attempt no description of scenery; but +my pen is fascinated. I <i>must</i> note a few of the objects which struck +me to-day and yesterday, that I may at will combine them hereafter +to my mind's eye, and recall the glorious pictures I beheld, as we travelled +through the Vallais to Brig: the swollen and turbid (no longer +"blue and arrowy") Rhone, rushing and roaring along; the gigantic +mountains in all their endless variety of fantastic forms, which enclosed +us round,—their summits now robed in curling clouds, and then, as +the winds swept them aside, glittering in the sunshine; the little villages +perched like eagles' nests on the cliffs, far, far above our heads; +the deep rocky channels through which the torrents had madly broken +a way, tearing through every obstacle till they reached the Rhone, and +marking their course with devastation; the scene of direful ruin at +Martigny; the cataracts gushing, bounding from the living rock and +plunging into some unseen abyss below; even the shrubs and the fruit +trees which in the wider parts of the valley bordered the road side; +the vines, the rich scarlet barberries, the apples and pears which we +might have gathered by extending our hands;—all and each, when I +recall them, will rise up a vivid picture before my own fancy;—but +never could be truly represented to the mind of another—at least +through the medium of words.</p> + +<p>And yet, with all its wonders and beauties, this day's journey has +not enchanted me like Saturday's. The scenery <i>then</i> had a different +species of beauty, a deeper interest—when the dark blue sky was +above our heads, and the transparent lake shone another heaven at our +feet, and the recollection of great and glorious names, and visions of +poetic fancy, and ideal forms more lovely than ever trod this earth, +hovered around us:—and then those thoughts which would intrude—remembrances +of the far-off absent, who are or have been loved, mingled +with the whole, and shed an imaginary splendour or a tender interest, +over scenes which required no extraneous powers to enhance +their native loveliness.—no charm borrowed from imagination to embellish +the all-beautiful reality.</p> + +<p><i>Duomo d'Ossola.</i>—What shall I say of the marvellous, the miraculous +Simplon? Nothing: every body has said already every thing +that <i>can</i> be said and <i>exclaimed</i>.</p> + +<p>In our descent, as the valley widened, and the stern terrific features +of the scene assumed a gentler character, we came to the beautiful +village of Davedro, with its cottages and vineyards spread over a green<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> +slope, between the mountains and the torrent below. This lovely +nook struck me the more from its contrast with the region of snows, +clouds, and barren rocks to which our eyes had been for several hours +accustomed. In such a spot as Davedro I fancied I should wish to +<i>live</i>, could I in life assemble round me all that my craving heart and +boundless spirit desire;—<i>or die</i>, when life had exhausted all excitement, +and the subdued and weary soul had learned to be content with +repose:—but not not till <i>then</i>.</p> + +<p>We are now in Italy; but have not yet heard the soft sounds of the +Italian language. However, we read with great satisfaction the Italian +denomination of our Inn, "La grande Alberga della Villa"—called +out "Cameriere!" instead of "Garçon!"—plucked ripe grapes +as they hung from the treillages above our heads—gathered green figs +from the trees, bursting and luscious—panted with the intense heat—intense +and overpowering from its contrast with the cold of the Alpine +regions we had just left—and fancied we began to feel</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">"——cette vie enivrante,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Que le solei du sud inspire à tous les sens."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>11 at night.</i>—Fatigue and excitement have lately proved too much +for me: but I will not sink. I will yet bear up; and when a day thus +passed amid scenes like those of a romance, amid all that would once +have charmed my imagination, and enchanted my senses, brings no real +pleasure, but is ended, as <i>now</i> it ends, in tears, in bitterness of heart, +in languor, in sickness, and in pain—ah! let me remember the lesson +of resignation I have lately learned; and by elevating my thoughts to +a better world, turn to look upon the miserable affections which have +agitated me <i>here</i> as——<a name="FNanchor_E_5" id="FNanchor_E_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_E_5" class="fnanchor">[E]</a></p> + +<p>Could I but become as insensible, as regardless of the painful past +as I am of the all lovely present! Why was I proud of my victory +over passion? alas! what avails it that I have shaken the viper from +my hand, if I have no miraculous antidote against the venom which +has mingled with my life-blood, and clogged the pulses of my heart! +But the antidote of Paul—even faith—may it not be mine if I duly +seek it?</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>Arona, on the banks of the Lago Maggiore.</i>—Rousseau mentions +somewhere, that it was once his intention to place the scene of the +Heloïse in the Borromean Islands. What a French idea! How +strangely incongruous had the pastoral simplicity of his lovers appeared +in such a scene! It must have changed, if not the whole plan,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> +at least the whole colouring of the tale. Imagine <i>la divine</i> <span class="smcap">Julie</span> tripping +up and down the artificial terraces of the Isola Bella, among +flower pots and statues, and colonnades and grottos; and St. Preux +sighing towards her, from some trim fantastic wilderness in the Isola +Madre!</p> + +<p>The day was heavenly, and I shall never forget the sunset, as we +viewed it reflected in the lake, which appeared at one moment an expanse +of living fire. This is the first we have seen of those effulgent +sunsets with which Italy will make us familiar.</p> + +<p><i>Milan.</i>—Our journey yesterday, through the flat fertile plains of +Lombardy, was not very interesting; and the want of novelty and +excitement made it fatiguing, in spite of the matchless roads and the +celerity with which we travelled.</p> + +<p>Whatever we may think of Napoleon in England, it is impossible +to travel on the Continent, and more particularly through Lombardy, +without being struck with the magnificence and vastness of his public +works—either designed or executed. He is more regretted here than +in France; or rather he has not been so soon banished from men's +minds. In Italy he followed the rational policy of depressing the +nobles, and providing occupation and amusement for the lower classes. +I spoke to-day with an intelligent artisan, who pointed out to us a +hall built near the public walk by Napoleon, for the people to dance +and assemble in, when the weather was unfavourable. The man concluded +some very animated and sensible remarks on the late events, +by adding expressively, that though many had been benefited by the +change, there was to him and all others of his class as much difference +between the late reign and the present, as between <i>l'or et le fer</i>.</p> + +<p>The silver shrine of St. Carlo Borromeo, with all its dazzling waste +of magnificence, struck me with a feeling of melancholy and indignation. +The gems and gold which lend such a horrible splendour to +corruption; the skeleton head, grinning ghastly under its invaluable +coronet; the skeleton hand supporting a crozier glittering with diamonds, +appeared so frightful, so senseless a mockery of the excellent, +simple-minded, and benevolent being they were intended to honour, +that I could but wonder, and escape from the sight as quickly as possible. +The Duomo is on the whole more remarkable for the splendour +of the material, than the good taste with which it is employed: the +statues which adorn it inside and out, are sufficient of themselves to +form a very respectable congregation: they are four thousand in +number.</p> + +<p><i>9th, Tuesday.</i>—We gave the morning to the churches, and the +evening to the Ambrosian library. The day was, on the whole, more +fatiguing than edifying or amusing. I remarked whatever was remarkable, +admired all that is usually admired, but brought away few<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> +impressions of novelty or pleasure. The objects which principally +struck my capricious and fastidious fancy, were precisely +those which passed unnoticed by every one else, and are not worth +recording. In the first church we visited, I saw a young girl respectably +and even elegantly dressed, in the beautiful costume of the Milanese, +who was kneeling on the pavement before a crucifix, weeping bitterly, +and at the same time fanning herself most vehemently with a large +green fan. Another church (St. Alessandro, I think) was oddly decorated +for a Christian temple. A statue of Venus stood on one side +of the porch, a statue of Hercules on the other. The two divinities, +whose attributes could not be mistaken, had been <i>converted</i> from heathenism +into two very respectable saints. I forget their <i>christian +names</i>. Nor is this the most amusing metamorphosis I have seen +here. The transformation of two heathen divinities into saints, is +matched by the apotheosis of two modern sovereigns into pagan deities. +On the frieze of the <i>salle</i>, adjoining the amphitheatre, there is +a head of Napoleon, which, by the addition of a beard, has been converted +into a Jupiter; and on the opposite side, a head of Josephine, +which, being already beautiful and dignified, has required no alteration, +except in name, to become a creditable Minerva.</p> + +<p><i>10th.</i>—At the Brera, now called the "Palace of the Arts and +Sciences," we spent some delightful hours. There is a numerous +collection of pictures by Titian, Guido, Albano, Schidone, the three +Carraccis, Tintoretto, Giorgione, etc. Some old paintings in fresco, +by Luini and others of his age, were especially pointed out to us, which +had been cut from the walls of churches now destroyed. They are +preserved here, I presume, as curiosities, and specimens of the progress +of the arts, for they possess no other merit—none, at least, that +I could discover. Here is the "Marriage of the Virgin," by Raffaelle, +of which I had often heard. It disappointed me at the first glance, +but charmed me at the second, and enchanted me at the third. The +unobtrusive grace and simplicity of Raffaelle do not immediately +strike an eye so unpractised, and a taste so unformed as mine still is: +for though I have seen the best pictures in England, we have there +no opportunity of becoming acquainted with the two divinest masters +of the Italian art, Raffaelle and Correggio. There are not, I conceive, +half a dozen of either in all the collections together, and those we do possess, +are far from being among their best efforts. But Raffaelle must not +make me forget the Hagar in the Brera: the affecting—the inimitable +Hagar! what agony, what upbraiding, what love, what helpless desolation +of heart in that countenance! I may well remember the deep +pathos of this picture; for the face of Hagar has haunted me sleeping +and waking ever since I beheld it. Marvellous power of art! that +mere inanimate forms, and colours compounded of gross materials,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span> +should thus live—thus speak—thus stand a soul-felt presence before +us, and from the senseless board or canvas, breathe into our hearts a +feeling, beyond what the most impassioned eloquence could ever inspire—beyond +what mere words can ever render.</p> + +<p>Last night and the preceding we spent at the Scala. The opera was +stupid, and Madame Bellochi, who is the present primadonna, appeared +to me harsh and ungraceful, when compared to Fodor. The new ballet +however, amply indemnified us for the disappointment. Our Italian +friends condoled with us on being a few days too late to see <i>La Vestale</i>, +which had been performed for sixty nights, and is one of Vigano's +masterpieces. I thought the <i>Didone Abbandonata</i> left us nothing to +regret. The immense size of the stage, the splendid scenery, the +classical propriety and magnificence of the dresses, the fine music, +and the exquisite acting (for there is very little dancing), all conspired +to render it enchanting. The celebrated cavern scene in the fourth +book of Virgil, is rather too closely copied in a most inimitable pas +de deux; so closely, indeed, that I was considerably alarmed <i>pour les +bienséances</i>; but little Ascanius, who is asleep in a corner (Heaven +knows how he came there), wakes at the critical moment, and the +impending catastrophe is averted. Such a scene, however beautiful, +would not, I think, be endured on the English stage. I observed that +when it began, the curtains in front of the boxes were withdrawn, the +whole audience, who seemed to be expecting it, was hushed; the +deepest silence, the most delighted attention prevailed during its performance; +and the moment it was over, a third of the spectators departed. +I am told this is always the case; and that in almost every +ballet d'action, the public are gratified by a scene, or scenes, of a similar +tendency.</p> + +<p>The second time I saw the <i>Didone</i>, my attention, in spite of the +fascination of the scene, was attracted towards a box near us, which +was occupied by a noble English family just arrived at Milan. In +the front of the box sat a beautiful girl apparently not fifteen, with +laughing lips and dimpled cheeks, the very personification of blooming, +innocent, <i>English</i> loveliness. I watched her (I could not help it, when +my interest was once awakened) through the whole scene. I marked +her increased agitation: I saw her cheeks flush, her eyes glisten, her +bosom flutter, as if with sighs I could not overhear, till at length, overpowered +with emotion, she turned away her head, and covered her +eyes with her hand. Mothers!—English mothers! who bring your +daughters abroad to finish their education—do you well to expose them +to scenes like these, and <i>force</i> the young bud of early feeling in such a +precious hot-bed as this? Can a finer finger on the piano,—a finer taste +in painting, or any possible improvement in foreign arts and foreign +graces, compensate for one taint on that moral purity, which has ever<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span> +been (and may it ever be!) the boast, the charm of Englishwomen? +But what have I to do with all this?—I came here to be amused and +to forget;—not to moralize or to criticise.</p> + +<p>Vigano, who is lately dead, composed the <i>Didone Abbandonata</i> as +well as <i>La Vestale</i>, Otello, Nina, and others. All his ballets are celebrated +for their classical beauty and interest. This man, though but a +dancing-master, must have had the soul of a painter, a musician, and +a poet in one. He must have been a perfect master of design, grouping, +contrast, picturesque, and scenic effect. He must have had the +most exquisite feeling for musical expression, to adapt it so admirably +to his purposes; and those gestures and movements with which he has +so gracefully combined it, and which address themselves but too powerfully +to the senses and the imagination—what are they, but the +very "poetry of motion," <i>la poésie mise en action</i>, rendering words a +superfluous and feeble medium in comparison?</p> + +<p>I saw at the Mint yesterday the medal struck in honour of Vigano, +bearing his head on one side, and on the other, Prometheus chained; +to commemorate his famous ballet of that name. One of these medals, +struck in gold, was presented to him in the name of the government:—a +singular distinction for a dancing-master;—but Vigano was a +dancing-master of <i>genius</i>; and this is the land, where genius in every +shape is deified.</p> + +<p>The enchanting music of the Prometteo by Beethoven, is well known +in England, but to produce the ballet on our stage, as it was exhibited +here, would be impossible. The entire tribe of our dancers and figurantes, +with their jumpings, twirlings, quiverings, and pirouettings, +must be first annihilated; and Vigano, or Didelot, or Noverre rise +again to inform the whole corps de ballet with another soul and the +whole audience with another spirit:—for</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">—"Poiche paga il volgo sciocco, è giusto<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Scioccamente '<i>ballar</i>' per dargli gusto."<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p>The Theatre of the Scala, notwithstanding the vastness of my expectations, +did not disappoint me. I heard it criticised as being dark +and gloomy; for only the stage is illuminated: but when I remember +how often I have left our English theatres with dazzled eyes and aching +head,—distracted by the multiplicity of objects and faces, and "blasted +with excess of light,"—I feel reconciled to this peculiarity; more +especially as it heightens beyond measure the splendour of the stage +effect.</p> + +<p>We have the Countess Bubna's box while we are here. She scarcely +ever goes herself, being obliged to hold a sort of military drawing-room +almost every evening. Her husband, General Bubna, has the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span> +command of the Austrian forces in the north of Italy: and though the +Archduke Reinier is nominal viceroy, all real power seems lodged in +Bubna's bands. He it was who suppressed the insurrection in Piedmont +during the last struggle for liberty: 'twas his vocation—more +the pity. Eight hundred of the Milanese, at the head of them Count +Melzi, were connected with the Carbonari and the Piedmontese insurgents. +On Count Bubna's return from his expedition, a list of these +malcontents being sent to him by the police, he refused even to look at +it, and merely saying that it was the business of the police to <i>surveiller</i> +those persons, but <i>he</i> must be allowed to be ignorant of their names, +publicly tore the paper. The same night he visited the theatre, accompanied +by Count Melzi, was received with acclamations, and has +since been deservedly popular.</p> + +<p>Bubna is a heavy gross-looking man, a victim to the gout, and with +nothing martial or captivating in his exterior. He has talents, however, +and those not only of a military cast. He was generally employed +to arrange the affairs of the Emperor of Austria with Napoleon. +His loyalty to his own sovereign, and the soldier-like frankness and +integrity of his character, gained him the esteem of the French emperor; +who, when any difficulties occurred in their arrangements, used +to say impatiently—"Envoyez-moi donc Bubna!"</p> + +<p>The count is of an illustrious family of Alsace, which removed to +Bohemia when that province was ceded to France. He had nearly +ruined himself by gambling, when the emperor (so it is said) advised +him, or, in other words, commanded him to marry the daughter of +one Arnvelt or Arnfeldt, a baptized Jew, who had been servant to a +Jewish banker at Vienna; and on his death left a million of florins to +each of his daughters. He was a man of the lowest extraction, and +without any education; but having sense enough to feel its advantages, +he gave a most brilliant one to his daughters. The Countess Bubna is +an elegant, an accomplished, and has the character of being also an +amiable woman. She is here a person of the very first consequence, +the wife of the archduke alone taking precedence of her. A propos of +the viceroy, when on the Corso to-day with the Countess Bubna, we +met him with the <i>vice-queen</i>, as she is styled, here, walking in public. +The archduke has not (as the countess observed) <i>la plus jolie +tournure du monde</i>: his appearance is heavy, awkward, and slovenly, +with more than the usual Austrian stupidity of countenance: a complete +<i>testa tedesca</i>. His beautiful wife, the Princess Maria of Savoy, +to whom he has been married only a few months, held his arm; and +as she moved a little in front, seemed to drag him after her like a mere +appendage to her state. I gazed after them, amused by the contrast: +he looking like a dull, stiff, old bachelor, the very figure of Moody in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> +the Country Girl;—she, an elegant, sprightly, captivating creature; +decision in her step, laughter on her lips, and pride, intelligence, and +mischief in her brilliant eyes.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>We visited yesterday the military college, founded by the viceroy, +Eugene Beauharnois, for the children of soldiers who had fallen in +battle. The original design is now altered; and it has become a mere +public school, to which any boys may be admitted, paying a certain +sum a year. We went over the whole building, and afterwards saw +the scholars, two hundred and eighty in number, sit down to dinner. +Every thing appeared nice, clean, and admirably ordered. At the +Mint, which interested me extremely, we found them coining silver +crowns for the Levant trade, with the head of Maria Theresa, and the +date 1780. We were also shown the beautifully engraved die for the +medal which the university of Padua presented to Belzoni.</p> + +<p>The evening was spent at the Teatro Re, where we saw a bad sentimental +comedy (una Commedia di Carattere) exceedingly well acted. +One actor I thought almost equal to Dowton, in his own style;—we +had afterwards some fine music. Some of the Milanese airs, which +the itinerant musicians give us, have considerable beauty and character. +There is less monotony, I think, in their general style than in the +Venetian music; and perhaps less sentiment, less softness. When left +alone to-night, to do penance on the sofa, for my late walks, and recruit +for our journey to-morrow,—I tried to adapt English verses to +one or two very pretty airs which Annoni brought me to-day, without +the Italian words; but it is a most difficult and invidious task. +Even Moore, with his unequalled command over the lyric harmonies +of our language, cannot perfectly satisfy ears accustomed to the</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Linked sweetness long drawn out"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>of the Italian vowels, combined with musical sounds: fancy such +dissonant syllables as <i>ex</i>, <i>pray</i>, <i>what</i>, <i>breaks</i>, <i>strength</i>, uttered in +minim time, hissing and grating through half a bar, instead of the +dulcet <i>anima mia</i>, <i>Catina amabile</i>—<i>Caro mio tesoro</i>, etc.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><b>STANZAS FOR MUSIC.</b><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">All that it hoped<br /></span> +<span class="i1">My heart believed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And when most trusting,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Was most deceived.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A shadow hath fallen<br /></span> +<span class="i1">O'er my young years;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And hopes when brightest,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Were quench'd in tears.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I make no plaint—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">I breathe no sigh—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My lips can smile,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And mine eyes are dry.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I ask no pity,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">I hope no cure—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The heart, tho' broken,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Can live, and endure!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>We left Milan two days ago, and arrived early the same day at +Brescia; there is, I believe, very little to see there, and of that little, +I saw nothing,—being too ill and too low for the slightest exertion. +The only pleasurable feeling I can remember was excited by our approach +to the Alps, after traversing the flat, fertile, uninteresting plains +of Lombardy. The peculiar sensation of elevation and delight, inspired +by mountain scenery, can only be understood by those who +have felt it: at least I never had formed an idea of it till I found myself +ascending the Jura.</p> + +<p>But Brescia ought to be immortalized in the history of our travels: +for there, stalking down the Corso—<i>le nez en l'air</i>—we met our acquaintance +L——, from whom we had parted last on the pavé of Piccadilly. +I remember that in London I used to think him not remarkable +for wisdom,—and his travels have infinitely improved him—in +folly. He boasted to us triumphantly that he had run over sixteen +thousand miles in sixteen months: that he had bowed at the levée of +the Emperor Alexander,—been slapped on the shoulder by the Archduke +Constantine,—shaken hands with a Lapland witch,—and been +presented in full volunteer uniform at every court between Stockholm +and Milan. Yet is he not one particle wiser than if he had spent the +same time in walking up and down the Strand. He has contrived, +however, to pick up on his tour, strange odds and ends of foreign follies, +which stick upon the coarse-grained materials of his own John Bull +character like tinfoil upon sackcloth: so that I see little difference +between what he was, and what he is, except that from a <i>simple goose</i>,—he +has become a compound one. With all this, L—— is not unbearable—not +<i>yet</i> at least. He amuses others as a butt—and me as a +specimen of a new genus of fools: for his folly is not like any thing +one usually meets with. It is not, <i>par exemple</i>, the folly of stupidity, +for he talks much; nor of dullness, for he laughs much; nor of ignorance, +for he has seen much; nor of wrong-headedness, for he can +be guided right; nor of bad-heartedness, for he is good-natured; nor +of thoughtlessness, for he is prudent; nor of extravagance, for he can +calculate even to the value of half a lira: but it is an essence of folly, +peculiar to himself, and like Monsieur Jacques's melancholy, "compounded +of many simples, extracted from various objects, and the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> +sundry contemplation of his travels." So much, for the present, of +our friend L——.</p> + +<p>We left Brescia early yesterday morning, and after passing Desenzano, +came in sight of the Lago di Garda. I had from early associations +a delightful impression of the beauty of this lake, and it did not +disappoint me. It is far superior, I think, to the Lago Maggiore, +because the scenery is more <i>resserrè</i>, lies in a smaller compass, so +that the eye takes in the separate features more easily. The mountains +to the north are dark, broken, and wild in their forms, and their bases +seemed to extend to the water edge: the hills to the south are smiling, +beautiful, and cultivated, studded with white flat-roofed buildings, +which glitter one above another in the sunshine. Our drive along the +promontory of Sirmione, to visit the ruins of the Villa of Catullus, was +delightful. The fresh breeze which ruffled the dark blue lake, revived +my spirits, and chased away my head-ache. I was inclined to be enchanted +with all I saw; and when our guide took us into an old cellar +choked with rubbish, and assured us gravely that it was the very spot +in which Catullus had written his Odes to Lesbia. I did not laugh in +his face; for, after all, it would be as easy to prove that <i>it is</i>, as that it +is <i>not</i>. The old town and castle of Sirmio are singularly picturesque, +whether viewed from above or below, and the grove of olives which +crowned the steep extremity of the promontory, interested us, being +the first we had seen in Italy: on the whole I fully enjoyed the early +part of this day.</p> + +<p>At Peschiera, which is strongly fortified, we crossed the Mincio.—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Smooth-flowing Mincius crowned with vocal reeds.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Its waters were exquisitely transparent; but it was difficult to remember +its poetical pretensions, in sight of those odious barracks +and batteries. The reeds mentioned by Virgil and Milton still flourish +upon its banks, and I forgave them for spoiling in some degree the +beauty of the shore, when I thought of Adelaïde of Burgundy, who +concealed herself among them for three days, when she fled from +the dungeon of Peschiera to the arms of her lover. I was glad I had +read her story in Gibbon, since it enabled me to add to classical and +poetical associations, an interest at once romantic and real.</p> + +<p>The rest to-morrow—for I can write no more.</p> + +<p><i>At Verona, Oct. 20.</i>—I had just written the above when I was +startled by a mournful strain from a chorus of voices, raised at intervals, +and approaching gradually nearer. I walked to the window, and saw +a long funeral procession just entering the church, which is opposite to +the door of our inn. I immediately threw over me a veil and shawl, +followed it, and stood by while the service was chaunted over the dead. +The scene, as viewed by the light of about two hundred tapers, which<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span> +were carried by the assistants, was as new to me as it was solemn and +striking; but it was succeeded by a strange and forlorn contrast. The +moment the service was over, the tapers were suddenly extinguished; +the priests and the relatives all disappeared in an inconceivably short +time, and before I was quite aware of what was going forward: the +coffin, stripped of its embroidered pall and garlands of flowers, appeared +a mere chest of deal boards, roughly nailed together; and +was left standing on tressels, bare, neglected, and forsaken in the +middle of the church. I approached it almost fearfully, and with a +deeper emotion than I believed such a thing could now excite within +me. And here, thought I, rests the human being, who has lived and +loved, suffered and enjoyed, and, if I may judge by the splendour of +his funeral rites, has been honoured, served, flattered while living:—and +now not one remains to shed a last tear over the dead, but a +single stranger, a wanderer from a land he perhaps knew not: to +whom his very name is unknown! And while thus I moralized, two +sextons appeared; and one of them seizing the miserable and deserted +coffin, rudely and unceremoniously flung it on his shoulders, and +vanished through a vaulted door; and I returned to my room, to write +this, and to think how much better, how much more <i>humanely</i>, we +manage these things in our own England.</p> + +<p><i>Oct. 21.</i>—Verona is a clean and quiet place, containing some fine +edifices by Palladio and his pupils. The principal object of interest is +the ancient amphitheatre; the most perfect I believe in Italy. The +inner circle, with all its ranges of seats, is entire. We ascended to +the top, and looked down into the Piazza d'arme, where several battalions +of Austrian soldiers were exercising; their arms glittering +splendidly in the morning sun. As I have now been long enough in +Italy to sympathize in the national hatred of the Austrians, I turned +from the sight, resolved not to be pleased. The arena of the amphitheatre +is smaller, and less oval in form than I had expected: and in +the centre, there is a little paltry gaudy wooden theatre for puppets +and tumblers,—forming a grotesque contrast to the massive and majestic +architecture around it: but even tumblers and puppets, as Rospo +observed, are better than wild beasts and ferocious gladiators.</p> + +<p>There are also at Verona a triumphal arch to the Emperor Gallienus; +the architecture and inscription almost as perfect as if erected +yesterday;—and a most singular bridge of three irregular arches, +built, I believe, by the Scaligieri family, who were once princes of +Verona.</p> + +<p>It is well known that the story of Romeo and Juliet is here regarded +as a traditionary and indisputable fact, and the tomb of Juliet is shown +in a garden near the town. So much has been written and said on +this subject, I can add only one observation. To the reality of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> +story it has been objected that the oldest narrator, Masuccio, relates it +as having happened at Sienna: but might he not have heard the tradition +at Verona, and transferred the scene to Sienna, since he represented +it as related by a Siennese?—Della Corte, whose history of +Verona I have just laid down, mentions it as a real historical event; +and Louis da Porta, in his beautiful novel, la Giulietta, expressly asserts +that he has written it down from tradition. If Shakespeare, as +it is said, never saw the novel of Da Porta, how came he by the names +of Romeo and Juliet, the Montagues and the Capulets: if he <i>did</i> meet +with it, how came he to depart so essentially from the story, particularly +in the catastrophe? I must get some books, if possible, to clear +up these difficulties.</p> + +<p><i>23d, at Padua.</i>—We spent yesterday morning pleasantly at Vicenza. +Palladio's edifices in general <a name="disappointed" id="disappointed"></a>disappointed me; partly because +I am not architect enough to judge of their merits, partly because, of +most of them the situation is bad, and the materials paltry: but the +Olympic theatre, although its solid perspective be a mere trick of the +art, surprised and pleased me. It has an air of antique and classic +elegance in its decorations, which is very striking. I have heard it +criticised as a specimen of bad taste and trickery: but why should its +solid scenery be considered more a <i>trick</i>, and in bad taste, than a +curtain of painted canvas? In both a deception is practised and intended. +We saw many things in Vicenza and its neighbourhood, +which I have not time nor spirits, to dwell upon.</p> + +<p>We arrived here (at Padua) last night, and to-day I am again ill: +unable to see or even to wish to see any thing. My eyes are so full of +tears that I can scarcely write. I must lay down my pencil, lest I +break through my resolution, and be tempted to record feelings I +afterwards tremble to see written down.—O bitter and too lasting remembrance! +I must sleep it away—even the heavy and drug-bought +sleep to which I am now reduced, is better than such waking moments +as these.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>Venice, October 25th.</i>—I feel while I gaze round me, as if I had +seen Venice in my dreams—as if it were itself the vision of a dream. +We have been here two days; and I have not yet recovered from my +first surprise. All is yet enchantment: all is novel, extraordinary, affecting +from the many associations and remembrances excited in the +mind. Pleasure and wonder are tinged with a melancholy interest; +and while the imagination is excited, the spirits are depressed.</p> + +<p>The morning we left Padua was bright, lovely, and cloudless. Our +drive along the shores of the Brenta crowned with innumerable villas +and gay gardens was delightful; and the moment of our arrival at +Fusina, where we left our carriages to embark in gondolas, was the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span> +most auspicious that could possibly have been chosen. It was about +four o'clock: the sun was just declining towards the west: the whole +surface of the <i>lagune</i>, smooth as a mirror, appeared as if paved with +fire;—and Venice, with her towers and domes, indistinctly glittering +in the distance, rose before us like a gorgeous exhalation from the +bosom of the ocean. It is farther from the shore than I expected. As +we approached, the splendour faded: but the interest and wonder +grew. I can conceive nothing more beautiful, more singular, more +astonishing, than the first appearance of Venice, and sad indeed will +be the hour when she sinks (as the poet prophesies) "into the slime of +her own canals."</p> + +<p>The moment we had disembarked our luggage at the inn, we hired +gondolas and rowed to the Piazza di San Marco. Had I seen the +church of St. Mark any where else, I should have exclaimed against +the bad taste which every where prevails in it: but Venice is the proper +region of the fantastic, and the church of St. Mark—with its four +hundred pillars of every different order, colour, and material, its oriental +cupolas, and glittering vanes, and gilding and mosaics—assimilates +with all around it: and the kind of pleasure it gives is suitable to +the place and the people.</p> + +<p>After dinner I had a chair placed on the balcony of our inn, and sat +for some time contemplating a scene altogether new and delightful. +The arch of the Rialto just gleamed through the deepening twilight; +long lines of palaces, at first partially illuminated, faded away at length +into gloomy and formless masses of architecture; the gondolas glided +to and fro, their glancing lights reflected on the water. There was a +stillness all around me, solemn and strange in the heart of a great city. +No rattling carriages shook the streets, no trampling of horses echoed +along the pavement: the silence was broken only by the melancholy +cry of the gondoliers, and the dash of their oars; by the low murmur +of human voices, by the chime of the vesper bells, borne over the water, +and the sounds of music raised at intervals along the canals. The poetry, +the romance of the scene stole upon me unawares. I fell into a reverie, +in which visionary forms and recollections gave way to dearer +and sadder realities, and my mind seemed no longer in my own power. +I called upon the lost, the absent, to share the present with me,—I +called upon past feelings to enhance that moment's delight. I did +wrong—and memory avenged herself as usual. I quitted my seat on +the balcony, with despair at my heart, and drawing to the table, took +out my books and work. So passed our first evening at Venice.</p> + +<p>Yesterday we visited the Accademia where there are some fine pictures. +The famous assumption by Titian is here, and first made me +<i>feel</i> what connoisseurs mean when they talk of the carnations and draperies +of Titian. We were shown two designs for monuments to the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> +memory of Titian, modelled by Canova. Neither of them has been +erected; but the most beautiful, with a little alteration, and the substitution +of a lady's bust for Titian's venerable head, has been dedicated, +I believe, to the memory of the Archduchess Christina of Austria. I +remember also an exquisite Canaletti, quite different in style and subject +from any picture of this master I ever saw.</p> + +<p>We then rowed to the ducal palace. The council chamber (I +thought of Othello as I entered it) is now converted into a library. +The walls are decorated with the history of Pope Alexander the Third, +and Frederic Barbarossa, painted by the Tintoretti, father and son, +Paul Veronese and Palma. Above them, in compartments, hang the +portraits of the Doges; among which Marino Faliero is <i>not</i>; but his +name only, inscribed on a kind of black pall. The Ganymede is a +most exquisite little group, attributed to the age of Praxiteles; and not +without reason even to the hand of that sculptor.</p> + +<p>To-day we visited several churches—rich, on the outside, with all +the luxury of architecture,—withinside, gorgeous with painting, sculpture, +and many-coloured marbles. The prodigality with which the +most splendid and costly materials are lavished here is perfectly +amazing: pillars of lapis-lazuli, columns of Egyptian porphyry, and +pavements of mosaic, altars of alabaster ascended by steps incrusted +with agate and jasper:—but to particularize would be in vain. I will +only mention three or four which I wish to recollect: the Church of +the Madonna della Salute, so called because erected to the Virgin in +gratitude for the deliverance of the city from a pestilence, which she +miraculously drove into the Adriatic. It is remarkable for its splendid +pictures, most of them by Luca Giordano; and the superb high altar. +I think it was the Church of the Gesuata which astonished us most. +The whole of the inside walls and columns are encrusted with Carrara +marble inlaid with verd-antique, in a kind of damask pattern; over the +pulpit it fell like drapery, so easy, so graceful, so exquisitely imitated, +that I was obliged to touch it to assure myself of the material. Then +by way of contrast followed the Church of San Giorgio Maggiore,—one +of Palladio's masterpieces. After the dazzling and gorgeous +buildings we had left, its beautiful simplicity and correct taste struck +me at first with an impression of poverty and coldness. At the Church +of St. John and St. Paul is the famous martyrdom, <a name="or" id="or"></a>or rather assassination, +of St. Peter Martyr, by Titian, one of the most magical pictures +in the world. Its tragic horror is redeemed by its sublimity. Here +too is a most admirable series of bas-reliefs in white marble, representing +the history of our Saviour, the work of a modern sculptor. Here too +the Doges are buried; and close to the Church is the equestrian statue +of one of the Falieri family: near which Marino Faliero met the +conspirators.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span></p> + +<p>At the Frati is the grave of Titian: a small square slab covers him, +with this inscription:—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Qui giace il gran Tiziano Vecelli.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Emulator dei Zeusi e degli Apelli."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>there is no monument:—and there needs none.</p> + +<p>It was, I think, in the Church of St. John and St. Paul, that I saw a +singular and beautiful altar of black touch-stone, used when mass is +said for the soul of an executed criminal.</p> + +<p>This is all I can remember of to-day. I am fatigued, and my head +aches;—my imagination is yet dazzled:—my eyes are tired of +admiring, my mind is tired of thinking, and my heart with feeling.——Now +for repose.</p> + +<p><i>27.</i>—To-day we visited the Manfrini Palace, the Casa Pisani, the +Palazzo Barberigo, and concluded the morning in the colonnade of St. +Mark, and the public gardens. The day has been far less fatiguing +than yesterday: for though we have seen an equal variety of +objects, they forced the attention less, and gratified the imagination +more.</p> + +<p>At the Manfrini Palace there is the most valuable and splendid +collection of pictures I have yet seen in Italy or elsewhere. I have +no intention of turning my little Diary into a mere catalogue of names +which I can find in every guide-book; but I cannot pass over +Giorgione's beautiful group of himself, and his wife and child, which +Lord Byron calls "love at full length and life, not love ideal," and it +is indeed exquisite. A female with a guitar by the same master is +almost equal to it. There are two Lucretias—one by Guido and one +by Giordano: though both are beautiful, particularly the former, there +was, I thought, an impropriety in the conception of both pictures: the +figure was too voluptuous—too exposed, and did not give me the idea +of the matronly Lucretia, who so carefully arranged her drapery +before she fell. I remember, too, a St. Cecilia by Carlo Dolci, of +most heavenly beauty,—two Correggios—Iphigenia in Aulis, by +Padovanino: in this picture the figure of Agamemnon is a complete +failure, but the lifeless beauty of Iphigenia, a wonderful effort of art: +and a hundred others at least, all masterpieces.</p> + +<p>The Barberigo Palace was the school of Titian. We were shown +the room in which he painted, and the picture he left unfinished when +he died at the age of 99. It is a David—as vigorous in the touch and +style as any of his first pictures.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>It is now some days since I had time to write; or rather the intervals +of excitement and occupation found me too much exhausted to +take up my pencil. Our stay at Venice has been rendered most<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span> +agreeable by the kindness of Mr. H——, the British Consul, and his +amiable and charming wife, and in their society we have spent much +of the last few days.</p> + +<p>One of our pleasantest excursions was to the Armenian convent of +St. Lazaro, where we were received by Fra Pasquale, an accomplished +and intelligent monk, and a particular friend of Mr. H——. After +we had visited every part of the convent, the printing press—the library—the +laboratory—which contains several fine mathematical instruments +of English make; and admired the beautiful little tame gazelle +which bounded through the corridors, we were politely refreshed with +most delicious sweetmeats and coffee; and took leave of Fra Pasquale +with regret.</p> + +<p>There is no opera at present, but we have visited both the other +theatres. At the San Luca, they gave us "Elizabeth, the Exile of +Siberia," tolerably acted: but there was one trait introduced very +characteristic of the place and people: Elizabeth in a tremendous snow +storm, is pursued by robbers; and finding a crucifix, erected by the +road side, embraces it for protection. The crucifix flies away with +her in a clap of thunder, and sets her down safely at a distance from +her persecutors. The audience appeared equally enchanted and edified +by this scene: some of the women near me crossed themselves, and +put their handkerchiefs to their eyes: the men rose from their seats, +clapped with enthusiasm, and shouted "Bravo! Miracolo!"</p> + +<p>At the San Benedetto we were gratified by a deep tragedy entitled +"Gabrielle Innocente," so exquisitely absurd, and so grotesquely +acted, that the best comedy could scarcely have afforded us more +amusement,—certainly not more <i>merriment</i>. In the course of the +evening, coffee and ices were served in our box, as is the custom here.</p> + +<p>With Mrs. H—— this evening I had a long and pleasant conversation; +she is really one of the most delightful and unaffected women I +ever met with: and as there is nothing in my melancholy visage and +shrinking reserve to tempt any person to converse with me, I must +also set her down as one of the most good-natured. She talked much +of Lord Byron, with whom, during his residence here she was on +intimate terms. She spoke of him, not conceitedly as one vain of the +acquaintance of a great character; nor with affected reserve, as if afraid +of committing herself—but with openness, animation, and cordial +kindness, as one whom she liked, and had reason to like. She says +the style of Lord Byron's conversation is very much that of Don Juan: +just in the same manner are the familiar, the brilliant, the sublime, +the affecting, the witty, the ludicrous, and the licentious, mingled +and contrasted. Several little anecdotes which she related I need not +write down; I can scarcely forget them, and it would not be quite fair<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span> +as they were told <i>en confiance</i>. I am no anecdote hunter, picking up +articles for "my pocket book."</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>A little while ago Captain F. lent me D'Israeli's Essays on the Literary +Character, which had once belonged to Lord Byron; and contained +marginal notes in his hand-writing. One or two of them are +so curiously characteristic that I copy them here.</p> + +<p>The first note is on a passage in which D'Israeli, in allusion to Lord +Byron, traces his fondness for oriental scenery to his having read +Rycaut at an early age. On this Lord Byron observes, that he read +<i>every book</i> relating to the east before he was ten years old, including +De Tott and Cantemir as well as Rycaut: at that age, he says that he +<i>detested</i> all poetry, and adds, "when I was in Turkey, I was oftener +tempted to turn mussulman than poet: and have often regretted +since that <i>I did not</i>."</p> + +<p>At page 99 D'Israeli says,</p> + +<p>"The great poetical genius of our times has openly alienated himself +from the land of his brothers" (over the word <i>brothers</i> Lord +Byron has written <i>Cains</i>.) "He becomes immortal in the <i>language</i> +of a <i>people</i> whom he would <i>contemn</i>, he accepts with ingratitude the +fame he loves more than life, and he is only truly great on that <i>spot</i> of +<i>earth</i>, whose genius, when he is no more, will contemplate his shade +in sorrow and in anger."</p> + +<p>Lord Byron has underlined several words in this passage, and +writes thus in the margin:</p> + +<p>"What was rumoured of me in that language, if <i>true</i>, I was unfit +for England; and if <i>false</i>, England was unfit for me. But 'there is +a world elsewhere.' I have never for an instant regretted that +country,—but often that I ever returned to it. It is not my fault that +I am obliged to write in English. If I understood any present language, +Italian, for instance, equally well, I would write in it:—but +it will require ten years, at least, to form a style. No tongue so easy +to acquire a little of, and so difficult to master thoroughly, as Italian."</p> + +<p>The next note is amusing; at page 342 is mentioned the anecdote of +Petrarch, who when returning to his native town, was informed that +the proprietor of the house in which he was born had <i>often</i> wished to +make alterations in it, but that the town's-people had risen to insist +that the house consecrated by his birth should <a name="remain" id="remain"></a>remain unchanged;—"a +triumph," adds D'Israeli, "more affecting to Petrarch than even +his coronation at Rome."</p> + +<p>Lord Byron has written in the margin—"It would have pained <i>me</i> +more that the proprietor should <i>often</i> have wished to make alterations, +than it would give me pleasure that the rest of Arezzo rose against<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span> +his right (for <i>right</i> he had:) the depreciation of the lowest of mankind +is more painful, than the applause of the highest is pleasing. The +sting of the scorpion is more in <i>torture</i> than the possession of any +thing short of Venus would be in rapture."</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>The public gardens are the work of the French, and occupy the extremity +of one of the islands. They contain the only trees I have seen +at Venice:—a few rows of dwarfish unhappy-looking shrubs, parched +by the sea breezes, and are little frequented. We found here a solitary +gentleman, who was sauntering up and down with his hands in his +pockets, and a look at once stupid and disconsolate. Sometimes he +paused, looked vacantly over the waters, whistled, yawned, and turned +away to resume his solemn walk. On a trifling remark addressed to +him by one of our party, he entered into conversation, with all the +eagerness of a man, whose tongue had long been kept in most unnatural +bondage. He congratulated himself on having met with some +one who would speak English; adding contemptuously, that "he understood +none of the outlandish tongues the people spoke hereabouts:" he +inquired what was to be seen here, for though he had been four days +in Venice, he had spent every day precisely in the same manner; viz. +walking up and down the public gardens. We told him Venice was +famous for fine buildings and pictures; he knew nothing of <i>them</i> things. +And that it contained also, "some fine statues and antiques"—he cared +nothing about them neither—he should set off for Florence the next +morning, and begged to know what was to be seen there? Mr. R—— +told him, with enthusiasm, "the most splendid gallery of pictures and +statues in the world!" He looked very blank and disappointed. "Nothing +else?" then he should certainly not waste his time at Florence, +he should go direct to Rome; he had put down the name of that <i>town</i> +in his pocket-book, for he understood it was a very <i>convenient</i> place: +he should therefore stay there a week; thence he should go to Naples, +a place he had also heard of, where he should stay another week: +then he should go to Algiers, where he should stay <i>three weeks</i>, and +thence to Tunis, where he expected to be very comfortable, and should +probably make a long stay; thence he should return home, having seen +every thing worth seeing. He scarcely seemed to know how or by +what route he had got to Venice—but he assured us he had come "fast +enough;"—he remembered no place he had passed through except +Paris. At Paris he told us there was a female lodging in the same +hotel with himself, who by his description appears to have been a single +lady of rank and fashion, travelling with her own carriages and a suite +of servants. He had never seen her; but learning through the domestics +that she was travelling the same route, he sat down and wrote her a +long letter, beginning "Dear Madam," and proposing they should join<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span> +company, "for the sake of good fellowship, and the <i>bit of chat</i> they +might have on their way." Of course she took no notice of this strange +billet, "from which," added he with ludicrous simplicity, "I supposed +she would rather travel alone."</p> + +<p>Truly, "Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time." After +this specimen, sketched from life, who will say there are such things +as caricatures?</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>We visited to-day the Giant's Staircase and the Bridge of Sighs, and +took a last farewell of St. Mark—we were surprised to see the church +hung with black—the festoons of flowers all removed—masses going +forward at several altars, and crowds of people looking particularly solemn +and devout. It is the "Giorno dei morte," the day by the Roman +Catholics consecrated to the dead. I observed many persons, both men +and women, who wept while they prayed, with every appearance of +the most profound grief. Leaving St. Mark, I crossed the square. On +the three lofty standards in front of the church formerly floated the +ensigns of the three states subjects to Venice,—the Morea, Cyprus, and +Candia: the bare poles remain, but the ensigns of empire are gone. +One of the standards was extended on the ground, and being of immense +length, I hesitated for a moment whether I should make a circuit, +but at last stepped over it. I looked back with remorse, for it +was like trampling over the fallen.</p> + +<p>We then returned to our inn to prepare for our departure. How I +regret to leave Venice! not the less because I cannot help it.</p> + +<p><i>Rovigo, Nov. 3.</i> We left Venice in a hurry yesterday, slept at +Padua, and travelled this morning through a most lovely country, +among the Enganean hills to Rovigo, where we are very uncomfortably +lodged at the Albergo di San Marco.</p> + +<p>I have not yet recovered my regret at leaving Venice so unexpectedly; +though as a residence, I could scarce endure it; the sleepy canals, the +gliding gondolas in their "dusk livery of woe"—the absence of all +verdure, all variety—of all <i>nature</i>, in short; the silence, disturbed +only by the incessant chiming of bells—and, worse than all, the spectacle +of a great city "expiring," as Lord Byron says, "before our +eyes," would give me the horrors: but as a visitor, my curiosity was +not half gratified, and I should have liked to have stayed a few days +longer—<a name="perhaps" id="perhaps"></a>perhaps after all, I have reason to rejoice that instead of bringing +away from Venice a disagreeable impression of satiety, disgust and +melancholy, I have quitted it with feelings of admiration, of deep regret, +and undiminished interest.</p> + +<p>Farewell, then, Venice! I could not have believed it possible that +it would have brought tears to my eyes to leave a place merely for its +own sake, and unendeared by the presence of any one I loved.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span></p> + +<p>As Rovigo affords no other amusement I shall scribble a little longer.</p> + +<p>Nothing can be more arbitrary than the Austrian government at +Venice. As a summary method of preventing robberies during the +winter months, when many of the gondoliers and fishermen are out of +employ, the police have orders to arrest, without ceremony, every +person who has no permanent trade or profession, and keep them in +confinement and to hard labour till the return of spring.</p> + +<p>The commerce of Venice has so much and so rapidly declined, that +Mr. H—— told us when first he was appointed to the consulship, a +hundred and fifty English vessels cleared the port, and this year only +five. It should seem that Austria, from a cruel and selfish policy, is +sacrificing Venice to the prosperity of Trieste: but why do I call that +a cruel policy, which on recollection I might rather term poetical and +retributive justice?</p> + +<p>The grandeur of Venice arose first from its trade in salt. I remember +reading in history, that when the king of Hungary opened +certain productive salt mines in his dominions, the Venetians sent him +a peremptory order to shut them up; and such was the power of the +Republic at that time, that he was forced to obey this insolent command, +to the great injury and impoverishment of his states. The +tables are now turned; the oppressor has become the oppressed.</p> + +<p>The principal revenue derived from Venice is from the tax on +houses, there being no <i>land tax</i>. So rapid was the decay of the place, +that in two years seventy houses and palaces were pulled down; the +government forbade this by a special law, and now taxes are paid for +many houses whose proprietors are too poor to live in them.</p> + +<p>There is no <i>society</i>, properly so called, at Venice; three old women +of rank receive company now and then, and it is any thing rather +than select.</p> + +<p>Mr. F. told us at Venice, that on entering the states subject to +Austria, he had his Johnson's Dictionary taken from him, and could +never recover it; so jealous is the government of English principles +and English literature, that <i>all</i> English books are prohibited until examined +by the police.</p> + +<p>The whole country from Milan to Padua was like a vast garden, +nothing could exceed its fertility and beauty. It was the latter end of +the vintage; and we frequently met huge tub-like waggons loaded +with purple grapes, reeling home from the vineyards, and driven by +men whose legs were stained with treading in the wine-press—now +and then, rich clusters were shaken to the ground, as I have seen +wisps of straw fall from a hay-cart in England, and were regarded +with equal indifference. Sometimes we saw in the vineyards by the +road-side, groups of labourers seated among the branches of the trees,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> +and plucking grapes from the vines, which were trailed gracefully from +tree to tree and from branch to branch, and drooped with their luxurious +burthen of fruit. The scene would have been as perfectly delightful, +as it was new and beautiful, but for the squalid looks of the peasantry; +more especially of the women. The principal productions of the country +seem to be wine and silk. There were vast groves of mulberry-trees +between Verona and Padua; and we visited some of the silk-mills, +in which the united strength of men invariably performed those +operations which in England are accomplished by steam or water. I +saw in a huge horizontal wheel, about a dozen of these poor creatures +labouring so hard, that my very heart ached to see them, and I +begged that the machine might be stopped that I might speak to them:—but +when it W<i>as</i> stopped, and I beheld their half savage, half stupified, +I had almost said <i>brutified</i> countenances, I could not utter a single +word—but gave them something, and turned away.</p> + +<p>"Compassion is wasted upon such creatures," said R——; "do +you not see that their minds are degraded down to their condition? +they do not pity themselves:"—but therefore did I pity them the +more.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>Bologna, Nov. 5.</i>—I fear I shall retain a disagreeable impression of +Bologna, for here I am again ill. I have seen little of what the town +contains of beautiful and curious: and that little, under unpleasant +and painful circumstances.</p> + +<p>Yesterday we passed through Ferrara; only stopping to change +horses and dine. We snatched a moment to visit the hospital of St. +Anna and the prison of Tasso—the glory and disgrace of Ferrara. +Over the iron gate is written "Ingresso alia prigione di Torquato +Tasso." The cell itself is miserably gloomy and wretched, and not +above twelve feet square. How amply has posterity avenged the +cause of the poet on his tyrant!—and as we emerge from his obscure +dungeon and descend the steps of the hospital of St. Anna, with what +fervent hatred, indignation, and scorn, do we gaze upon the towers of +the ugly red brick palace, or rather fortress, which deforms the great +square, and where Alphonso feasted while Tasso wept! The inscription +on the door of the cell, calling on strangers to venerate the spot +where Tasso, "Infermo più di tristezza che delirio," was confined +seven years and one month—was placed there by the French, and its +accuracy may be doubted; as far as I can recollect. The grass growing +in the wide streets of Ferrara is no poetical exaggeration; I saw it +rank and long even on the thresholds of the deserted houses, whose +sashless windows, and flapping doors, and roofless walls, looked +strangely desolate.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span></p> + +<p>I will say nothing of Bologna;—for the few days I have spent here +have been to me days of acute suffering, in more ways than I wish to +remember, and therefore dare not dwell upon.</p> + +<p><i>At Covigliajo in the Apennines.</i>—O for the pencil of Salvator, or +the pen of a Radcliffe! But could either, or could both united, give +to my mind the scenes of to-day, in all their splendid combinations of +beauty and brightness, gloom and grandeur? A picture may present +to the eye a small portion of the boundless whole—one aspect of the +every-varying face of nature; and words, how weak are they!—they +are but the elements out of which the quick imagination frames and +composes lovely landscapes, according to its power or its peculiar character; +and in which the unimaginative man finds only a mere chaos +of verbiage, without form, and void.</p> + +<p>The scenery of the Apennines is altogether different in character +from that of the Alps: it is less bold, less lofty, less abrupt and terrific—but +more beautiful, more luxuriant, and infinitely more varied. +At one time, the road wound among precipices and crags, crowned +with dismantled fortresses and ruined castles—skirted with dark pine +forests—and opening into wild recesses of gloom, and immeasurable +depths like those of Tartarus profound; then came such glimpses of +paradise! such soft sunny valleys and peaceful hamlets—and vine-clad +eminences and rich pastures, with here and there a convent half +hidden by groves of cypress and cedars. As we ascended we arrived +at a height from which, looking back, we could see the whole of Lombardy +spread at our feet; a vast, glittering, indistinct landscape, +bounded on the north by the summits of the Alps, just apparent above +the horizon, like a range of small silvery clouds; and on the east a +long unbroken line of bluish light marked the far distant Adriatic; as +the day declined, and we continued our ascent (occasionally assisted by +a yoke of oxen where the acclivity was very precipitate), the mountains +closed around us, the scenery became more wildly romantic, +barren, and bleak. At length, after passing the crater of a volcano, +visible through the gloom by its dull red light, we arrived at the Inn +of <a name="Covigliajo33" id="Covigliajo33"></a>Covigliajo, an uncouth dreary edifice, situated in a lonely and desolate +spot, some miles from any other habitation. This is the very inn, +infamous for a series of the most horrible assassinations, committed +here some years ago. Travellers arrived, departed, disappeared, +and were never heard of more; by what agency, or in what manner +disposed of, could not be discovered. It was supposed for some time +that a horde of banditti were harboured among the mountains, and +the police were for a long time in active search for them, while the +real miscreants remained unsuspected for their seeming insignificance +and helplessness; these were the mistress of the inn, the camerière, +and the curate of the nearest village, about two leagues off. They<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span> +secretly murdered every traveller who was supposed to carry property—buried +or burned their clothes, packages, and vehicles, retaining +nothing but their watches, jewels, and money. The whole story, +with all its horrors, the manner of discovery, and the fate of these +wretches, is told, I think, by Forsyth, who can hardly be suspected +of romance or exaggeration. I have him not with me to refer to; but +I well remember the mysterious and shuddering dread with which I +read the anecdote. I am glad no one else seems to recollect it. The +inn at present contains many more than it can possibly accommodate. +We have secured the best rooms, or rather the <i>only</i> rooms—and besides +ourselves and other foreigners, there are numbers of native travellers: +some of whom arrived on horseback, and others with the +Vetturini. A kind of gallery or corridor separates the sleeping rooms, +and is divided by a curtain into two parts: the smaller is appropriated +to us, as a saloon: the other half, as I contemplate it at this moment +through a rent in the curtain, presents a singular and truly Italian +spectacle—a huge black iron lamp, suspended by a chain from the +rafters, throws a flaring and shifting light around. Some trusses of +hay have been shaken down upon the floor, to supply the place of +beds, chairs, and tables; and there, reclining in various attitudes, I +see a number of dark looking figures, some eating and drinking, some +sleeping; some playing at cards, some telling stories with all the +Italian variety of gesticulation and intonation; some silently looking +on, or listening. Two or three common looking fellows began to +smoke their segars, but when it was suggested that this might incommode +the ladies on the other side of the curtain, they with genuine +politeness ceased directly. Through this motley and picturesque assemblage +I have to make my way to my bed-room in a few minutes—I +will take another look at them, and then—andiamo!</p> + +<p><i>Florence, Nov. 8.</i>—"La bellisema e famosissima figlia di Roma," +as Dante calls her in some relenting moment. Last night we slept in +a blood-stained hovel—and to-night we are lodged in a palace. So +much for the vicissitudes of travelling.</p> + +<p>I am not subject to idle fears, and least of all to superstitious fears—but +last night, at Covigliajo, I could not sleep—I could not even lie +down for more than a few minutes together. The whispered voices +and hard breathing of the men who slept in the corridor, from whom +only a slight door divided me, disturbed and fevered my nerves; horrible +imaginings were all around me: and gladly did I throw open my +window at the first glimpse of the dawn, and gladly did I hear the +first well-known voice which summoned me to a hasty breakfast. +How reviving was the breath of the early morning, after leaving that +close, suffocating, ill-omened inn! how beautiful the blush of light +stealing downwards from the illumined summits to the valleys, tinting<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span> +the fleecy mists, as they rose from the earth, till all the landscape was +flooded with sunshine: and when at length we passed the mountains, +and began to descend into the rich vales of Tuscany—when from the +heights above Fesole we beheld the city of Florence, and above it the +young moon and the evening star suspended side by side; and floating +over the whole of the Val d'Arno, and the lovely hills which enclose it, +a mist, or rather a suffusion of the richest rose colour, which gradually, +as the day declined, faded, or rather deepened into purple; +then I first understood all the enchantment of an Italian landscape.—O +what a country is this! All that I see, I <i>feel</i>—all that I <i>feel</i>, sinks +so deep into my heart and my memory! the deeper because I suffer—and +because I never think of expressing, or sharing, one emotion +with those around me, but lock it up in my own bosom; or at least in +my little book—as I do now.</p> + +<p><i>Nov. 10.</i>—We visited the gallery for the first time yesterday morning; +and I came away with my eyes and imagination so dazzled with +excellence, and so distracted with variety, that I retained no distinct +recollection of any particular object except the Venus; which of course +was the first and great attraction. This morning was much more +delightful; my powers of discrimination returned, and my power of +enjoyment was not diminished. New perceptions of beauty and excellence +seemed to open upon my mind; and faculties long dormant, +were roused to pleasurable activity.</p> + +<p>I came away untired, unsated; and with a delightful and distinct +impression of all I had seen. I leave to catalogues to particularise; +and am content to admire and to remember.</p> + +<p>I am glad I was not disappointed in the Venus which I half expected. +Neither was I surprised: but I felt while I gazed a sense of unalloyed +and unmingled pleasure, and forgot the cant of criticism. It +has the same effect to the eye, that perfect harmony has upon the ear: +and I think I can understand why no copy, cast, or model, however +accurate, however exquisite, can convey the impression of tenderness +and sweetness, the divine and peculiar charm of the original.</p> + +<p>After dinner we walked in the grounds of the Cascine,—a dairy +farm belonging to the grand Duke, just without the gates of Florence. +The promenade lies along the bank of the river, and is sheltered and +beautiful. We saw few native Italians, but great numbers of English +walking and riding. The day was as warm, as sunny, as brilliant as +the first days of September in England.</p> + +<p>To-night, after resting a little, I went out to view the effect of the +city and surrounding scenery, by moonlight. It is not alone the brilliant +purity of the skies and atmosphere, nor the peculiar character of +the scenery which strikes a stranger; but here art harmonizes with +nature: the style of the buildings, their flat projecting roofs, white<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span> +walls, balconies, colonnades and statues, are all set off to advantage by +the radiance of an Italian moon.</p> + +<p>I walked across the first bridge, from which I had a fine view of the +Ponte della Trinità, with its graceful arches and light balustrade, +touched with the sparkling moonbeams and relieved by dark shadow: +then I strolled along the quay in front of the Corsini palace, and +beyond the colonnade of the Uffizi, to the last of the four bridges; on +the middle of which I stood and looked back upon the city—(how +justly styled the Fair!)—with all its buildings, its domes, its steeples, +its bridges, and woody hills and glittering convents, and marble villas, +peeping from embowering olives and cypresses; and far off the snowy +peaks of the Apennines, shining against the dark purple sky: the +whole blended together in one delicious scene of shadowy splendour. +After contemplating it with a kind of melancholy delight, long +enough to get it by heart, I returned homewards. Men were standing +on the wall along the Arno, in various picturesque attitudes, fishing, +after the Italian fashion, with singular nets suspended to long poles; +and as I saw their dark figures between me and the moonlight, and +elevated above my eye, they looked like colossal statues. I then +strayed into the Piazza del Gran Duca. Here the rich moonlight, +streaming through the arcade of the gallery, fell directly upon the fine +Perseus of Benvenuto Cellini; and illuminating the green bronze, +touched it with a spectral and supernatural beauty. Thence I walked +round the equestrian statue of Cosmo, and so home over the Ponte Alla +Carrajo.</p> + +<p><i>Nov. 11.</i>—I spent about two hours in the gallery, and for the first +time saw the Niobe. This statue has been for a long time a favourite +of my imagination, and I approached it, treading softly and slowly, +and with a feeling of reverence; for I had an impression that the original +Niobe would, like the original Venus, surpass all the casts and +copies I had seen both in beauty and expression: but apparently expression +is more easily caught than delicacy and grace, and the grandeur +and pathos of the attitude and grouping easily copied—for I think +the best casts of the Niobe are accurate counterparts of the original; +and at the first glance I was capriciously disappointed, because the +statue did not <i>surpass</i> my expectations. It should be contemplated +from a distance. It is supposed that the whole group once ornamented +the pediment of a temple—probably the temple of Diana or Latona. +I once saw a beautiful drawing by Mr. Cockerell, of the manner in +which he supposed the whole group was distributed. Many of the +figures are rough and unfinished at the back, as if they had been placed +on a height, and viewed only in front.</p> + +<p>In the same room with the Niobe is a head which struck me more—the +<i>Alexandre mourant</i>. The title seemed to me misapplied; for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span> +there is something indignant and upbraiding, as well as mournful, in +the expression of this magnificent head. It is undoubtedly Alexander—but +Alexander reproaching the gods—or calling upon Heaven for +new worlds to conquer.</p> + +<p>I visited also the gallery of Bronzes: it contains, among other +master-pieces, the aërial Mercury of John of Bologna, of which we +see such a multiplicity of copies. There is a conceit in perching him +upon the bluff cheeks of a little Eolus: but what exquisite lightness in +the figure!—how it mounts, how it floats, disdaining the earth! On +leaving the gallery, I sauntered about; visited some churches, and +then returned home depressed and wearied: and in this melancholy +humour I had better close my book, lest I be tempted to write what I +could not bear to see written.</p> + +<p><i>Sunday.</i>—At the English ambassador's chapel. To attend public +worship among our own countrymen, and hear the praises of God in +our native accents, in a strange land, among a strange people; where a +different language, different manners, and a different religion prevail, +affects the mind, or at least ought to affect it;—and deeply too: yet I +cannot say that I felt devout this morning. The last day I visited St. +Mark's, when I knelt down beside the poor weeping girl and her dove-basket, +my heart was touched, and my prayers, I humbly trust, were +not unheard: to-day, in that hot close crowded room, among those +fine people flaunting in all the luxury of dress, I felt suffocated, feverish, +and my head ached—the clergyman too——</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>Samuel Rogers paid us a long visit this morning. He does not look +as if the suns of Italy had <i>revivified</i> him—but he is as <i>amiable</i> and +amusing as ever. He talked long, <i>et avec beaucoup d'onction</i>, of ortolans +and figs; till methought it was the very poetry of epicurism; and +put me in mind of his own suppers—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Where blushing fruits through scatter'd leaves invite,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Still clad in bloom and veiled in azure light.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The wine as rich in years as Horace sings;"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>and the rest of his description, worthy of a poetical Apicius.</p> + +<p>Rogers may be seen every day about eleven or twelve in the Tribune, +seated opposite to the Venus, which appears to be the exclusive object +of his adoration; and gazing, as if he hoped, like another Pygmalion, +to animate the statue; or rather perhaps that the statue might animate +<i>him</i>. A young Englishman of fashion, with as much talent as espieglerie, +placed an epistle in verse between the fingers of the statue, addressed +to Rogers; in which the goddess entreats him not to come +there <i>ogling</i> every day;—for though "partial friends might deem him +still alive," she knew by his looks that he had come from the other +side of the Styx; and retained her <i>antique</i> abhorrence of the spectral<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span> +dead, etc. etc. She concluded by beseeching him, if he could not desist +from haunting her with his <i>ghostly</i> presence, at least to spare +her the added misfortune of being be-rhymed by his muse.</p> + +<p>Rogers, with equal good nature and good sense, neither noticed these +lines nor withdrew his friendship and intimacy from the writer.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>Carlo Dolce is not one of my favourite masters. There is a cloying +sweetness in his style, a general want of power which wearies me: yet +I brought away from the Corsini Palace to-day an impression of a head +by Carlo Dolce (La Poesia), which I shall never forget. Now I recall +the picture, I am at a loss to tell where lies the charm which has thus +powerfully seized on my imagination. Here are no "eyes upturned +like one inspired"—no distortion—no rapt enthusiasm—no Muse full +of the God;—but it is a head so purely, so divinely intellectual, so +heavenly sweet, and yet so penetrating,—so full of sensibility, and yet +so unstained by earthly passion—so brilliant, and yet so calm—that if +Carlo Dolce had lived in our days, I should have thought he intended +it for the personified genius of Wordsworth's poetry. There is such an +individual reality about this beautiful head, that I am inclined to believe +the tradition, that it is the portrait of one of Carlo Dolce's daughters +who died young:—and yet</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Did ever mortal mixture of earth's mould<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Breathe such divine, enchanting ravishment?"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>Nov. 15.</i>—Our stay at Florence promises to be far gayer than either +Milan or Venice, or even Paris; more diversified by society, as well +as affording a wider field of occupation and amusement.</p> + +<p>Sometimes in the long evenings, when fatigued and over-excited, I +recline apart on the sofa, or bury myself in the recesses of a <i>fauteuil</i>; +when I am aware that my mind is wandering away to forbidden themes, +I force my attention to what is going forward; and often see and hear +much that is entertaining, if not improving. People are so accustomed +to my pale face, languid indifference and, what M—— calls, my <i>impracticable</i> +silence, that after the first glance and introduction, I believe +they are scarcely sensible of my presence: so I sit, and look, and +listen, secure and harboured in my apparent dullness. The flashes of +wit, the attempts at sentiment, the affectation of enthusiasm, the absurdities +of folly, and the blunders of ignorance; the contrast of characters +and the clash of opinions, the scandalous anecdotes of the day, +related with sprightly malice, and listened to with equally malicious +avidity,—all these, in my days of health and happiness, had power to +surprise, or amuse, or provoke me. I could mingle <i>then</i> in the conflict +of minds; and hear my part with smiles in the social circle;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span> +though the next moment, perhaps, I might contemn myself and others: +and the personal scandal, the characteristic tale, the amusing folly, or +the malignant wit, were effaced from my mind—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">——"Like forms with chalk<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Painted on rich men's floors for one feast night."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Now it is different: I can smile yet, but my smile is in pity, rather +than in mockery. If suffering has subdued my mind to seriousness, +and perhaps enfeebled its powers, I may at least hope that it has not +soured or imbittered my temper:—if what could once <i>amuse</i>, no longer +amuses,—what could once <i>provoke</i> has no longer power to irritate: +thus my loss may be improved into a gain—<i>car tout est bien, quand +tout est mal</i>.</p> + +<p>It is sorrow which makes our experience; it is sorrow which teaches +us to feel properly for ourselves and for others. We must feel deeply, +before we can think rightly. It is not in the tempest and storm of +passions we can reflect,—but afterwards when <i>the waters have gone +over our soul</i>; and like the precious gems and the rich merchandize +which the wild wave casts on the shore out of the wreck it has made—such +are the thoughts left by retiring passions.</p> + +<p>Reflection is the result of feeling; from that absorbing, heart-rending +compassion for oneself (the most painful sensation, <i>almost</i>, +of which our nature is capable), springs a deeper sympathy for others; +and from the sense of our own weakness, and our own self-upbraiding, +arises a disposition to be indulgent—to forbear—and to forgive—so +at least it ought to be. When once we have shed those inexpressibly +bitter tears, which fall unregarded, and which we forget to wipe away, +O how we shrink from inflicting pain! how we shudder at unkindness!—and +think all harshness even in thought, only another name for +cruelty! These are but common-place truths, I know, which have +often been a thousand times better expressed. Formerly I heard them, +read them, and thought I believed them: now I feel them; and feeling, +I utter them as if they were something new.—Alas! the lessons +of sorrow are as old as the world itself.</p> + +<p>To-day we have seen nothing new. In the morning I was ill: in +the afternoon we drove to the Cascina; and while the rest walked, I +spread my shawl upon the bank and basked like a lizard in the sunshine. +It was a most lovely day, a summer-day in England. In this paradise +of a country, the common air, and earth, and skies, seem happiness +enough. While I sat to-day, on my green bank—languid, indeed, +but free from pain—and looked round upon a scene which has lost its +novelty, but none of its beauty,—where Florence, with its glittering +domes and its back-ground of sunny hills, terminated my view on one +side, and the Apennines, tinted with rose colour and gold, bounded it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span> +on the other, I felt not only pleasure, but a deep thankfulness that such +pleasures were yet left to me.</p> + +<p>Among the gay figures who passed and repassed before me, I remarked +a benevolent but rather heavy-looking old gentleman, with a +shawl hanging over his arm, and holding a parasol, with which he +was gallantly shading a little plain old woman from the November sun. +After them walked two young ladies, simply dressed; and then followed +a tall and very handsome young man, with a plain but elegant +girl hanging on his arm. This was the Grand Duke and his family; +with the Prince of Carignano, who has lately married one of his +daughters. Two servants in plain drab liveries, followed at a considerable +distance. People politely drew on one side as they approached; +but no other homage was paid to the sovereign, who thus takes his +walk in public almost every day. Lady Morgan is merry at the expense +of the Grand Duke's taste for brick and mortar: but monarchs, +like other men, must have their amusements; some invent uniforms, +some stitch embroidery;—and why should not this good-natured Grand +Duke amuse himself with his trowel if he likes it? As to the Prince +of Carignano, I give him up to her lash—<i>le traître</i>—but perhaps he +thought he was doing right: and at all events there are not flatterers +wanting, to call his perfidy patriotism.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>I am told that Florence retains its reputation of being the most +devout capital in Italy, and that here love, music, and devotion hold +divided empire, or rather are <i>tria juncta in uno</i>. The liberal patronage +and taste of Lord Burghersh, contribute perhaps to make music +so much a <i>passion</i> as it is at present. Magnelli, the Grand Duke's +Maestra di Cappella, and director of the Conservatorio, is the finest +tenor in Italy. I have the pleasure of hearing him frequently, and +think the purity of his taste at least equal to the perfection of his voice; +rare praise for a singer in these "most brisk and giddy-paced times." +He gave us last night the beautiful recitative which introduces Desdemona's +song in Othello—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Nessun maggior dolore,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Che ricordarsi del tempo felice<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nella miseria!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>and the words, the music, and the divine pathos of the man's voice +combined, made me feel—as I thought I never could have felt +again.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4"><b>TO ——</b><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">As sounds of sweetest music, heard at eve,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When summer dews weep over languid flowers,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the still air conveys each touch, each tone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">However faint—and breathes it on the ear<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span> +<span class="i0">With a distinct and thrilling power, that leaves<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its memory long within the raptur'd soul.—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">—Even <i>such</i> thou art to me!—and thus I sit<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And feel the harmony that round thee lives,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And breathes from every feature. Thus I sit—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And when most quiet—cold—or silent—<i>then</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Even then, I feel each word, each look, each tone!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There's not an accent of that tender voice,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There's not a day-beam of those sunbright eyes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor passing smile, nor melancholy grace,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor thought half utter'd, feeling half betray'd<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor glance of kindness,—no, nor gentlest touch<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of that dear hand, in amity extended,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That e'er was lost to me;—that treasur'd well,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And oft recall'd, dwells not upon my soul<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like sweetest music heard at summer's eve!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Yesterday we visited the church of San Lorenzo, the Laurentian +library, and the Pietra Dura manufactory, and afterwards spent an +hour in the Tribune.</p> + +<p>In a little chapel in the San Lorenzo are Michel Angelo's famous +statues, the Morning, the Noon, the Evening, and the Night. I +looked at them with admiration rather than with pleasure; for there is +something in the severe and overpowering style of this master, which +affects me disagreeably, as beyond my feeling, and above my comprehension. +These statues are very ill disposed for effect: the confined +<i>cell</i> (such it seemed) in which they are placed is so strangely disproportioned +to the awful and massive grandeur of their forms.</p> + +<p>There is a picture by Michel Angelo, considered a chef-d'œuvre, +which hangs in the Tribune, to the right of the Venus: now if all the +connaisseurs in the world, with Vasari at their head, were to harangue +for an hour together on the merits of this picture, I might submit in +silence, for I am no connoisseur; but that it is a disagreeable, a hateful +picture, is an opinion which fire could not melt out of me. In spite +of Messieurs les Connaisseurs, and Michel Angelo's fame, I would die +in it at the stake: for instance, here is the Blessed Virgin, not the +"Vergine Santa, d'ogni grazia piena," but a Virgin, whose brick-dust +coloured face, harsh unfeminine features, and muscular, masculine +arms, give me the idea of a washerwoman, (con rispetto parlando!) +an infant Saviour with the proportions of a giant: and what shall we +say of the nudity of the figures in the back-ground; profaning the subject +and shocking at once good taste and good sense? A little farther +on, the eye rests on the divine Madre di Dio of Correggio: what +beauty, what sweetness, what maternal love, and humble adoration are +blended in the look and attitude with which she bends over her infant! +Beyond it hangs the Madonna del Cardellino of Raffaelle: what +heavenly grace, what simplicity, what saint-like purity, in the expression +of that face, and that exquisite mouth! And from these must +I turn back, on pain of being thought an ignoramus, to admire the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span> +coarse perpetration of Michel Angelo—because it is Michel Angelo's? +But I speak in ignorance.<a name="FNanchor_F_6" id="FNanchor_F_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_F_6" class="fnanchor">[F]</a></p> + +<p>To return to San Lorenzo. The chapel of the Medici, begun by +Ferdinand the First, where coarse brickwork and plaster mingle with +marble and gems, is still unfinished and likely to remain so: it did not +interest me. The fine bronze sarcophagus, which encloses the ashes +of Lorenzo the Magnificent, and of his brother Giuliano, assassinated +by the Pazzi, interested me far more. While I was standing carelessly +in front of the high altar, I happened to look down, and under my feet +were these words, "<span class="smcap">To Cosmo The Venerable, the Father of his +Country</span>." I moved away in haste, and before I had decided to my +own satisfaction upon Cosmo's claims to the gratitude and veneration of +posterity, we left the church.</p> + +<p>At the Laurentian library we were edified by the sight of some +famous old manuscripts, invaluable to classical scholars. To my unlearned +eyes the manuscript of Petrarch, containing portraits of himself +and Laura, was more interesting. Petrarch is hideous—but I was +pleased with the head of Laura, which in spite of the antique dryness +and stiffness of the painting, has a soft and delicate expression not unlike +one of Carlo Dolce's Madonnas. Here we saw Galileo's forefinger, +pointing up to the skies from a white marble pedestal; and +exciting more derision than respect.</p> + +<p>At the Pietra Dura, notwithstanding the beauty and durability of +some of the objects manufactured, the result seemed to me scarce worth +the incredible time, patience, and labour required in the work. <i>Par +exemple</i>, six months' hard labour spent upon a butterfly in the lid of a +snuff-box seems a most disproportionate waste of time. Thirty +workmen are employed here at the Grand Duke's expense; for this +manufacture, like that of the Gobelins at Paris, is exclusively carried +on for the sovereign.</p> + +<p><i>Nov. 20.</i>—I am struck in this place with grand beginnings and mean +endings. I have not yet seen a finished church, even the Duomo has +no façade.</p> + +<p>Yesterday we visited the Palazzo Mozzi to see Benvenuto's picture, +"The Night after the Battle of Jena." Then several churches—the +Santa Croce, which is hallowed ground: the Annonciata, celebrated +for the frescos of Andrea del Sarto; and the Carmine, which pleased +me by the light elegance of its architecture, and its fine alto-relievos in +white marble. In this church is the chapel of the Madonna del Carmele, +painted by Masuccio, and the most ancient frescos extant: they +are curious rather than beautiful, and going to decay.</p> + +<p>To-day we visited the school of the Fine Arts: it contains a very fine<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span> +and ample collection of casts after the antique; and some of the works +of modern artists and students are exhibited. Were I to judge from +the specimens I have seen here and elsewhere, I should say that a cold, +glaring, hard <i>tea-tray</i> style prevails in painting, and a still worse taste, +if possible, in sculpture. No soul, no grandeur, no simplicity; a +meagre insipidity in the conception, a nicety of finish in the detail; +affectation instead of grace, distortion instead of power, and prettiness +instead of beauty. Yet the artists who execute these works, and those +who buy them, have free access to the marvels of the gallery, and the +treasures of the Pitti Palace. Are they sans eyes, sans souls, sans taste, +sans every thing, but money and self-conceit?</p> + +<p><i>Nov. 22.</i>—Our mornings, however otherwise occupied, are generally +concluded by an hour in the gallery or at the Pitti Palace; the +evenings are spent in the Mercato Nuovo, in the workshops of artists, +or at the Cascina.</p> + +<p>To-day at the gallery I examined the Dutch school and the Salle des +Portraits, and ended as usual with the Tribune. The Salle des +Portraits contains a complete collection of the portraits of painters down +to the present day. In general their respective countenances are expressive +of their characters and style of painting. Poor Harlow's picture, +painted by himself, is here.</p> + +<p>The Dutch and Flemish painters (in spite of their exquisite pots and +pans, and cabbages and carrots, their birch-brooms, in which you can +count every twig, and their carpets, in which you can reckon every +thread) do not interest me; their landscapes too, however natural, are +mere Dutch nature (with some brilliant exceptions), fat cattle, clipped +trees, boors, and windmills. Of course I am not speaking of Vandyke, +nor of Rubens, he that "in the colours of the rainbow lived," nor of +Rembrandt, that king of clouds and shadows; but for mine own part, I +would give up all that Mieris, Netscher, Teniers, and Gerard Douw +ever produced, for one of Claude's Eden-like creations, or one of +Guido's lovely heads—or merely for the pleasure of looking at Titian's +Flora once a day, I would give a whole gallery of Dutchmen, if I had +them.</p> + +<p>In the daughter of Herodias, by Leonardo da Vinci, there is the +same eternal face he always paints, but with a peculiar expression—she +turns away her head with the air of a fine lady, whose senses are +shocked by the sight of blood and death, while her heart remains untouched +either by remorse or pity.</p> + +<p>His ghastly Medusa made me shudder while it fascinated me, as if +in those loathsome snakes, writhing and glittering round the expiring +head, and those abhorred and fiendish abominations crawling into life, +there still lurked the fabled spell which petrified the beholder. Poor +Medusa! was this the guerdon of thy love? and were those the tresses<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span> +which enslaved the ocean's lord? Methinks that in this wild mythological +fiction, in the terrific vengeance which Minerva takes for her +profaned temple, and in the undying snakes which for ever hiss round +the head of her victim—there is a deep moral, if woman would lay it +to her heart.</p> + +<p>In Guercino's Endymion, the very mouth is asleep: in his Sybil the +very eyes are prophetic, and glance into futurity.</p> + +<p>The boyish, but divine St. John, by Raffaelle, did not please me so +well as some of his portraits and Madonnas; his Leo the Tenth, for +instance, his Julius the Second, or even his Fornarina: and I may observe +here, that I admire Titian's taste much more than Raffaelle's, <i>en +fait de <a name="maitresse44" id="maitresse44"></a>maîtresse</i>. The Fornarina is a mere <i>femme du peuple</i>, a coarse +virago, compared to the refined, the exquisite La Manto, in the Pitti +Palace. I think the Flora must have been painted from the same +lovely model, as far as I can judge from compared recollections, for I +have no authority to refer to. The former is the most elegant, and the +latter the most poetical female portrait I ever saw. At Titian's Venus +in the Tribune, one hardly ventures to look up; it is the perfection of +earthly loveliness, as the Venus de' Medici is all ideal—all celestial +beauty. In the multiplied copies and engravings of this picture I see +every where the bashful sweetness of the countenance, and the tender +languid repose of the figure are made coarse, or something worse: degraded, +in short, into a character altogether unlike the original.</p> + +<p>I say nothing of the Gallery of the Palazzo Pitti; which is not a +collection so much as a <i>selection</i> of the most invaluable gems and masterpieces +of art. The imagination dazzled and bewildered by excellence +can scarcely make a choice—but I think the Madonna Della +Seggiola of Raffaelle, Allori's magnificent Judith, Guido's Cleopatra, +and Salvator's Catiline, dwell most upon my memory.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>Nov. 24.</i>—After dinner, we drove to the beautiful gardens of the +Villa Strozzi, on the Monte Ulivetto, and the evening we spent at the +Cocomero, where we saw a detestable opera, capitally acted, and heard +the most vile, noisy, unmeaning music, sung to perfection.</p> + +<p><i>Nov. 26.</i>—Yesterday we spent some hours at Morghen's gallery, +looking over his engravings; and afterwards examined the bronze +gates of the Baptistery, which Michel Angelo used to call the gates of +Paradise. We then ascended the Campanile or Belfry Tower to see +the view from its summit. Florence lay at our feet, diminished to a +model of itself, with its walls and gates, its streets and bridges, palaces +and churches, all and each distinctly visible; and beyond, the Val +d'Arno with its amphitheatre of hills, its villas, and its vineyards—classical +Fesole, with its ruined castle, and Monte Ulivetto, with its +diadem of cypresses; luxuriant nature and graceful art, blending into<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span> +one glorious picture, which no smoky vapours, no damp exhalations, +blotted and discoloured; but all was serenely bright and fair, gay +with moving life, and rich with redundant fertility.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"O dell' Etruria gran Città Reina,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">D'arti e di studj e di grand' or feconda;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cui tra quanto il sol guarda, e 'l mar circonda,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ogn' altra in pregio di belta s' inchina:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Monti superbi, la cui fronte alpina<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fa di sè contra i venti argine e sponda:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Valli beate, per cui d'onda in onda<br /></span> +<span class="i0">L'Arno con passo signoril cammina:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bei soggiorni ove par ch' abbiansi eletto<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Le grazie il seggio, e, come in suo confine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sia di natura il bel tutto ristretto, &c."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Filicaja will be pardoned for his hyperboles by all who remember +that he was himself a Florentine.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>28.</i>—"Corinne" I find is a fashionable <i>vade mecum</i> for sentimental +travellers in Italy; and that I too might be <i>à la mode</i>, I brought +it from Molini's to-day, with the intention of reading on the spot, +those admirable and affecting passages which relate to Florence; but +when I began to cut the leaves, a kind of terror seized me, and I +threw it down, resolved not to open it again. I know myself weak—I +feel myself unhappy; and to find my own feelings reflected from +the pages of a book, in language too deeply and eloquently true, is +not good for me. I want no helps to admiration, nor need I kindle +my enthusiasm at the torch of another's mind. I can suffer enough, +feel enough, think enough, without this.</p> + +<p>Not being well, I spent a long morning at home, and then strayed +into the church of the Santo Spirito, which is near our hotel. There +is in this church a fine copy of Michel Angelo's Pietà, which a monk, +whom I met in the church, insisted was the original. But I believe +the <i>originalissimo</i> group is at Rome. There are also two fine pictures, +a marriage of the Virgin, in a very sweet Guido-like style, +and the woman taken in adultery. This church is the richest in paintings +I have seen here. I remarked a picture of the Virgin said to +be possessed of miraculous powers; and that part of it visible, is not +destitute of merit as a painting; but some of her grateful devotees, +having decorated her with a real blue silk gown, spangled with tinsel +stars, and two or three crowns, one above another, of gilt foil, the +effect is the oddest imaginable. As I was sitting upon a marble step, +philosophizing to myself, and wondering at what seemed to me such +senseless bad taste, such pitiable and ridiculous superstition, there +came up a poor woman leading by the hand a pale and delicate boy, +about four years old. She prostrated herself before the picture, while +the child knelt beside her, and prayed for some time with fervour;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span> +she then lifted him up, and the mother and child kissed the picture +alternately with great devotion; then making him kneel down and +clasp his little hands, she began to teach him an Ave Maria, repeating +it word for word, slowly and distinctly, so that I got it by heart too. +Having finished their devotions, the mother put into the child's hands +a piece of money, which she directed him to drop into a box, inscribed, +"per i poveri vergognosi"—"for the bashful poor;" they then +went their way. I was an unperceived witness of this little scene, +which strongly affected me: the simple piety of this poor woman, +though mistaken in its object, appeared to me respectable; and the +Virgin, in her sky-blue brocade and her gilt tiara, no longer an object +to ridicule. I returned home rejoicing in kinder, gentler, happier +thoughts; for though I may wish these poor people a purer worship, +yet, as Wordsworth says somewhere, far better than I could express +it—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">"Rather would I instantly decline<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the traditionary sympathies<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of a most rustic ignorance,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This rather would I do, than see and hear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The repetitions wearisome of sense<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where soul is dead, and feeling hath no place."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The Ave Maria which I learnt, or rather <i>stole</i> from my poor +woman, pleases me by its simplicity.</p> + +<p class="center"><small><b>AVE MARIA.</b></small></p> + +<p>Dio ti salvi, O Maria, piena di grazia! Il Signore è teco! tu sei +benedetta fra le donne, e benedetto è il frutto del tuo seno, GESU! +Santa Maria! madre di Dio! Prega per noi peccatori, adesso, e +nell 'ora della nostra morte! e cosi sia.<a name="FNanchor_G_7" id="FNanchor_G_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_G_7" class="fnanchor">[G]</a></p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>Sunday.</i>—Attended divine service at the English ambassador's, in +the morning, and in the evening, not being well enough to go to the +Cascine, I remained at home. I sat down at the window and read +Foscolo's beautiful poem, "I sepoleri:" the subject of my book, and +the sight of Alfieri's house meeting my eye whenever I looked up, +inspired the idea of visiting the Santa Croce again, and I ventured out +unattended. The streets, and particularly the Lung' Arno, were +crowded with gay people in their holiday costumes. Not even our +Hyde Park, on a summer Sunday, ever presented a more lively +spectacle or a better dressed mob. I was often tempted to turn back +rather than encounter this moving multitude; but at length I found<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span> +my way to the Santa Croce, which presented a very different scene. +The service was over; and a few persons were walking up and down +the aisles, or kneeling at different altars. In a chapel on the other +side of the cloisters, they were chanting the Via Crucis; and the blended +voices swelled and floated round, then died away, then rose again, +and at length sunk into silence. The evening was closing fast, the +shadows of the heavy pillars grew darker and darker, the tapers round +the high altar twinkled in the distance like dots of light, and the +tombs of Michel Angelo, of Galileo, of Machiavelli, and Alfieri, were +projected from the deep shadow in indistinct formless masses: but I +needed not to see them to image them before me; for with each and +all my fancy was familiar. I spent about an hour walking up and +down—abandoned to thoughts which were melancholy, but not bitter. +All memory, all feeling, all grief, all pain were swallowed up in the +sublime tranquillity which was within me and around me. How +could I think of myself, and of the sorrow which swells at my impatient +heart, while all of genius that could die, was sleeping round +me; and the spirits of the glorious dead—they who rose above their +fellow men by the might of intellect—whose aim was excellence, the +noble end "that made ambition virtue," were, or seemed to me, +present?—and if those tombs could have opened their ponderous and +marble jaws, what histories of sufferings and persecution, wrongs and +wretchedness, might they not reveal! Galileo—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i8">"chi vide<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sotto l'etereo padiglion rotarsi<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Piu mondi, e il sole iradiarli immoto."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>pining in the dungeons of the inquisition; Machiavelli,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">"quel grande,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Che temprando lo scettro a'regnatori,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gil allor ne sfronda——"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>tortured and proscribed; Michel Angelo, persecuted by envy; and +Alfieri perpetually torn, as he describes himself, by two furies—"Ira +e Malinconia"—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"La mente e il cor in perpetua lite."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>But they fulfilled their destinies: inexorable Fate will be avenged +upon the favourites of Heaven and nature. I can remember but one +instance in which the greatly gifted spirit was not also the conspicuously +wretched mortal—our own divine Shakspeare—and of him we +know but little.</p> + +<p>In some books of travels I have met with, Boccaccio, Aretino, and +Guicciardini, are mentioned among the illustrious dead of the Santa +Croce. The second, if his biographers say true, was a wretch, whose +ashes ought to have been scattered in the air. He was buried I <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span>believe +at Venice—or no matter where. Boccaccio's tomb <i>is</i>, or <i>was</i>, +at Certaldo; and Guicciardini's—I forget the name of the church honoured +by his remains—but it is not the Santa Croce.</p> + +<p>The finest figure on the tomb of Michel Angelo is architecture. It +should be contemplated from the left, to be seen to advantage. The +effect of Alfieri's monument depends much on the position of the spectator: +when viewed in front, the figure of Italy is very heavy and +clumsy; and in no point of view has it the grace and delicacy which +Canova's statues generally possess.</p> + +<p>There is a most extraordinary picture in this church representing +God the Father supporting a dead Christ, by Cigoli, a painter little +known in England, though I have seen some admirable pictures of his +in the collections here: his style reminds me of Spagnoletto's.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>Our departure is fixed for Wednesday next: and though I know +that change and motion are good for me, yet I dread the fatigue and +excitement of travelling; and I shall leave Florence with regret. For +a melancholy invalid like myself, there cannot be a more delightful +residence: it is gay without tumult—quiet, yet not dull. I have not +mingled in society; therefore cannot judge of the manners of the +people. I trust they are not exactly what Forsyth describes: with all +his taste he sometimes writes like a caustic old bachelor; and on the +Florentines he is peculiarly severe.</p> + +<p>We leave our friend L. behind for a few days, and our Venice acquaintance +V. will be our <i>compagnon de voyage</i> to Rome. Of these +two young men, the first amuses me by his follies, the latter rather +fatigues <i>de trop de raison</i>. The first talks too much, the latter too +little: the first speaks, and speaks egregious nonsense; the latter +never says any thing beyond common-place: the former always makes +himself ridiculous, and the latter never makes himself particularly +agreeable: the first is (<i>con rispetto parlando</i>) a great fool, and the +latter would be pleasanter were he less wise. Between these two +<i>opposites</i>, I was standing this evening on the banks of the Arno, contemplating +a sunset of unequalled splendour. L. finding that enthusiasm +was his cue, played off various sentimental antics, peeped through +his fingers, threw his head on one side, exclaiming, "Magnificent, by +Jove! grand! grandissimo! It just reminds me of what Shakspeare +says: 'Fair Aurora'—I forget the rest."</p> + +<p>V. with his hands in his pockets, contemplated the superb spectacle—the +mountains, the valley, the city flooded with a crimson glory, +and the river flowing at our feet like molten gold—he gazed on it all +with a look of placid satisfaction, and then broke out—"Well! this +does one's heart good!"</p> + +<p>L. (I owe him this justice) is not the author of the famous blunder<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> +which is now repeated in every circle. I am assured it was our +neighbour, Lord G. though I scarce believe it, who on being presented +with the Countess of Albany's card, exclaimed—"The Countess +of Albany! Ah!—true—I remember: wasn't she the widow of +Charles the Second, who married Ariosto?" There is in this celebrated +<i>beveu</i>, a glorious confusion of times and persons, beyond even +my friend L.'s capacity.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>The whole party are gone to the Countess of Albany's to-night to +take leave: that being, as L. says, "the correct thing." Our notions +of correctness vary with country and climate. What Englishwoman +at Florence would not be <i>au désespoir</i>, to be shut from the Countess +of Albany's parties—though it is a known and indisputable fact, that +she was never married to Alfieri? A propos d'Alfieri—I have just +been reading a selection of his tragedies—his Filippo, the Pazzi, Virginia, +Mirra; and when I have finished Saul, I will read no more of +them for some time. There is a superabundance of harsh energy, and +a want of simplicity, tenderness, and repose throughout, which +fatigues me, until admiration becomes an effort instead of a pleasurable +feeling. Marochesi, a celebrated tragedian, who, Minutti says, +understood "<i>la vera filosofia della comica</i>," used to recite Alfieri's +tragedies with him or to him. Alfieri was himself a bad actor and +declaimer. I am surprised that the tragedy of Mirra should be a +great favourite on the stage here. A very young actress, who made +her debût in this character, enchanted the whole city by the admirable +manner in which she performed it; and the piece was played +for eighteen nights successively; a singular triumph for an actress, +though not uncommon for a singer. In spite of its many beauties +and the artful management of the story; it would, I think, be as impossible +to make an English audience endure the Mirra, as to find an +English actress who would exhibit herself in so revolting a part.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>Tuesday.</i>—Our last day at Florence. I walked down to the San +Lorenzo this morning early, and made a sketch of the sarcophagus of +Lorenzo de' Medici. Afterwards we spent an hour in the gallery, and +bid adieu to the Venus—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"O bella Venere!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Che sola sei,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Piacer degli uomini<br /></span> +<span class="i1">E degli dei!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>When I went to take a last look of Titian's Flora, I found it removed +from its station, and an artist employed in copying it. I could have +envied the lady for whom this copy was intended; but comforted myself +with the conviction that no hireling dauber in water-colours could<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span> +do justice to the heavenly original, which only wants motion and speech +to live indeed. We then spent nearly two hours in the Pitti Palace; +and the court having lately removed to Pisa, we had an opportunity of +seeing Canova's Venus, which is placed in one of the Grand Duke's +private apartments. She stands in the centre of a small cabinet, pannelled +with mirrors, which reflect her at once in every possible point +of view. This statue was placed on the pedestal of the Venus de' Medicis +during her forced residence at Paris; and is justly considered as +the triumph of modern art: but though a most beautiful creature, she +is not a goddess. I looked in vain for that full divinity, that ethereal +<i>something</i> which breathes round the Venus of the Tribune. In another +private room are two magnificent landscapes by Salvator Rosa.</p> + +<p>Every good catholic has a portrait of the Virgin hung at the head of +his bed; partly as an object of devotion, and partly to scare away the +powers of evil: and for this purpose the Grand Duke has suspended +by his bed-side one of the most beautiful of Raffaelle's <a name="Madonnas" id="Madonnas"></a>Madonnas. Truly, +I admire the good taste of his piety, though it is rather selfish thus to +appropriate such a gem, when the merest daub would answer the same +purpose. It was only by secret bribery I obtained a peep at this picture, +as the room is not publicly shown.</p> + +<p>The lower classes at Florence are in general ill-looking; nor have +I seen one handsome woman since I came here. Their costume too +is singularly unbecoming; but there is an airy cheerfulness and vivacity +in their countenances, and a civility in their manners which is +pleasing to a stranger. I was surprised to see the women, even the +servant girls, decorated with necklaces of real pearl of considerable +beauty and value. On expressing my surprise at this to a shopkeeper's +wife, she informed me that these necklaces are handed down as a kind +of heir-loom from mother to daughter; and a young woman is considered +as dowered who possesses a handsome chain of pearl. If she has +no hope of one in reversion, she buys out of her little earnings a pearl +at a time, till she has completed a necklace.</p> + +<p>The style of swearing at Florence is peculiarly elegant and classical; +I hear the vagabonds in the street adjuring Venus and Bacchus; and +my shoemaker swore "by the aspect of Diana," that he would not +take less than ten pauls for what was worth about three;—yet was the +knave forsworn.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2"><b>JOURNEY TO ROME.</b><br /></span> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4"><small>SOFFRI E TACI.</small><br /></span> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ye empty shadows of unreal good!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Phantoms of joy!—too long—too far pursued,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Farewell! no longer will I idly mourn<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O'er vanished hopes that never can return;<br /></span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span> +<span class="i0">No longer pine o'er hoarded griefs—nor chide<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The cold vain world, whose falsehood I have tried.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Me</i> never more can sweet affections move,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor smiles awake to confidence and love:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To <i>me</i>, no more can disappointment spring,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor wrong, nor scorn one bitter moment bring!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With a firm spirit—though a breaking heart,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Subdu'd to act through life my weary part,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its closing scenes in patience I await,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And by a stern endurance, conquer fate.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><i>December 8.</i>—In beginning another volume, I feel almost inclined +to throw the last into the fire; as in writing it I have generally begun +the record of one day by tearing away the half of what was written +the day before: but though it contains much that I would rather forget, +and some things written under the impression of pain, and sick and +irritable feelings, I will not yet <i>ungratefully</i> destroy it. I have frequently +owed to my little Diary not amusement only, but consolation. +It has gradually become not only the faithful depository of my recollections, +but the confidante of my feelings, and the sole witness of my +tears. I know not if this be wise: but if it be folly, I have the comfort +of knowing that a mere act of my will destroys for ever the record +of my weakness; and meantime a confidante whose mouth is sealed +with a patent lock and key, and whom I can put out of existence in a +single moment, is not dangerous; so, as Lord Byron elegantly expresses +it, "<i>Here goes</i>."</p> + +<p>We left Florence this morning; and saw the sun rise upon a country +so enchantingly beautiful, that I dare not trust myself to description; +but I felt it, and still feel it—almost in my heart. The blue cloudless +sky, the sun pouring his beams upon a land, which even in this wintry +season smiles when others languish—the soft varied character of the +scenery, comprising every species of natural beauty—the green slope, +the woody hill, the sheltered valley,—the deep dales, into which we +could just peep, as the carriage whirled us too rapidly by—the rugged +fantastic rocks, cultivated plains, and sparkling rivers, and, beyond all, +the chain of the <a name="Apennines" id="Apennines"></a>Apennines with light clouds floating across them, or +resting in their recesses—all this I saw, and felt, and shall not forget.</p> + +<p>I write this at Arezzo, the birth-place of Petrarch, of Redi, of Pignotti, +and of that Guido who discovered Counter-point. Whether +Arezzo is remarkable for any thing else, I am too sleepy to recollect: +and as we depart early to-morrow morning, it would only tantalize me +to remember. We arrived here late, by the light of a most resplendent +moon. If such is this country in winter, what must it be in +summer?</p> + +<p><i>9th, at Perugia.</i>—All the beauties of natural scenery have been +combined with historical associations, to render our journey of to-day +most interesting; and with a mind more at ease, nothing has been<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span> +wanting to render this one of the most delightful days I have spent +abroad.</p> + +<p>At Cortona, Hannibal slept the night before the battle of Thrasymene. +Soon after leaving this town on our left, we came in view of the lake, +and the old tower on its banks. There is an ancient ruin on a high +eminence to the left, which our postilion called the "Forteressa di +Annibale il Carthago." Further on, the Gualandra hills seem to circle +round the lake; and here was the scene of the battle. The channel of +the Sanguinetto, which then ran red with the best blood of Rome and +Carthage, was dry when we crossed it—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">"And hooting boys might dry-shod pass,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And gather pebbles from the naked ford."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>While we traversed the field of battle at a slow pace, V. who had his +Livy in his pocket, read aloud his minute description of the engagement; +and we could immediately point out the different places mentioned +by the historian. The whole valley and the hills around are +now covered with olive woods; and from an olive tree which grew +close to the edge of the lake, I snatched a branch as we passed by, and +shall preserve it—an emblem of peace, from the theatre of slaughter. +The whole landscape as we looked back upon it from a hill on this side +of the Casa del Rano, was exceedingly beautiful. The lake seemed to +slumber in the sunshine; and Passignano jutting into the water, with +its castellated buildings, the two little woody islands, and the undulating +hills enclosing the whole, as if to shut it from the world, made it +look like a scene fit only to be peopled by fancy's fairest <a name="creations" id="creations"></a>creations, if +the remembrance of its blood-stained glories had not started up, to rob +it of half its beauty. Mrs. R—— compared it to the lake of Geneva; +but in my own mind, I would not admit the comparison. The lake of +Geneva stands alone in its beauty; for there the sublimest and the +softest features of nature are united: there the wonderful, the wild, and +the beautiful, blend in one mighty scene; and love and heroism, poetry +and genius, have combined to hallow its shores. The lake of Perugia +is far more circumscribed: the scenery around it wants grandeur and +extent; though so beautiful in itself, that if no comparison had been +made, no want would have been suggested: and on the bloody field +of Thrasymene I looked with curiosity and interest unmingled with +pleasure. I have long survived my sympathy with the fighting heroes +of antiquity. All this I thought as we slowly walked up the hill, but +I was silent as usual: as Jaques says, "I can think of as many +matters as other men, but I praise God, and make no boast of it." We +arrived here too late to see any thing of the city.</p> + +<p><i>Dec. 10th, at Terni.</i>—The ridiculous <i>contre-temps</i> we sometimes +meet with would be matter of amusement to me, if they did not affect<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> +others. And in truth, as far as paying well, and scolding well, can +go, it is impossible to travel more magnificently, more <i>à la milor +Anglais</i> than we do: but there is no controlling fate; and here, as +our evil destinies will have it, a company of strolling actors had taken +possession of the best quarters before our arrival; and our accommodations +are, I must confess, tolerably bad.</p> + +<p>When we left Perugia this morning, the city, throned upon its lofty +eminence, with its craggy rocks, its tremendous fortifications, and its +massy gateways, had an imposing effect. Forwards, we looked over +a valley, which so resembled a lake, the hills projecting above the glittering +white vapour having the appearance of islands scattered over +its surface, that at the first glance I was positively deceived; and all +my topographical knowledge, which I had conned on the map the night +before, completely put to the rout. As the day advanced, this white +mist sank gradually to the earth, like a veil dropped from the form of +a beautiful woman, and nature stood disclosed in all her loveliness.</p> + +<p>Trevi, on its steep and craggy hill, detached from the chain of +mountains, looked beautiful as we gazed up at it, with its buildings +mingled with rocks and olives—</p> + +<p>I had written thus far, when we were all obliged to decamp in +haste to our respective bed-rooms; as it is found necessary to convert +our salon into a dormitory. I know I shall be tired, and very tired +to-morrow,—therefore add a few words in pencil, before the impressions +now fresh on my mind are obscured.</p> + +<p>After Trevi came the Clitumnus with its little fairy temple; and +we left the carriage to view it from below, and drink of the classic +stream. The temple (now a chapel) is not much in itself, and was voted +in bad taste by some of our party. To me the tiny fane, the glassy +river, more pure and limpid than any fabled or famous fountain of +old, the beautiful hills, the sunshine, and the associations connected +with the whole scene, were enchanting; and I could not at the moment +descend to architectural criticism.</p> + +<p>The road to Spoleto was a succession of olive grounds, vineyards, +and rich woods. The vines with their skeleton boughs looked wintry +and miserable; but the olives, now in full fruit and foliage, intermixed +with the cypress, the ilex, the cork tree, and the pine, clothed the +landscape with a many-tinted robe of verdure.</p> + +<p>While sitting in the open carriage at Spoleto, waiting for horses, I +saw one of that magnificent breed of "milk white steers," for which +the banks of the Clitumnus have been famed from all antiquity, led +past me gaily decorated, to be baited on a plain without the city. As +the noble creature, serene and unresisting, paced along, followed by a +wild, ferocious-looking, and far more brutal rabble, I would have +given all I possessed to redeem him from his tormentors: but it was in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span> +vain. As we left the city, we heard his tremendous roar of agony and +rage echo from the rocks. I stopped my ears, and was glad when we +were whirled out of hearing. The impression left upon my nerves by +this rencontre, makes me dislike to remember Spoleto: yet I believe +it is a beautiful and interesting place. Hannibal, as I recollect, besieged +this city, but was bravely repulsed. I could say much more of +the scenes and the feelings of to-day; but my pencil refuses to mark +another letter.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>Dec. 11th, at Civita Castellana.</i>—I could not write a word to-night +in the salon, because I wished to listen to the conversation of two intelligent +travellers, who, arriving after us, were obliged to occupy the +same apartment. Our accommodations here are indeed deplorable +altogether. After studying the geography of my bed, and finding no +spot thereon, to which Sancho's couch of pack-saddles and pummels +would not be a bed of down in comparison, I ordered a fresh faggot on +my hearth: they brought me some ink in a gally-pot—<i>invisible</i> ink—for +I cannot see what I am writing; and I sit down to scribble, +<i>pour me désennuyer</i>.</p> + +<p>This morning we set off to visit the Falls of Terni (la cascata di +Marmore) in two carriages and four: O such equipages!—such ratlike +steeds! such picturesque accoutrements! and such poetical looking +guides and postilions, ragged, cloaked, and whiskered!—but it +was all consistent: the wild figures harmonized with the wild landscape. +We passed a singular fortress on the top of a steep insulated +rock, which had formerly been inhabited by a band of robbers and +their families, who were with great difficulty, and after a regular +siege, dislodged by a party of soldiers, and the place dismantled. In +its present ruined state, it has a very picturesque effect; and though +the presence of the banditti would no doubt have added greatly to the +romance of the scene, on the present occasion we excused their +absence.</p> + +<p>We visited the falls both above and below, but unfortunately we neither +saw them from the best point of view, nor at the best season. +The body of waters is sometimes ten times greater, as I was assured—but +can scarce believe it possible. The words "Hell of waters," +used by Lord Byron, would not have occurred to me while looking at +this cataract, which impresses the astonished mind with an overwhelming +idea of power, might, magnificence, and impetuosity; but blends +at the same time all that is most tremendous in sound and motion, with +all that is most bright and lovely in forms, in colours, and in +scenery.</p> + +<p>As I stood close to the edge of the precipice, immediately under the +great fall, I felt my respiration gone: I turned giddy, almost faint, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span> +was obliged to lean against the rock for support. The mad plunge of +the waters, the deafening roar, the presence of a power which no +earthly force could resist or control, struck me with an awe almost +amounting to terror. A bright sunbow stood over the torrent, which, +seen from below, has the appearance of a luminous white arch bending +from rock to rock. The whole scene was—but how can I say what +it was? I have exhausted my stock of fine words; and must be content +with silent recollections, and the sense of admiration and wonder +unexpressed.</p> + +<p>Below the fall, an inundation which took place a year ago, undermined +and carried away part of the banks of the Nera, at the same time +laying open an ancient Roman bridge, which had been buried for ages. +The channel of the river and the depth of the soil must have been +greatly altered since this bridge was erected.</p> + +<p>When we returned to the inn at Terni, and while the horses were +putting to, I took up a volume of Eustace's tour, which some traveller +had accidentally left on the table; and turning to the description of +Terni, read part of it, but quickly threw down the book with indignation, +deeming all his verbiage the merest nonsense I had ever met +with: in fact, it <i>is</i> nonsense to attempt to image in words an individual +scene like this. When we had made out our description as accurately +as possible, it would do as well for any other cataract in the world: +we can only combine rocks, wood, and water, in certain proportions. +A good picture may give a tolerable idea of a particular scene or landscape: +but no picture, no painter, not Ruysdael himself, can give a +just idea of a cataract. The lifeless, silent, unmoving image is there: +but where is the thundering roar, the terrible velocity, the glory of +refracted light, the eternity of sound, and infinity of motion, in which +essentially its effect consists?</p> + +<p>In the valley beneath the Falls of Terni, there is a beautiful retired +little villa, which was once occupied by the late Queen Caroline: and +in the gardens adjoining it, we gathered oranges from the trees ourselves +for the first time. After passing Mount Soracte, of classical fame, +we took leave of the Apennines; having lived amongst them ever since +we left Bologna.</p> + +<p>The costume of this part of the country is very gay and picturesque: +the women wear a white head-dress formed of a square kerchief, which +hangs down upon the shoulders, and is attached to the hair by a silver +pin: a boddice half laced, and decorated with knots of ribbon, and a +short scarlet petticoat complete their attire. Between Perugia and +Terni I did not see one woman without a coral necklace; and those +who have the power, load themselves with trinkets and ornaments.</p> + +<p><i>Rome, December 12.</i>—The morning broke upon us so beautifully +between Civita Castellana and Nevi, that we lauded our good fortune,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span> +and anticipated a glorious approach to the "Eternal City." We were +impatient to reach the heights of Baccano; from which, at the distance +of fifteen miles, we were to view the cross of St. Peter's glittering on +the horizon, while the postilions rising in their stirrups, should point +forward with exultation, and exclaim "<span class="smcap">Roma!</span>" But, O vain hope! +who can controul their fate? just before we reached Baccano, impenetrable +clouds enveloped the whole Campagna. The mist dissolved +into a drizzling rain; and when we entered the city, it poured in torrents. +Since we left England, this is only the third time it has rained +while we were on the road; it seems therefore unconscionable to murmur. +But to lose the first view of Rome! the first view of the dome +of St. Peter's! no—that lost moment will never be retrieved through +our whole existence.</p> + +<p>We found it difficult to obtain suitable accommodation for our numerous +<i>cortège</i>, the Hotel d'Europe, and the Hotel de Londres being +quite full: and for the present we are rather indifferently lodged in the +Albergo di Parigi.</p> + +<p>So here we are, in <span class="smcap">Rome</span>! where we have been for the last five +hours, and have not seen an inch of the city beyond the dirty pavement +of the Via Santa Croce; where an excellent dinner cooked <i>à +l'Anglaise</i>, a blazing fire, a drawing-room <a name="snugly" id="snugly"></a>snugly carpeted and curtained, +and the rain beating against our windows, would almost persuade +us that we are in London; and every now and then, it is with +a kind of surprise that I remind myself that I am really in Rome. +Heaven send us but a fine day to-morrow!</p> + +<p><i>13.</i>—The day arose as beautiful, as brilliant, as cloudless, as I could +have desired for the first day in Rome. About seven o'clock, and before +any one was ready for breakfast, I walked out; and directing my steps +by mere chance to the left, found myself in the Piazza di Spagna and +opposite to a gigantic flight of marble stairs leading to the top of a hill. +I was at the summit in a moment; and breathless and agitated by a +thousand feelings, I leaned against the obelisk, and looked over the +whole city. I knew not where I was: nor among the crowded mass +of buildings, the innumerable domes and towers, and vanes and pinnacles, +brightened by the ascending sun, could I for a while distinguish +a single known object; for my eyes and my heart were both too full: +but in a few minutes my powers of perception returned; and in the +huge round bulk of the castle of St. Angelo, and the immense façade +and soaring cupola of St. Peter's, I knew I could not be mistaken. I +gazed and gazed as if I would have drunk it all in at my eyes: and then +descending the superb flight of steps rather more leisurely than I had +ascended, I was in a moment at the door of our hotel.</p> + +<p>The rest of the day I wish I could forget—I found letters from +England on the breakfast table<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span>—</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>Until dinner time were we driving through the narrow dirty streets +at the mercy of a stupid <i>laquais de place</i>, in search of better accommodations, +but without success: and, on the whole, I fear I shall +always remember too well the disagreeable and painful impressions of +my first day in Rome.</p> + +<p><i>Dec. 18.</i>—A week has now elapsed, and I begin to know and feel +Rome a little better than I did. The sites of the various buildings, the +situations of the most interesting objects, and the bearings of the principal +hills, the Capitol, the Palatine, the Aventine, and the Æsquiline, +have become familiar to me, assisted in my perambulations by an excellent +plan. I have been disappointed in nothing, for I expected that +the general <a name="appearance" id="appearance"></a>appearance of modern Rome would be mean; and that +the impression made by the ancient city would be melancholy; and +I had been, unfortunately, too well prepared, by previous reading, +for all I see, to be astonished by any thing except the Museum of the +Vatican.</p> + +<p>I entered St. Peter's expecting to be struck dumb with admiration, +and accordingly it was so. A feeling of vastness filled my whole mind, +and made it disagreeable, almost impossible to speak or exclaim: but +it was a style of grandeur, exciting rather than oppressive to the imagination, +nor did I experience any thing like that sombre and reverential +awe, I have felt on entering one of our Gothic minsters. The +interior of St. Peter's is all airy magnificence, and gigantic splendour; +light and sunshine pouring in on every side; gilding and gay colours, +marbles and pictures, dazzling the eye above, below, around. The +effect of the whole has not diminished in a second and third visit; +but <a name="rather" id="rather"></a>rather grows upon me. I can never utter a word for the first +ten minutes after I enter the church.</p> + +<p>For the Museum of the Vatican, I confess I was totally unprepared; +and the first and second time I walked through the galleries, I was so +amazed—so intoxicated, that I could not fix my attention upon any +individual object, except the Apollo, upon which, as I walked along +confused and lost in wonder and enchantment, I stumbled accidentally, +and stood spell-bound. Gallery beyond gallery, hall within +hall, temple within temple, new splendours opening at every step! of +all the creations of luxurious art, the Museum of the Vatican may alone +defy any description to do it justice, or any fancy to conceive the unimaginable +variety of its treasures. When I remember that the French +had the audacious and sacrilegious vanity to snatch from these glorious sanctuaries +the finest specimens of art, and hide them in their +villanous old gloomy Louvre, I am confounded.</p> + +<p>I have been told and can well believe, that the whole <i>giro</i> of the +galleries exceed two miles.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span></p> + +<p>I have not yet studied the frescos of Raffaelle sufficiently to feel +all their perfection; and should be in despair at my own dullness, were +I not consoled by the recollection of Sir Joshua Reynolds. At present +one of Raffaelle's divine Virgins delights me more than all his camere +and logie together; but I can look upon them with due veneration, +and grieve to see the ravages of time and damp.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>19.</i>—Last night we took advantage of a brilliant full moon to visit +the Coliseum by moonlight; and if I came away disappointed of the +pleasure I had expected, the fault was not in me nor in the scene +around me. In its sublime and heart-stirring beauty, it more than +equalled, it surpassed all I had anticipated—but—(there must always +be a <i>but!</i> always in the realities of this world something to disgust;) +it happened that one or two gentlemen joined our party—young men +too, and classical scholars, who perhaps thought it fine to affect a well-bred +<i>nonchalance</i>, a fashionable disdain for all romance and enthusiasm, +and amused themselves with <i>quizzing</i> our guide, insulting the +gloom, the grandeur, and the silence around them, with loud impertinent +laughter at their own poor jokes; and I was obliged to listen, +sad and disgusted, to their empty and tasteless and misplaced flippancy. +The young barefooted friar, with his dark lanthorn, and his black eyes +flashing from under his cowl, who acted as our cicerone, was in picturesque +unison with the scene; but—more than one murder having +lately been committed among the labyrinthine recesses of the ruin, the +government has given orders that every person entering after dusk +should be attended by a guard of two soldiers. These fellows therefore +necessarily walked close after our heels, smoking, spitting, and +spluttering German. Such were my companions, and such was my +<i>cortège</i>. I returned home vowing that while I remained at Rome, +nothing should induce me to visit the Coliseum by moonlight again.</p> + +<p>To-day I was standing before the Laocoon with Rogers, who remarked +that the absence of all parental feeling in the aspect of Laocoon, +his self-engrossed indifference to the sufferings of his children (which +is noticed and censured, I think, by Dr. Moore) adds to the pathos, if +properly considered, by giving the strongest possible idea of that physical +agony which the sculptor intended to represent. It may be so, and +I thought there was both truth and <i>tacte</i> in the poet's observation.</p> + +<p>The Perseus of Canova does not please me so well as his Paris; there +is more simplicity and repose in the latter statue, less of that theatrical +air which I think is the common fault of Canova's figures.</p> + +<p>It is absolutely necessary to look at the Perseus before you look at +the Apollo, in order to do the former justice. I have gazed with admiration +at the Perseus for minutes together, then walked from it to the Apollo +and felt instantaneously, but could not have expressed, the difference.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span> +The first is indeed a beautiful statue, the latter "breathes the flame +with which 'twas wrought," as if the sculptor had left a portion of his +own soul within the marble to half animate his glorious creation. The +want of this informing life is strongly felt in the Perseus, when contemplated +after the Apollo. It is delightful when the imagination rises +in the scale of admiration, when we ascend from excellence to perfection: +but excellence after perfection is absolute inferiority; it sinks +below itself, and the descent is so disagreeable and disappointing, that +we can seldom estimate justly the object before us. We make comparisons +involuntarily in a case where comparisons are odious.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>The weather is cold here during the prevalence of the tramontana: +but I enjoy the brilliant skies and the delicious purity of the air, which +leaves the eye free to wander over a vast extent of space. Looking from +the gallery of the Belvedere at sunset this evening, I clearly saw Tivoli, +Albano, and Frascati, although all Rome and part of the Campagna lay +between me and those towns. The outlines of every building, ruin, +hill, and wood were so distinctly marked, and <i>stood out</i> so brightly to +the eye! and the full round moon, magnified through the purple +vapour which floated over the <a name="Apennines59" id="Apennines59"></a>Apennines, rose just over Tivoli, adding +to the beauty of the scene. O Italy! how I wish I could transport +hither all I love! how I wish I were well enough, happy enough, to +enjoy all the lovely things I see! but pain is mingled with all I behold, +all I feel: a cloud seems for ever before my eyes, a weight for ever +presses down my heart. I know it is wrong to repine: and that I +ought rather to be thankful for the pleasurable sensations yet spared to me, +than lament that they are so few. When I take up my pen to record +the impressions of the day, I sometimes turn within myself, and wonder +how it is possible that amid the strife of feelings not all subdued, +and the desponding of the heart, the mind should still retain its faculties +unobscured, and the imagination all its vivacity and its susceptibility +to pleasure,—like the beautiful sunbow I saw at the Falls of +Terni, bending so bright and so calm over the verge of the abyss which +toiled and raged below.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>22.</i>—This morning was devoted to the Capitol, where the objects +of art are ill arranged and too crowded: the lights are not well managed, +and on the whole I could not help wishing, in spite of my +veneration for the Capitol, that some at least among the divine +master-pieces it contains could be transferred to the glorious halls of the +Vatican, and shrined in temples worthy of them.</p> + +<p>The objects which most struck me were the dying Gladiator, the +Antinous, the Flora, and the statue called (I know not on what +authority) the Faun of Praxiteles.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span></p> + +<p>The dying Gladiator is the chief boast of the Capitol. The antiquarian +Nibby insists that this statue represents a Gaul, that the sculpture +is Grecian, that it formed part of a group on a pediment, representing +the vengeance which Apollo took on the Gauls, when, under their +king Brennus, they attacked the temple of Delphi: that the cord round +the neck is a twisted chain, an ornament peculiar to the Gauls; and +that the form of the shield, the bugles, the style of the hair, and the +mustachios, all prove it to be a Gaul. I asked, "why should such +faultless, such exquisite sculpture be thrown away upon a high pediment? +the affecting expression of the countenance, the head 'bowed +low and full of death,' the gradual failure of the strength and sinking +of the form, the blood slowly trickling from his side—how could any +spectator, contemplating it at a vast height, be sensible of these minute +traits—the distinguishing perfections of this matchless statue?" +It was replied, that many of the ancient buildings were so constructed, +that it was possible to ascend and examine the sculpture above the +cornice, and though some statues so placed were unfinished at the back, +(for instance, some of the figures which belonged to the group of Niobe,) +others (and he mentioned the Ægina marbles as an example) were as +highly finished behind as before. I owned myself unwilling to consider +the Gladiator a Gaul, but the reasoning struck me, and I am too +unlearned to weigh the arguments he used, much less confute them. +That the statue being of Grecian marble and Grecian sculpture must +therefore have come from Greece, does not appear a conclusive argument, +since the Romans commonly employed Greek artists: and as to +the rest of the argument,—suppose that in a dozen centuries hence, +the charming statue of Lady Louisa <a name="Russell" id="Russell"></a>Russell should be discovered under +the ruins of Woburn Abbey, and that by a parity of reasoning, the +production of Chantrey's chisel should be attributed to Italy and Canova, +merely because it is cut from a block of Carrara marble? we +might smile at such a conclusion.</p> + +<p>Among the pictures in the gallery of the Capitol, the one most highly +valued pleases me least of all—the Europa of Paul Veronese. The +splendid colouring and copious fancy of this master can never reconcile +me to his strange anomalies in composition, and his sins against +good taste and propriety. One wishes that he had allayed the heat of +his fancy with some cooling drops of discretion. Even his colouring +so admired in general, has something florid and meretricious to my +eye and taste.</p> + +<p>One of the finest pictures here is Domenichino's Cumean Sibyl, +which, like all other masterpieces, defies the copyist and engraver. +The Sibilla Persica of Guercino hangs a little to the left; and with +her contemplative air, and the pen in her hand, she looks as if she +were recording the effusions of her more inspired sister. The former<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span> +is a chaste and beautiful picture, full of feeling and sweetly coloured; +but the vicinity of Domenichino's magnificent creation throws it rather +into shade. Two unfinished pictures upon which Guido was employed +at the time of his death are preserved in the Capitol: one is the Bacchus +and Ariadne, so often engraved and copied; the other, a single +figure, the size of life, represents the Soul of the righteous man ascending +to heaven. Had Guido lived to finish this divine picture, it would have +been one of his most splendid productions; but he was snatched away +to realize, I trust, in his own person, his sublime conception. The +head alone is finished, or nearly so; and has a most extatic expression. +The globe of the earth seems to sink from beneath the floating figure, +which is just sketched upon the canvass, and has a shadowy indistinctness +which to my fancy added to its effect. Guercino's chef-d'œuvre, +the Resurrection of Saint Petronilla, (a saint, I believe, of very hypothetical +fame,) is also here; and has been copied in mosaic for St. +Peters. A magnificent Rubens, the She Wolf nursing Romulus and +Remus; a fine copy of Raffaelle's Triumph of Galatea by Giulo Romano; +Domenichino's Saint Barbara, with the same lovely inspired eyes +he always gives his female saints, and a long et cetera.</p> + +<p>From the Capitol we immediately drove to the Borghese palace, +where I spent half an hour looking at the picture <i>called</i> the Cumean +Sibyl of Domenichino, and am more and more convinced that it is a +Saint Cecilia and not a Sibyl.</p> + +<p>We have now visited the Borghese palace four times; and à-propos +to pictures, I may as well make a few memoranda of its contents. It +is not the most numerous, but it is by far the most valuable and select +private gallery in Rome.</p> + +<p>Domenichino's Chase of Diana, with the two beautiful nymphs in +the foreground, is a splendid picture. Titian's Sacred and Profane +Love puzzles me completely: I neither understand the name nor the +intention of the picture. It is evidently allegorical: but an allegory +very clumsily expressed. The aspect of Sacred Love would answer +just as well for Profane Love. What is that little cupid about, who is +groping in the cistern behind? why does Profane Love wear gloves? +The picture, though so provokingly obscure in its subject, is most divinely +painted. The three Graces by the same master is also here; +two heads by Giorgione, distinguished by all his peculiar depth of character +and sentiment, some exquisite Albanos; one of Raffaelle's finest +portraits—and in short, an endless variety of excellence. I feel my +taste become more and more fastidious every day.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>This morning we heard mass at the Pope's Chapel; the service was +read by Cardinal Fesche, and the venerable old pope himself, robed +and mitred <i>en grand costume</i>, was present. No females are allowed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span> +to enter without veils, and we were very ungallantly shut up behind a +sort of grating, where, though we had a tolerable view of the ceremonial +going forward, it was scarcely possible for us to be seen. +Cardinal Gonsalvi sat so near us, that I had leisure and opportunity to +contemplate the fine intellectual head and acute features of this remarkable +man. I thought his countenance had something of the Wellesley +cast.</p> + +<p>The Pope's Chapel is decorated in the most exquisite taste; splendid +at once and chaste. There are no colours—the whole interior being +white and gold.</p> + +<p>At an unfortunate moment, Lady Morgan's ludicrous description of +the twisting and untwisting of the Cardinal's tails came across me, and +made me smile very <i>mal à-propos</i>: it is certainly from the life. +Whenever this lively and clever woman describes what she has actually +seen with her own eyes, she is as accurately true as she is witty +and entertaining. Her sketches after nature are admirable; but her +observations and inferences are coloured by her peculiar and rather +unfeminine habits of thinking. I never read her "<i>Italy</i>" till the +other day, when L., whose valet had contrived to smuggle it into Rome, +offered to lend it to me. It is one of the books most rigorously proscribed +here; and if the Padre Anfossi or any of his satellites had +discovered it in my hands, I should assuredly have been fined in a sum +beyond what I should have liked to pay.</p> + +<p>We concluded the morning at St. Peter's, where we arrived in time +for the anthem.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>23.</i>—Our visit to the Barberini palace to-day was solely to view the +famous portrait of Beatrice Cenci. Her appalling story is still as fresh +in remembrance here, and her name and fate as familiar in the mouths +of every class, as if instead of two centuries, she had lived two days +ago. In spite of the innumerable copies and prints I have seen, I was +more struck than I can express by the dying beauty of the Cenci. In +the face the expression of heart-sinking anguish and terror is just not +<i>too</i> strong, leaving the loveliness of the countenance unimpaired; and +there is a woe-begone negligence in the streaming hair and loose +drapery which adds to its deep pathos. It is consistent too with the +circumstances under which the picture is traditionally said to have +been painted—that is, in the interval between her torture and her +execution.</p> + +<p>A little daughter of the Princess Barberini was seated in the same +room, knitting. She was a beautiful little creature; and as my eye +glanced from her to the picture and back again, I fancied I could trace +a strong family resemblance; particularly about the eyes, and the very +peculiar mouth. I turned back to ask her whether she had ever been<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span> +told that she was like <i>that</i> picture? pointing to Cenci. She shook back +her long curls, and answered with a blush and a smile, "Yes, often."<a name="FNanchor_H_8" id="FNanchor_H_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_H_8" class="fnanchor">[H]</a></p> + +<p>The Barberini Palace contains other treasures beside the Cenci. +Poussin's celebrated picture of the Death of Germanicus, Raffaelle's +Fornarina, inferior I thought to the one at Florence, and a St. Andrew +by Guido, in his very best style of heads, "mild, pale, and penetrating;" +besides others which I cannot at this moment recall.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>24.</i>—Yesterday, after chapel, I walked through part of the Vatican; +and then, about vesper-time, entered St. Peter's, expecting to hear the +anthem: but I was disappointed. I found the church as usual crowded +with English, who every Sunday convert St. Peter's into a kind of +Hyde Park, where they promenade arm in arm, show off their finery, +laugh, and talk aloud: as if the size and splendour of the edifice detracted +in any degree from its sacred character. I was struck with a +feeling of disgust; and shocked to see this most glorious temple of the +Deity metamorphosed into a mere theatre. Mr. W. told me this morning, +that in consequence of the shameful conduct of the English, in +pressing in and out of the chapel, occupying all the seats, irreverently +interrupting the service, and almost excluding the natives, the anthem +will not be sung in future.</p> + +<p>This is not the first time that the behaviour of the English has +created offence, in spite of the friendly feeling which exists towards +us, and the allowances which are made for our national character. +Last year the pope objected to the indecent custom of making St. +Peter's a place of fashionable rendezvous, and notified to Cardinal +Gonsalvi his desire that English ladies and gentlemen should not be +seen arm in arm walking up and down the aisles, during and after +divine service. The cardinal, as the best means of proceeding, spoke +to the Duchess of Devonshire, who signified the wishes of the Papal +Court to a large party, assembled at her house. The hint so judiciously +and so delicately given, was at the time attended to, and during a short +interval the offence complained of ceased. New comers have since +recommenced the same course of conduct: and in fact, nothing <i>could</i> +be worse than the exhibition of gaiety and frivolity, gallantry and +coquetterie at St. Peter's yesterday. I almost wish the pope may interfere, +and with rigour; though, individually, I should lose a high +gratification, if our visits to St. Peter's were interdicted. It is surely<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span> +most ill-judged and unfeeling (to say nothing of the <i>profanation</i>, for +such it is), to show such open contempt for the Roman Catholic religion +in its holiest, grandest temple, and under the very eyes of the head of +that church. I blushed for my countrywomen.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>On Christmas Eve we went in a large party to visit some of the +principal churches, and witness the celebration of the Nativity; one +of the most splendid ceremonies of the Romish Church. We arrived +at the chapel of Monte Cavallo about half-past nine; but the pope +being ill and absent, nothing particular was going forward; and we +left it to proceed to the San Luigi dei Francesi, where we found the +church hung from the floor to the ceiling with garlands of flowers, +blazing with light, and resounding with heavenly music: but the +crowd was intolerable, the people dirty, and there was such an +effluence of strong perfumes, in which garlic predominated, that our +physical sensations overcame our curiosity: and we were glad to make +our escape. We then proceeded to the church of the Ara Celi, built +on the site of the temple of Jupiter Capitolinus, and partly from its +ruins. The scene here from the gloomy grandeur and situation of the +church, was exceedingly fine: but we did not stay long enough to see +the concluding procession, as we were told it would be much finer at +the Santa Maria Maggiore; for there the <i>real</i> manger which had +received our Saviour at his birth was deposited: and this inestimable +relic was to be displayed to the eyes of the devout; and with a waxen +figure laid within (called here Il Bambino), was to be carried in procession +round the church, "with pomp, with music, and with triumphing."</p> + +<p>The <i>real</i> cradle was a temptation not to be withstood: and to +witness this signal prostration of the human intellect before ignorant +and crafty superstition, we adjourned to the Santa Maria Maggiore. +For processions and shows I care very little, but not for any thing, +not for all I suffered at the moment, would I have missed the scene +which the interior of the church exhibited; for it is impossible that +any description could have given me the faintest idea of it. This most +noble edifice, with its perfect proportions, its elegant Ionic columns, +and its majestic simplicity, appeared transformed, for the time being, +into the temple of some Pagan divinity. Lights and flowers, incense +and music, were all around: and the spacious aisles were crowded +with the lowest classes of the people, the inhabitants of the neighbouring +hills, and the peasantry of the Campagna, who with their wild ruffianlike +figures and picturesque costumes, were lounging about, or seated +at the bases of pillars, or praying before the altars. How I wished to +paint some of the groups I saw! but only Rembrandt could have done +them justice.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span></p> + +<p>We remained at the Santa Maria Maggiore till four o'clock, and no +procession appearing, our patience was exhausted. I nearly fainted +on my chair from excessive fatigue; and some of our party had +absolutely laid themselves down on the steps of an altar, and were fast +asleep; we therefore returned home completely knocked up by the +night's dissipation.</p> + +<p><i>27.</i>—"Come," said L. just now, as he drew his chair to the fire, +and rubbed his hands with great complacency, "I think we've worked +pretty hard to-day; three palaces, four churches—besides odds and +ends of ruins we dispatched in the way: to say nothing of old Nibby's +lectures in the morning about the Volces, the Saturnines, the Albanians, +and the other old Romans—by Jove! I almost fancied myself at school +again——</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'<a name="Armis" id="Armis"></a>Armis vitrumque canter,'<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>as old Virgil or somebody else says. So now let's have a little écarté +to put it all out of our heads:—for my brains have turned round like +a windmill, by Jove! ever since I was on the top of that cursed steeple +on the capitol," etc., etc.</p> + +<p>I make a resolution to myself every morning before breakfast, that +I will be prepared with a decent stock of good-nature and forbearance, +and not laugh at my friend L.'s absurdities; but in vain are my +amiable intentions: his blunders and his follies surpass all anticipation, +as they defy all powers of gravity. I console myself with the conviction +that such is his slowness of perception, he does not see that he is +the <i>butt</i> of every party; and such his obtuseness of feeling, that if he +did see it, he would not mind it; but he is the heir to twenty-five +thousand a year, and therefore, as R. said, he can afford to be +laughed at.</p> + +<p>We "dispatched," as L. says, a good deal to-day, though I did not +"work quite so hard" as the rest of the party: in fact, I was obliged +to return home from fatigue, after having visited the Doria and Sciarra +Palaces (the last for the second time), and the church of San Pietro in +Vincoli.</p> + +<p>The Doria Palace contains the largest collection of pictures in Rome: +but they are in a dirty and neglected condition, and many of the best +are hung in the worst possible light: added to this there is such a +number of bad and indifferent pictures, that one ought to visit the +Doria Gallery half a dozen times merely to select those on which a +cultivated taste would dwell with pleasure. Leonardo da Vinci's +portrait of Joanna of Naples, is considered one of the most valuable +pictures in the collection. It exhibits the same cast of countenance +which prevails through all his female heads, a sort of sentimental +simpering affectation which is very disagreeable, and not at all <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span>consistent +with the character of Joanna. I was much more delighted by +some magnificent portraits by Titian and Rubens; and by a copy of the +famous antique picture, the Nozze Aldobrandini, executed in a kindred +spirit by the classic pencil of Poussin.</p> + +<p>The collection at the Sciarra Palace is small but very select. The +pictures are hung with judgment, and well taken care of. The +Magdalen, which is considered one of Guido's masterpieces, charmed +me most: the countenance is heavenly; though full of ecstatic and devout +contemplation, there is in it a touch of melancholy, "all sorrow's +softness charmed from its despair," which is quite exquisite: and the +attitude, and particularly the turn of the arm, are perfectly graceful: +but why those odious turnips and carrots in the foreground? They +certainly do not add to the sentiment and beauty of the picture.—Leonardo +da Vinci's Vanity and Modesty, and Caravaggio's Gamblers, +both celebrated pictures in very different styles, are in this collection. +I ought not to forget Raffaelle's beautiful portrait of a young musician +who was his intimate friend. The Doria and Sciarra palaces contain +the only Claudes I have seen in Rome. Since the acquisition of the +Altieri Claudes, we may boast of possessing the finest productions of +this master in England. I remember but one solitary Claude in the +Florentine gallery; and I see none here equal to those at Lord Grosvenor's +and Angerstein's. We visited the church of San Pietro in +Viscoli, to see Michel Angelo's famous statue of Moses,—of which, +who has not heard? I must confess I never was so disappointed by +any work of art as I was by this statue, which is easily accounted for. +In the first place, I had not seen any model or copy of the original; +and, secondly, I <i>had</i> read Zappi's sublime sonnet, which I humbly +conceive does rather more than justice to its subject. The fine +opening—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Chi e costui che in dura pietra scolto<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Siede <i>Gigante</i>"—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>gave me the impression of a colossal and elevated figure: my surprise, +therefore, was great to see a sitting statue, not much larger than life, +and placed nearly on the level of the pavement; so that, instead of +looking up at it, I almost looked down upon it. The "Doppio raggio in +fronte," I found in the shape of a pair of horns, which, at the first +glance, gave something quite Satanic to the head, which disgusted me. +When I began to recover from this first disappointment—although my +eyes were opened gradually to the sublimity of the attitude, the grand +forms of the drapery, and the lips, which unclose as if about to speak—I +still think that Zappi's sonnet (his acknowledged <a name="chef66" id="chef66"></a>chef-d'œuvre) +is a more sublime production than the chef-d'œuvre it celebrates.</p> + +<p>The mention of Zappi reminds me of his wife, the daughter of Carlo<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span> +Maratti, the painter. She was so beautiful that she was her father's +favourite model for his Nymphs, Madonnas, and Vestal Virgins; and +to her charms she added virtue, and to her virtue uncommon musical +and literary talents. Among her poems, there is a sonnet addressed +to a lady, once beloved by her husband, beginning</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Donna! che tanto al mio sol piacesti,"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>which is one of the most graceful, most feeling, most delicate compositions +I ever read. Zappi celebrates his beautiful wife under the name +of Clori, and his first mistress under that of Filli: to the latter he has +addressed a sonnet, which turns on the same thought as Cowley's well +known song, "Love in thine eyes." As they both lived about the +same time, it would be difficult to tell which of the two borrowed from +the other; probably they were both borrowers from some elder +poet.</p> + +<p>The characteristics of Zappi's style, are tenderness and elegance; he +occasionally rises to sublimity; as in the sonnet on the Statue of Moses, +and that on Good Friday. He never emulates the flights of Guido or +Filicaja, but he is more uniformly graceful and flowing than either; +his happy thoughts are not spun out too far,—and his <i>points</i> are seldom +mere <i>concetti</i>.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4"><b>SONETTO.</b><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2"><small>DI GIAMBATTISTA ZAPPI.</small><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Amor s'asside alia mia Filli accanto,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Amor la segue ovunque i passi gira:<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In lei parla, in lei tace, in lei sospira,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Anzi in lei vive, ond'ella ed ei può tanto.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Amore i vezzi, amor le insegna il canto;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">E se mai duolsi, o se pur mai s'adira,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Da lei non parte amor, anzi se mira<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Amor ne le belle ire, amor nel pianto.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Se avvien che danzi in regolato errore,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Darle il moto al bel piede, amor riveggio,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Come l'auretto quando muove un fiore.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Le veggio in fronte amor come in suo seggio,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Sul crin, negli occhi, su le labbra amore,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Sol d'intorno al suo cuore, amor non veggio.<a name="FNanchor_I_9" id="FNanchor_I_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_I_9" class="fnanchor">[I]</a><br /></span> +</div></div> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span></p> +<p>After being confined to the house for three days, partly by indisposition, +and partly by a vile sirocco, which brought, as usual, vapours, +clouds, and blue devils in its train—this most lovely day tempted me out; +and I walked with V. over the Monte Cavallo to the Forum of Trajan. +After admiring the view from the summit of the pillar, we went on +towards the Capitol, which presented a singular scene: the square and +street in front, as well as the immense flight of steps, one hundred and +fifty in number, which lead to the church of the Ara Celi, were +crowded with men, women, and children, all in their holiday +dresses. It was with difficulty we made our way through them, though +they very civilly made way for us, and we were nearly a quarter of +an hour mounting the steps, so dense was the multitude ascending and +descending, some on their hands and knees out of extra-devotion. At +last we reached the door of the church, where we understood, from +the exclamations and gesticulations of those of whom we inquired, something +extraordinary was to be seen. On one side of the entrance was +a puppet show, on the other a band of musicians, playing "Di tanti +palpati." The interior of the church was crowded to suffocation; and +all in darkness, except the upper end, where upon a stage brilliantly +and very artificially lighted by unseen lamps, there was an exhibition +in wax-work, as large as life, of the Adoration of the Shepherds. The +Virgin was habited in the court dress of the last century, as rich as +silk and satin, gold lace, and paste diamonds could make it, with a +flaxen wig, and high-heeled shoes. The infant Saviour lay in her lap, +his head encircled with rays of gilt wire, at least two yards long. The +shepherds were very well done, but the sheep and dogs best of all; I +believe they were the real animals stuffed. There was a distant landscape, +seen between the pasteboard trees, which was well painted, and +from the artful disposition of the light and perspective, was almost a +deception—but by a blunder very consistent with the rest of the show, +it represented a part of the Campagna of Rome. Above all was a profane +representation of that Being, whom I dare scarcely allude to, in +conjunction with such preposterous vanities, encircled with saints, +angels, and clouds; the whole got up very like a scene in a pantomime,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span> +and accompanied by music from a concealed orchestra, which was intended, +I believe, to be sacred music, but sounded to me like some +of Rossini's airs. In front of the stage there was a narrow passage +divided off, admitting one person at a time, through which a continued +file of persons moved along, who threw down their contributions as +they passed, bowing and crossing themselves with great devotion. It +would be impossible to describe the ecstasies of the multitude, the lifting +up of hands and eyes, the string of superlatives—the bellissimos, +santissimos, gloriosissimos, and maravigliosissimos, with which they +expressed their applause and delight. I stood in the back-ground of +this strange scene, supported on one of the long-legged chairs which +V—— placed for me against a pillar, at once amazed, diverted, and disgusted +by this display of profaneness and superstition, till the heat and +crowd overcame me, and I was obliged to leave the church. I shall +never certainly forget the "Bambino" of the Ara Celi: for though +the exhibition I saw afterwards at the San Luigi (where I went to look +at Domenichino's fine pictures) surpassed what I have just described, +it did not so much surprise me. Something in the same style is exhibited +in almost every church, between Christmas day and the +Epiphany.</p> + +<p>During our examination of Trajan's Forum to-day, I learnt nothing +new, except that Trajan levelled part of the Quirinal to make room for +it. The ground having lately been cleared to the depth of about +twelve feet, part of the ancient pavement has been discovered, and +many fragments of columns set upright: pieces of frieze and broken +capitals are scattered about. The pillar, which is now cleared to the +base, stands in its original place, but not, as it is supposed, at its original +level, for the Romans generally raised the substructure of their +buildings, in order to give them a more commanding appearance. The +antiquarians here are of opinion that both the pavement of the Basilica +and the base of the pillar were raised above the level of the ancient +street, and that there is a flight of steps, still concealed, between +the pillar and the pavement in front. The famous Ulpian Library was +on each side of the Basilica, and the Forum differed from other Forums +in not being an open space surrounded by buildings, but a building +surrounded by an open space.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>Dec 31.-Jan. 1.</i>—That hour in which we pass from one year to +another, and begin a new account with ourselves, with our fellow creatures, +and with God, must surely bring some solemn and serious +thoughts to the bosoms of the most happy and most unreflecting among +the triflers on this earth. What then must it be to me? The first +hour, the first moment of the expiring year was spent in tears, in distress, +in bitterness of heart—as it began so it ends. Days, and weeks,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span> +and months, and seasons, came and "passed like visions to their +viewless home," and brought no change. Through the compass of the +whole year I have not enjoyed one single day—I will not say of happiness—but +of health and peace; and what I have endured has left me +little to learn in the way of suffering. Would to heaven that as the +latest minutes now ebb away while I write, memory might also pass +away! Would to heaven that I could efface the last year from the +series of time, hide it from myself, bury it in oblivion, stamp it into +annihilation, that none of its dreary moments might ever rise up again +to haunt me, like spectres of pain and dismay! But this is wrong—I +feel it is—and I repent, I recall my wish. That great Being, to +whom the life of a human creature is a mere point, but who has bestowed +on his creatures such capacities of feeling and suffering, as extend +moments to hours and days to years, inflicts nothing in vain, and +if I have suffered much, I have also learned much. Now the last hour +is past—another year opens; may it bring to those I love all I wish +them in my heart! to me it can bring nothing. The only blessing I +hope from time is <i>forgetfulness</i>—my only prayer to heaven is—<i>rest, +rest, rest</i>.</p> + +<p><i>Jan. 4.</i>—We <i>dispatched</i>, as L** would say, a good deal to-day: +we visited the Temple of Vesta, the Church of Santa Maria in Cosmadino, +the Temple of Fortune, the Ponte Rotto, and the house of +Nicolo Rienzi: all these lie together in a dirty, low, and disagreeable +part of Rome. Thence we drove to the Pyramid of Caius Cestus.—As +we know nothing of this Caius Cestus, but that he lived, died, and was +buried, it is not possible to attach any fanciful or classical interest to +his tomb, but it is an object of so much beauty in itself, and from its +situation so striking and picturesque, that it needs no additional interest. +It is close to the ancient walls of Rome, which stretch on either side as +far as the eye can reach in huge and broken masses of brickwork, +fragments of battlements and buttresses, overgrown in many parts with +shrubs and even trees. Around the base of the Pyramid lies the +burying-ground of strangers and heretics. Many of the monuments +are elegant, and their frail materials and diminutive forms are in affecting +contrast with the lofty and solid pile which towers above them. +The tombs lie around in a small space "amicably close," like brothers +in exile, and as I gazed I felt a kindred feeling with all; for I, too, am +a wanderer, a stranger and a heretic; and it is probable that my place +of rest may be among them. Be it so! for methinks this earth could +not afford a more lovely, a more tranquil, or more sacred spot. I remarked +one tomb, which is an exact model, and in the same material +with the sarcophagus of Cornelius Scipio, in the Vatican. One small +slab of white marble bore the name of a young girl, an only child, who +died at sixteen, and "left her parents disconsolate:" another elegant<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span> +and simple monument bore the name of a young painter of genius and +promise, and was erected "by his companions and fellow students as +a testimony of their affectionate admiration and regret." This part of +old Rome is beautiful beyond description, and has a wild, desolate, +and poetical grandeur, which affects the imagination like a dream.—The +very air disposes one to reverie. I am not surprised that Poussin, +Claude, and Salvator Rosa made this part of Rome a favourite +haunt, and studied here their finest effects of colour, and their grandest +combinations of landscape. I saw a young artist seated on a pile of +ruins with his sketch book open on his knee, and his pencil in his +hand—during the whole time we were there he never changed his attitude, +nor put his pencil to the paper, but remained leaning on his elbow, +like one lost in ecstasy.</p> + +<p><i>Jan 5.</i>—To-day we drove through the quarter of the Jews, called +the Ghetta degli Ebrei. It is a long street enclosed at each end with +a strong iron gate, which is locked by the police at a certain hour every +evening (I believe at ten o'clock); and any Jew found without its +precincts after that time, is liable to punishment and a heavy fine. The +street is narrow and dirty, the houses wretched and ruinous, and the +appearance of the inhabitants squalid, filthy, and miserable—on the +whole, it was a painful scene, and one I should have avoided, had I +followed my own inclinations. If this specimen of the effects of superstition +and ignorance was depressing, the next was not less ridiculous. +We drove to the Lateran: I had frequently visited this noble +Basilica before, but on the present occasion we were to go over it <i>in +form</i>, with the usual torments of laquais and ciceroni. I saw nothing +new but the cloisters, which remain exactly as in the time of Constantine. +They are in the very vilest style of architecture, and decorated +with Mosaic in a very elaborate manner: but what most amused us +was the collection of relics, said to have been brought by Constantine +from the Holy Land, and which our cicerone exhibited with a sneering +solemnity which made it very doubtful whether he believed himself +in their miraculous sanctity. Here is the stone on which the cock +was perched when it crowed to St. Peter, and a pillar from the Temple +of Jerusalem, split asunder at the time of the crucifixion; it looks as +if it had been <i>sawed</i> very accurately in half from top to bottom; but +this of course only renders it more miraculous. Here is also the +column in front of Pilate's house, to which our Saviour was bound, +and the very well where he met the woman of Samaria. All these, +and various other relics, supposed to be consecrated by our Saviour's +Passion, are carelessly thrown into the cloisters—not so the heads of +St. Peter and St. Paul, which are considered as the chief treasures in +the Lateran, and are deposited in the body of the church in a rich +shrine. The beautiful sarcophagus of red porphyry, which once stood in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span> +the Portico of the Pantheon, and contained the ashes of Agrippa, is now +in the Corsini chapel here, and encloses the remains of some Pope Clement. +The bronze equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius, which stands +on the Capitol, was dug from the cloisters of the Lateran. The statue +of Constantine in the portico was found in the baths of Constantine: +it is in a style of sculpture worthy the architecture of the cloisters.—Constantine +was the first Christian emperor, a glory which has served +to cover a multitude of sins; it is indeed impossible to forget that he +was the chosen instrument of a great and blessed revolution; but in +other respects it is as impossible to look back to the period of Constantine +without horror—an era when bloodshed and barbarism, and the +general depravity of morals and taste seemed to have reached their +climax.</p> + +<p>On leaving the Lateran, we walked to the Scala Santa, said to be +the very flights of steps which led to the judgment hall at Jerusalem, +and transported hither by the Emperor Constantine; but while the +other relics which his pious benevolence bestowed on the city of Rome +have apparently lost some of their efficacy, the Scala Santa is still regarded +with the most devout veneration. At the moment of our approach, +an elegant barouche drove up to the portico, from which two +well-dressed women alighted, and pulling out their rosaries, began to +crawl up the steps on their hands and knees, repeating a Paternoster +and an Ave Maria on every step. A poor diseased beggar had just +gone up before them, and was a few steps in advance. This exercise, +as we are assured, purchases a thousand years of indulgence. The +morning was concluded by a walk on the Mont Pincio.</p> + +<p>I did not know on that first morning after our arrival, when I ran +up the Scalla della Trinità to the top of the Pincian hill, and looked +around me with such transport, that I stood by mere chance on that +very spot from which Claude used to study his sun sets, and his beautiful +effects of evening. His house was close to me on the left, and +those of Nicolo Poussin and Salvator Rosa a little beyond. Since they +have been pointed out to me, I never pass from the Monte Pincio along +the Via Felice without looking up at them with interest: such power +has genius, "to hallow in the core of human hearts even the ruin of a +wall."</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>Jan. 6.</i>—Sunday, at the English chapel, which was crowded to excess, +and where it was at once cold and suffocating. We had a plain +but excellent sermon, and the officiating clergyman, Mr. W., exhorted +the congregation to conduct themselves with more decorum at St. +Peter's, and to remember what was due to the temple of that God +who was equally the God of all Christians. We afterwards went to +St. Peter's; where the anthem was performed at vespers as usual, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span> +the tenor of the Argentino sung. The music was indeed heavenly—but +I did not enjoy it: for though the behaviour of the English was +much more decent than I have yet seen it, the crowd round the chapel, +the talking, pushing, whispering, and movement, were enough to +disquiet and discomfort me; I withdrew, therefore, and walked about +at a little distance, where I could just hear the swell of the organ. +Such is the immensity of the building, that at the other side of the +aisle the music is perfectly inaudible.</p> + +<p><i>7.</i>—Visited the Falconieri Palace to see Cardinal Fesche's gallery. +The collection is large and contains many fine pictures, but there is +such a <i>mélange</i> of good, bad, and indifferent, that on the whole I was +disappointed. L** attached himself to my side the whole morning—to +benefit, as he said, by my "tasty remarks;" he hung so dreadfully +heavy on my hands, and I was so confounded by the interpretations and +explanations his ignorance required, that I at last found my patience +nearly at an end. Pity he is so good-natured and so good-tempered, +that one can neither have the comfort of heartily disliking him, nor +find nor make the shadow of an excuse to shake him off!</p> + +<p>In the evening we had a gay party of English and foreigners: among +them——</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><b>A REPLY TO A COMPLAINT</b><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">Trust not the ready smile!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">'Tis a delusive glow—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For cold and dark the while<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The spirits flag below.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With a beam of departed joy,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The eye may kindle yet:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As the cloud in yon wintry sky,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Still glows with the sun that is set,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The cloud will vanish away—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The sun while shine to morrow—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To me shall break no day<br /></span> +<span class="i1">On this dull night of sorrow!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><b>A REPLY TO A REPROACH.</b><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i0">I would not that the world should know,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">How deep within my panting heart<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A thousand warmer feelings glow,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Than word or look could e'er impart.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I would not that the world should guess<br /></span> +<span class="i1">At aught beyond this outward show;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What happy dreams in secret bless—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">What burning tears in secret flow.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And let them deem me cold or vain;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">—O there is one who thinks not so!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In one devoted heart I reign,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And what is all the rest below?<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><i>9.</i>—We have had two days of truly English weather; cold, damp, +and gloomy, with storms of wind and rain. I know not why, but +there is something peculiarly deforming and discordant in bad weather +here; and we are all rather stupid and depressed. To me, sunshine +and warmth are substitutes for health and spirits; and their absence +inflicts positive suffering. There is not a single room in our palazzetto +which is weather-proof; and as to a good fire, it is a luxury unknown, +but not unnecessary, in these regions. In such apartments as +contain no fire-place, a stufa, or portable stove, is set, which diffuses +little warmth, and renders the air insupportably close and suffocating.</p> + +<p>I witnessed a scene last night, which was a good illustration of that +extraordinary indolence for which the Romans are remarkable. Our +laquais Camillo suffered himself to be turned off, rather than put wood +on the fire three times a-day; he would rather, he said, "starve in +the streets than break his back by carrying burdens like an ass; and +though he was miserable to displease the Onoratissimo Padrone, his +first <i>duty</i> was to take care of his own health, which, with the blessing +of the saints, he was determined to do." R—— threw him his wages, +repeating with great contempt the only word of his long speech he understood, +"<i>Asino!</i>" "Sono Romano, io," replied the fellow, drawing +himself up with dignity. He look his wages, however, and +marched out of the house.</p> + +<p>The impertinence of this Camillo was sometimes amusing, but oftener +provoking. He piqued himself on being a profound antiquarian, +would confute Nibby, and carried Nardini in his pocket, to whom he +referred on all occasions: yet the other day he had the impudence to +assure us that Caius Cestus was an English Protestant, who was excommunicated +by Pope Julius Cæsar; and took his Nardini out of his +pocket to prove his assertion.</p> + +<p>V—— brought me to-day the "Souvenirs de Félicie," of Madame de +Genlis, which amused me delightfully for a few hours. They contain +many truths, many half or whole falsehoods, many impertinent things, +and several very interesting anecdotes. They are written with all the +graceful simplicity of style, and in that tone of lady-like feeling which +distinguishes whatever she writes: but it is clear that though she represents +these "Souvenirs" as mere extracts from her journal, they have +been carefully composed or re-composed for publication, and were always +intended to be seen. Now if my poor little Diary should ever be +seen! I tremble but to think of it!—what egotism and vanity, what +discontent—repining—caprice—should I be accused of?—neither<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span> +perhaps have I always been just to others; <i>quand on sent, on réfléchit +rarement</i>. Such strange vicissitudes of temper—such opposite extremes +of thinking and feeling, written down at the moment, without +noticing the intervening links of circumstances and impressions which +led to them, would appear like detraction, if they should meet the eye +of any indifferent person—but I think I have taken sufficient precautions +against the possibility of such an exposure, and the only eyes +which will ever glance over this blotted page, when the hand that +writes it is cold, will read, not to <i>criticise</i>, but to <i>sympathise</i>.</p> + +<p><i>10.</i>—A lovely brilliant day, the sky without a cloud and the air as +soft as summer. The carriages were ordered immediately after breakfast, +and we sallied forth in high spirits—resolved as L** said, with his +usual felicitous application of Shakspeare,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"To take the tide in the affairs of men."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The baths of Titus are on the Æsquiline; and nothing remains of them +but piles of brickwork, and a few subterranean chambers almost choked +with rubbish. Some fragments of exquisite arabesque painting are +visible on the ceilings and walls; and the gilding and colours are still +fresh and bright. The brickwork is perfectly solid and firm, and appeared +as if finished yesterday. On the whole the impression on my +mind was, that not the slow and gentle hand of time, but sudden rapine +and violence had caused the devastation around us; and looking +into Nardini on my return, I found that the baths of Titus were nearly +entire in the thirteenth century, but were demolished with great labour +and difficulty by the ferocious Senator Brancaleone, who, about the +year 1257, destroyed an infinite number of ancient edifices, "per +togliere ai Nobili il modo di fortificarsi." The ruins were excavated +during the pontificate of Julius the Second, and under the direction of +Raffaelle, who is supposed to have taken the idea of the arabesques in +the Loggie of the Vatican, from the paintings here. We were shown +the niche in which the Laocoon stood, when it was discovered in 1502. +After leaving the baths, we entered the neighbouring church of San +Pietro in Vincoli, to look again at the beautiful fluted Doric columns +which once adorned the splendid edifice of Titus: and on this occasion +we were shown the chest in which the fetters of St. Peter are +preserved in a triple enclosure of iron, wood, and silver. My unreasonable +curiosity not being satisfied by looking at the mere outside +of this sacred coffer, I turned to the monk who exhibited it, +and civilly requested that he would open it, and show us the miraculous +treasure it contained. The poor man looked absolutely astounded +and aghast at the audacity of my request, and stammered +out, that the coffer was never opened, without a written order from his +holiness the pope, and in the presence of a cardinal, and, that this<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span> +favour was never granted to a heretic (con rispetto parlando); and +with this excuse we were obliged to be satisfied.</p> + +<p>The church of San Martino del Monte is built on part of the substructure +of the baths of Titus; and there is a door opening from the +church, by which you descend into the ancient subterranean vaults. +The small, but exquisite pillars, and the pavement, which is of the +richest marbles, were brought from the Villa of Adrian at Tivoli. +The walls were painted in fresco by Nicolo and Gaspar Poussin, and +were once a celebrated study for young landscape painters; almost +every vestige of colouring is now obliterated by the damp which streams +down the walls. There are some excellent modern pictures in good +preservation, I think by Carluccio. This church, though not large, is +one of the most magnificent we have yet seen, and the most precious +materials are lavished in profusion on every part. The body of Cardinal +Tomasi is preserved here, embalmed in a glass case. It is exhibited +conspicuously, and in my life I never saw (or smelt) anything +so abominable and disgusting.</p> + +<p>The rest of the morning was spent in the Vatican.</p> + +<p>I stood to-day for some time between those two great masterpieces, +the Transfiguration of Raffaelle, and Domenichino's Communion of St. +Jerome. I studied them, I examined them figure by figure, and then +in the ensemble, and mused upon the different effects they produce, and +were designed to produce, until I thought I could decide to my own +satisfaction on their respective merits. I am not ignorant that the +Transfiguration is pronounced the "grandest picture in the world," +nor so insensible to excellence as to regard this glorious composition +without all the admiration due to it. I am dazzled by the flood of light +which bursts from the opening heavens above, and affected by the dramatic +interest of the group below. What splendour of colour! What +variety of expression! What masterly grouping of the heads! I see +all this—but to me Raffaelle's picture wants unity of interest: it is two +pictures in one: the demoniac boy in the foreground always shocks +me; and thus from my peculiarity of taste the pleasure it gives me is +not so perfect as it ought to be.</p> + +<p>On the other hand, I never can turn to the Domenichino without +being thrilled with emotion, and touched with awe. The story is told +with the most admirable skill, and with the most exquisite truth and +simplicity: the interest is one and the same; it all centres in the person +of the expiring saint; and the calm benignity of the officiating priest is +finely contrasted with the countenances of the group who support the +dying form of St. Jerome: anxious tenderness, grief, hope, and fear, +are expressed with such deep pathos and reality, that the spectator +forgets admiration in sympathy; and I have gazed, till I could almost<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span> +have fancied myself one of the assistants. The colouring is as admirable +as the composition—gorgeously rich in effect, but subdued to a +tone which harmonizes with the solemnity of the subject.</p> + +<p>There is a curious anecdote connected with this picture, which I wish +I had noted down at length as it was related to me, and at the time I +heard it: it is briefly this. The picture was painted by Domenichino +for the church of San <a name="Girolamo" id="Girolamo"></a>Girolamo della Carità. At that time the factions +between the different schools of painting ran so high at Rome, that the +followers of Domenichino and Guido absolutely stabbed and poisoned +each other; and the popular prejudice being in favour of the latter, the +Communion of St. Jerome was torn down from its place, and flung into +a lumber garret. Some time afterwards, the superiors of the convent +wishing to substitute a new altar-piece, commissioned Nicolo Poussin +to execute it; and sent him Domenichino's rejected picture as old canvas +to paint upon. No sooner had the generous Poussin cast his eyes on it, +than he was struck, as well he might be, with astonishment and admiration. +He immediately carried it into the church, and there lectured +in public on its beauties, until he made the stupid monks ashamed of +their blind rejection of such a masterpiece, and boldly gave it that character +it has ever since retained, of being the second best picture in the +world.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>11.</i>—A party of four, including L** and myself, ascended the dome +of St. Peter's; and even mounted into the gilt ball. It was a most fatiguing +expedition, and one I have since repented. I gained, however, a +more perfect, and a more sublime idea of the architectural wonders +of St. Peter's, than I had before; and I was equally pleased and surprised +by the exquisite neatness and cleanliness of every part of the +building. We drove from St. Peter's to the church of St. Onofrio, to +visit the tomb of Tasso. A plain slab marks the spot, which requires +nothing but his name to distinguish it. "After life's fitful fever he +sleeps well." The poet Guidi lies in a little chapel close by; and his +effigy is so placed that the eyes appear fixed upon the tomb of Tasso.</p> + +<p>In the church of Santa Maria Trastevere (which is held in peculiar +reverence by the Tresteverini), there is nothing remarkable, except that +like many others in Rome, it is rich in the spoils of antique splendour: +afterwards to the palazzo Farneze and the Farnesina, to see the frescos +of Raffaelle, Giulio Romano, and the Caraccis, which have long been +rendered familiar to me in copies and engravings.</p> + +<p><i>12.</i>—I did penance at home for the fatigue of the day before, and to-day +(the 13th) I took a delightful drive of several hours attended only +by Saccia. Having examined at different times, and in detail, most +of the interesting objects within the compass of the ancient city, I wished +to generalize what I had seen, by a kind of <i>survey</i> of the whole. For<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span> +this purpose, making the Capitol a central point, I drove first slowly +through the Forum, and made the circuit of the Palatine Hill, then by +the arch of Janus (which by a late decision of the antiquarians, has no +more to do with Janus than with Jupiter), and the temple of Vesta, +back again over the site of the Circus Maximus, between the Palatine +and the Aventine (the scene of the Rape of the Sabines), to the baths of +Caracalla, where I spent an hour, musing, sketching, and poetizing; +thence to the church of San Stefano Rotundo, once a temple dedicated +to Claudius by Agrippina; over the Celian Hill, covered with masses +of ruins, to the church of St. John and St. Paul, a small but beautiful +edifice; then to the neighbouring church of San Gregorio, from the +steps of which there is such a noble view. Thence I returned by the +arch of Constantine, and the Coliseum, which frowned on me in black +masses through the soft but deepening twilight, through the street now +called the Suburra, but formerly the Via Scelerata, where Tullia +trampled over the dead body of her father, and so over the Quirinal +home.</p> + +<p>My excursion was altogether delightful, and gave me the most magnificent, +and I had almost said, the most <i>bewildering</i> ideas of the grandeur +and extent of ancient Rome. Every step was classic ground: illustrious +names, and splendid recollections crowded upon the fancy—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"And trailing clouds of glory did they come."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>On the Palatine Hill were the houses of Cicero and the Gracchi; +Horace, Virgil, and Ovid resided on the Aventine; and Mecænas and +Pliny on the Æsquiline. If one little fragment of a wall remained, +which could with any shadow of probability be pointed out as belonging +to the residence of Cicero, Horace, or Virgil, how much dearer, +how much more sanctified to memory would it be than all the magnificent +ruins of the fabrics of the Cæsars! But no—all has passed away. +I have heard the remains of Rome coarsely ridiculed, because, after +the researches of centuries, so little is comparatively known—because +of the endless disputes of antiquarians, and the night and ignorance in +which all is involved; but to the imagination there is something singularly +striking in this mysterious veil which hangs like a cloud upon the +objects around us. I trod to-day over the shapeless masses of building, +extending in every direction as far as the eye could reach. Who had +inhabited the edifices I trampled under my feet? What hearts had +burned—what heads had thought—what spirits had kindled <i>there</i>, +where nothing was seen but a wilderness and waste, and heaps of ruins, +to which antiquaries—even Nibby himself—dare not give a name? All +swept away—buried beneath an ocean of oblivion, above which rise a +few great and glorious names, like rocks, over which the billows of +time break in vain.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Indi esclamo, qual' notte atra, importuua<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tutte l'ampie tue glorie a un tratto amorza?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Glorie di senno, di valor, di forza<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gia mille avesti, or non hai pur una!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>One of the most striking scenes I saw to-day was the Roman forum, +crowded with the common people gaily dressed (it is a festa or saint's +day); the women sitting in groups upon the fallen columns, nursing or +amusing their children. The men were playing at mora, or at a game +like quoits. Under the vast side of the Palatine Hill, on the side of +the Circus Maximus, I met a woman mounted on an ass, habited in a +most beautiful and singular holiday costume, a man walked by her side, +leading the animal she rode, with lover-like watchfulness. He was +<i>en veste</i>, and I observed that his cloak was thrown over the back of +the ass as a substitute for a saddle. Two men followed behind with +their long capotes hanging from their shoulders, and carrying guitars, +which they struck from time to time, singing as they walked along. +A little in advance there is a small chapel, and Madona. A young girl +approached, and laying a bouquet of flowers before the image, she +knelt down, hid her face in her apron, and wrung her hands from time +to time as if she was praying with fervor. When the group I have +just mentioned came up, they left the pathway, and made a circuit of +many yards to avoid disturbing her, the men taking off their hats, and +the woman inclining her head, in sign of respect, as they passed.</p> + +<p>All this sounds, while I soberly write it down, very sentimental, and +picturesque, and poetical. It was exactly what I saw—what I often +see: such is the place, the scenery, the people. Every group is a +picture, the commonest object has some interest attached to it, the +commonest action is dignified by sentiment, the language around us is +music, and the air we breathe is poetry.</p> + +<p>Just as I was writing the word <i>music</i>, the sounds of a guitar attracted +me to the window, which looks into a narrow back street, and +is exactly opposite a small white house belonging to a vetturino, who +has a very pretty daughter. For her this <a name="serenade" id="serenade"></a>serenade was evidently intended; +for the moment the music began, she placed a light in the +window as a signal that she listened propitiously, and then retired. The +group below consisted of two men, the lover and a musician he had +brought with him: the former stood looking up at the window with +his hat off, and the musician, after singing two very beautiful airs, +concluded with the delicious and popular Arietta "Buona notte, amato +bene!" to which the lover <i>whistled</i> a second, in such perfect tune, and +with such exquisite taste, that I was enchanted. Rome is famous for +serenades and serenaders; but at this season they are seldom heard. +I remember at Venice being wakened in the dead of the night by such<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span> +delicious music, that (to use a hyperbole common in the mouths of +this poetical people) I was "transported to the seventh heaven:" before +I could perfectly recollect myself, the music ceased, the inhabitants +of the neighbouring houses threw open their casements, and +vehemently and enthusiastically applauded, clapping their hands, and +shouting bravos: but neither at Venice, at Padua, nor at Florence did +I hear any thing that pleased and touched me so much as the serenade +to which I have just been listening.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>14.</i>—To-day was quite heavenly—like a lovely May-day in England: +the air so pure, so soft, and the sun so warm, that I would +gladly have dispensed with my shawl and pelisse. We went in carriages +to the other side of the Palatine, and then dispersing in small +parties, as will or fancy led, we lounged and wandered about in the +Coliseum, and among the neighbouring ruins till dinner time. I +climbed up the western side of the Coliseum, at the imminent hazard +of my neck; and looking down through a gaping aperture, on the +brink of which I had accidentally seated myself, I saw in the colossal +corridor far below me, a young artist, who, as if transported out of +his senses by delight and admiration, was making the most extraordinary +antics and gestures: sometimes he clasped his hands, then extended +his arms, then stood with them folded as in deep thought; now +he snatched up his portfolio as if to draw what so much enchanted him, +then threw it down and kicked it from him as if in despair. I never +saw such admirable dumb show: it was better than any pantomime. +At length, however, he happened to cast up his eyes, as if appealing to +heaven, and they encountered mine peeping down upon him from +above. He stood fixed and motionless for two seconds, staring at me, +and then snatching up his portfolio and his hat, ran off and disappeared. +I met the same man afterwards walking along the Via Felice, and +could not help smiling as he passed: he smiled too, but pulled his hat +over his face and turned away.</p> + +<p>I discovered to-day (and it is no slight pleasure to make a discovery +for one's self), the passage which formed the communication between +the Coliseum and the Palace of the Cæsars, and in which the Emperor +Commodus was assassinated. I recognized it by its situation, and the +mosaic pavement described by Nibby. If I had time I might moralize +here, and make an eloquent tirade <i>à la Eustace</i> about imperial +monsters and so forth,—but in fact I <i>did</i> think while I stood in the +damp and gloomy corridor, that it was a fitting death for Commodus to +die by the giddy playfulness of a child, and the machinations of an +abandoned woman. It was not a favourable time or hour to <a name="contemplate" id="contemplate"></a>contemplate +the Coliseum—the sunshine was too resplendent<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span>—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It was a garish, broad, and peering day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Loud, light, suspicious, full of eyes and ears;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And every little corner, nook, and hole,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was penetrated by the insolent light.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>We are told that five thousand animals were slain in the amphitheatre +on its dedication—how dreadful! The mutual massacres of +the gladiators inspire less horror than this disgusting butchery! To +what a pitch must the depraved appetite for blood and death have risen +among the corrupted and ferocious populace, before such a sight could +be endured!</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>15.</i>—We drove to-day to the tomb of Cecilia Metella, on the Appian +Way, to the Fountain of Egeria, and the tomb of the Scipios near +the Porta Cappena.</p> + +<p>I wish the tomb of Cecilia Metella had been that of Cornelia or +Valeria. There may be little in a name, but how much there is in +association! What this massy fabric wanted in classical fame Lord +Byron has lately supplied in poetical interest. The same may be said +of the Fountain of Egeria, to which he has devoted some of the most +exquisite stanzas in his poem, and has certainly invested it with a +charm it could not have possessed before. The woods and groves +which once surrounded it, have been all cut down, and the scenery +round it is waste and bleak; but the fountain itself is pretty, overgrown +with ivy, moss, and the graceful capillaire plant (capello di +venere) drooping from the <a name="walls" id="walls"></a>walls, and the stream is as pure as crystal. +L**, who was with us, took up a stone to break off a piece of the statue, +and maimed, defaced, and wretched as it is, I could not help thinking +it a profanation to the place, and stopped his hand, calling him a +<i>barbarous Vandyke</i>: he looked so awkwardly alarmed and puzzled +by the epithet I had given him! The identity of this spot (like all +other places here) has been vehemently disputed. At every step to-day +we encountered doubt, and contradiction, and cavilling: authorities +are marshalled against each other in puzzling array, and the modern +unwillingness to be cheated by fine sounds and great names has become +a general scepticism. I have no objection to the "shadows, +doubts, and darkness" which rest upon all around us; it rather pleases +my fancy thus to "dream over the map of things," abandoned to my +own cogitations and my own conclusions; but then there are certain +points upon which it is very disagreeable to have one's faith disturbed; +and the Fountain of Egeria is one of these. So leaving the more +learned antiquarians to fight it out, <i>secundum artem</i>, and fire each +other's wigs if they will, I am determined, and do steadfastly believe, +that the Fountain of Egeria I saw to-day is the very identical and +original Fountain of Egeria—of Numa's Egeria—and therefore it <i>is</i> so.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span></p> + +<p>The tomb of the Scipios is a dirty dark wine cellar: all the urns, +the fine sarcophagus, and the original tablets and inscriptions have been +removed to the Vatican. I thought to-day while I stood in the sepulchre, +and on the very spot whence the sarcophagus of Publius was removed, +if Scipio, or Augustus, or Adrian, could return to this world, +how would their Roman pride endure to see their last resting-places, +the towers and the pyramids in which they fortified themselves, thus +violated and put to ignoble uses, and the urns which contained their +ashes stuck up as ornaments in a painted room, where barbarian visitors +lounge away their hours, and stare upon their relics with +scornful indifference or idle curiosity!</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>The people here, even the lowest and meanest among them seem to +have imbibed a profound respect for antiquity and antiquities, which +sometimes produces a comic effect. I am often amused by the exultation +with which they point out a bit of old stone, or piece of brick +wall, or shapeless fragment of some nameless statue, and tell you it is +<i>antico, molto, antico</i>, and the half contemptuous tone in which they +praise the most beautiful modern production, <i>é moderna—ma pure +non é cativà!</i></p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>18.</i>—We had an opportunity of witnessing to-day one of the most +splendid ceremonies of the Catholic church. It is one of the four festivals +at which the Pope performs mass in state at the Vatican, the anniversary +of St. Peter's entrance into Rome, and of his taking possession +of the Papal chair; for here St. Peter is reckoned the first Pope. +To see the high priest of an ancient and wide-spread superstition publicly +officiate in his sacred character, in the grandest temple in the +universe, and surrounded by all the trappings of his spiritual and temporal +authority, was an exhibition to make sad a reflecting mind, but to +please and exalt a lively imagination: I wished myself a Roman Catholic +for one half hour only. The procession, which was so arranged +as to produce the most striking theatrical effect, moved up the central +aisle, to strains of solemn and beautiful music from an orchestra of +wind instruments. The musicians were placed out of sight, nor could +I guess from what part of the buildings the sounds proceeded; but the +blended harmony, so soft, yet so powerful and so equally diffused, as +it floated through the long aisles and lofty domes, had a most heavenly +effect. At length appeared the Pope, borne on the shoulders of his +attendants, and habited in his full Pontifical robes of white and gold; +fans of peacocks' feathers were waved on each side of his throne, and +boys flung clouds of incense from their censers. As the procession +advanced at the slowest possible foot-pace, the Pope from time to time +stretched forth his arms which were crossed upon his bosom, and solemnly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span> +blessed the people as they prostrated themselves on each side. I +could have fancied it the triumphant approach of an Eastern despot, +but for the mild and venerable air of the amiable old Pope, who looked +as if more humbled than exalted by the pageantry around him. It +might be <i>acting</i>, but if so, it was the most admirable acting I ever +saw: I wish all his attendants had performed their parts as well. +While the Pope assists at mass, it is not etiquette for him to do anything +for himself: one Cardinal kneeling, holds the book open before +him, another carries his handkerchief, a third folds and unfolds his +robe, a priest on each side supports him whenever he rises or moves, +so that he appears among them like a mere helpless automaton going +through a certain set of mechanical motions, with which his will has +nothing to do. All who approach or address him prostrate themselves +and kiss his embroidered slipper before they rise.</p> + +<p>When the whole ceremony was over, and most of the crowd dispersed, +the Pope, after disrobing, was passing through a private part +of the church where we were standing accidentally, looking at one of +the monuments. We made the usual obeisance, which he returned +by inclining his head. He walked without support, but with great difficulty, +and appeared bent by infirmity and age: his countenance has a +melancholy but most benevolent expression, and his dark eyes retain +uncommon lustre and penetration. During the twenty-one years he +has worn the tiara, he has suffered many vicissitudes and humiliations +with dignity and fortitude. He is not considered a man of very powerful +intellect or very shining talents: he is not a Ganganelli or a +Lambertini; but he has been happy in his choice of ministers, and his +government has been distinguished by a spirit of liberality, and above +all by a partiality to the English, which calls for our respect and gratitude. +There were present to-day in St. Peter's about five thousand +people, and the church would certainly have contained ten times the +number.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>19.</i>—We went to-day to view the restored model of the Coliseum +exhibited in the Piazza di Spagna; and afterwards drove to the manufactory +of the beads called <i>Roman Pearl</i>, which is well worth seeing +<i>once</i>. The beads are cut from thin laminæ of alabaster, and then +dipped into a composition made of the scales of a fish (the Argentina). +When a perfect imitation of pearl is intended, they can copy the accidental +defects of colour and form which occur in the real gem, as +well as its brilliance, so exquisitely, as to deceive the most practised +eye.</p> + +<p><i>20.</i>—I ordered the open carriage early this morning, and, attended +only by Scaccia, partly drove and partly walked through some of the +finest parts of ancient Rome. The day has been perfectly lovely; the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span> +sky intensely blue without a single cloud; and though I was weak and +far from well, I felt the influence of the soft sunshine in every nerve: +the pure elastic air seemed to penetrate my whole frame, and made +my spirits bound and my heart beat quicker. It is true, I had to regret +at every step the want of a more cultivated companion, and that I +felt myself shamefully—no—not <i>shamefully</i>, but <i>lamentably</i> ignorant +of many things. There is so much of which I wish to know and learn +more: so much of my time is spent in hunting books, and acquiring by +various means the information with which I ought already to be prepared; +so many days are lost by frequent indisposition, that though I +enjoy, and feel the value of all I <i>do</i> know and observe, I am tantalized by +the thoughts of all I must leave behind me unseen—there must necessarily +be so much of what I do not even <i>hear</i>! Yet, in spite of these +drawbacks, my little excursion to-day was delightful. I took a direction +just contrary to my last expedition, first by the Quattro Fontane +to the Santa Maria Maggiore, which I always see with new delight; +then to the ruins called the temple of Minerva Medici, which stand in +a cabbage garden near another fine ruin, once called the Trofei di +Mario, and now the Acqua Giulia: thence to the Porta Maggiore, +built by Claudius; and round by the Santa Croce di Gerusalemme. +This church was built by Helena, the mother of Constantine, and contains +her tomb, besides a portion of the <i>True Cross</i> from which it derives +its name. The interior of this Basilica struck me as mean and +cold. In the fine avenue in front of the Santa Croce, I paused a few +minutes to look round me. To the right were the ruins of the stupendous +Claudian Aqueduct with its gigantic arches, stretching away +in one unbroken series far into the Campagna: behind me the amphitheatre +of Castrense: to the left, other ruins, once called the Temple +of Venus and Cupid, and now the Sessorium: in front, the Lateran, +the obelisk of Sesostris, the Porta San Giovanni, and great part of +the ancient walls; and thence the view extended to the foot of the +Apennines. All this part of Rome is a scene of magnificent desolation, +and of melancholy yet sublime interest: its wildness, its vastness, its +waste and solitary openness, add to its effect upon the imagination. +The only human beings I beheld in the compass of at least two miles, +were a few herdsmen driving their cattle through the gate of San Giovanni, +and two or three strangers who were sauntering about with +their note books and portfolios, apparently enthusiasts like myself, +lost in the memory of the past and the contemplation of the present.</p> + +<p>I spent some time in the Lateran, then drove to the Coliseum, where +I found a long procession of penitents, their figures and faces totally +concealed by their masks and peculiar dress, chaunting the Via Crucis. +I then examined the site of the Temple of Venus and Rome, and satisfied +myself by ocular demonstration of the truth of the measurements<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span> +which gave sixty feet for the height of the columns and eighteen feet +for the circumference. I knew enough of geometrical proportion to +prove this to my own satisfaction. On examining the fragments which +remain, each fluting measured a foot, that is, eight inches right across. +This appears prodigious, but it is nevertheless true. I am forced to +believe to-day what I yesterday doubted, and deemed a piece of mere +antiquarian exaggeration.</p> + +<p>This magnificent edifice was designed and built by the Emperor +Adrian, who piqued himself on his skill in architecture, and carried +his jealousy of other artists so far, as to banish Apollodorus, who had +designed the Forum of Trajan. When he had finished the Temple of +Venus and Rome, he sent to Apollodorus a plan of his stupendous structure, +challenging him to find a single fault in it. The architect severely +criticised some trifling oversights; and the Emperor, conscious +of the justice of his criticisms, and unable to remedy the defects, ordered +him to be strangled. Such was the fate of Apollodorus, whose +misfortune it was to have an Emperor for his rival.</p> + +<p>They are now clearing the steps which lead to this temple, from +which it appears that the length of the portico in front was three hundred +feet, and of the side five hundred feet.</p> + +<p>While I was among these ruins, I was struck by a little limpid +fountain, which gushed from the crumbling wall and lost itself among +the fragments of the marble pavement. All looked dreary and desolate; +and that part of the ruin which from its situation must have been +the <i>sanctum sanctorum</i>, the shrine of the divinity of the place, is now +a receptacle of filth and every conceivable abomination.</p> + +<p>I walked on to the ruins now called the Basilica of Constantine, +once the Temple of Peace. This edifice was in a bad style, and constructed +at a period when the arts were at a low ebb: yet the ruins are +vast and magnificent. The exact direction of the Via Sacra has long +been a subject of vehement dispute. They have now laid open a part +of it which ran in front of the Basilica: the pavement is about twelve +feet below the present pavement of Rome, and the soil turned up in +their excavations is formed entirely of crumbled brickwork and mortar, +and fragments of marble, porphyry, and granite. I returned by the +Forum and the Capitol, through the Forums of Nerva and Trajan, +and so over the Monte Cavallo, home.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>23.</i>—Last night we had a numerous party, and Signor P. and his +daughter came to sing. <i>She</i> is a private singer of great talent, and +came attended by her lover or her <i>fiancé</i>; who, according to Italian +custom, attends his mistress every where during the few weeks which +precede their marriage. He is a young artist, a favourite pupil of +Camuccini, and of very quiet, unobtrusive manners. La P. has the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span> +misfortune to be plain; her features are irregular, her complexion of +a sickly paleness, and though her eyes are large and dark, they appeared +totally devoid of lustre and expression. Her plainness, the bad taste of her +dress, her awkward figure, and her timid and embarrassed deportment, +all furnished matter of amusement and observation to some young people, +(English of course,) whose propensities for <i>quizzing</i> exceeded their good +breeding and good nature. Though La P. does not understand a word +of either French or English, I thought she could not mistake the significant +looks and whispers of which she was the object, and I was in +pain for her, and for her modest lover. I drew my chair to the piano, +and tried to divert her attention by keeping her in conversation, +but I could get no farther than a few questions which were answered +in monosyllables. At length she sang—and sang divinely: I found +the pale automaton had a soul as well as a voice. After giving us, with +faultless execution, as well as great expression, some of Rossini's finest +songs, she sung the beautiful and difficult cavatina in Otello, "<i>Assisa +al piè d'un Salice</i>," with the most enchanting style and pathos, and +then stood as unmoved as a statue while the company applauded loud +and long. A moment afterwards, as she stooped to take up a music +book, her lover, who had edged himself by degrees from the door to +the piano, bent his head too, and murmured in a low voice, but with +the most passionate accent, "O brava, brava cara!" She replied +only by a look—but it was such a look! I never saw a human countenance +so entirely, so instantaneously changed in character: the +vacant eyes kindled and beamed with tenderness: the pale cheek +glowed, and a bright smile playing round her mouth, just parted her +lips sufficiently to discover a set of teeth like pearls. I could have +called her at that moment beautiful; but the change was as transient +as sudden—it passed like a gleam of light over her face and vanished, +and by the time the book was placed on the desk, she looked as plain, +as stupid, and as statue-like as ever. I was the only person who had +witnessed this little by-scene; and it gave me pleasant thoughts and +interest for the rest of the evening.</p> + +<p>Another trait of character occurred afterwards, which amused me, +but in a very different style. Our new Danish friend, the Baron +B——, told us he had once been present at the decapitation of nine +men, having first fortified himself with a large goblet of brandy. +After describing the scene in all its horrible details, and assuring us +in his bad German French that it was "<i>une chose bien mauvaise à +voir</i>," I could not help asking him with a shudder, how he felt afterwards; +whether it was not weeks or months before the impressions +of horror left his mind? He answered with smiling naïveté and +taking a pinch of snuff, "<i>Ma foi! madame, je n'ai pas pu manger +de la viande toute cette journée-là?</i>"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span></p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>27.</i>—We drove to the Palazzo Spada, to see the famous Spada +Pompey, said to be the very statue at the base of which Cæsar fell. +I was pleased to find, contrary to my expectations, that this statue +has great intrinsic merit, besides its celebrity, to recommend it. The +extremities of the limbs have a certain clumsiness which may perhaps +be a feature of resemblance, and not a fault of the sculptor; but the +attitude is noble, and the likeness of the head to the undisputed bust +of Pompey in the Florentine gallery, struck me immediately. The +Palazza Spada, with its splendid architecture, dirt, discomfort, and +dilapidation, is a fair specimen of the Roman palaces in general. It +contains a corridor, which from an architectural deception appears +much longer than it really is. I hate tricks—in architecture especially. +We afterwards visited the Pantheon, the Church of Santa +Maria sopra Minerva, (an odd combination of names,) and concluded +the morning at Canova's. It is one of the pleasures of Rome to lounge +in the studj of the best sculptors; and it is at Rome only that sculpture +seems to flourish as in its native soil. Rome is truly the <i>city of the +soul</i>, the home of art and artists. With the divine models of the +Vatican ever before their eyes, these inspiring skies above their heads, +and the quarries of marble at a convenient distance—it is here only +they can conceive and execute those works which are formed from +the <i>beau-idéal</i>; but it is not here they meet with patronage: the +most beautiful things I have seen at the various studj have all been +executed for English, German, and Russian noblemen. The names +I heard most frequently were those of the Dukes of Bedford and Devonshire, +Prince Esterhazy, and the King of England.</p> + +<p>Canova has been accused of a want of simplicity, and of giving a +too voluptuous expression to some of his figures: with all my admiration +of his genius, I confess the censure just. It is particularly observable +in the Clori svegliata (the Nymph awakened by Love), the +Cupid and Psyche, for Prince Yousouppoff, the Endymion, the Graces, +and some others.</p> + +<p>In some of Thorwaldson's works there is exquisite grace, simplicity, +and expression: the Shepherd Boy, the Adonis, the Jason, and +the Hebe, have a great deal of antique spirit. I did not like the +colossal Christ which the sculptor has just finished in clay: it is a +proof that bulk alone does not constitute sublimity: it is deficient in +dignity, or rather in <i>divinity</i>.</p> + +<p>At Rodolf Schadow's, I was most pleased by the Cupid and the +Filatrice. His Cupid is certainly the most beautiful Cupid I ever +saw, superior, I think, both to Canova's and to Thorwaldson's. The +Filatrice, though so exquisitely natural and graceful, a little disappointed +me; I had heard much of it, and had formed in my own<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span> +imagination an idea different and superior to what I saw. This beautiful +figure has repose, simplicity, nature, and grace, but I felt a <i>want</i>—the +want of some internal sentiment: for instance, if, instead of +watching the rotation of her spindle with such industrious attention, +the Filatrice had looked careless, or absent, or pensive, or disconsolate, +(like Faust's Margaret at her spinning-wheel,) she would have +been more interesting—but not perhaps what the sculptor intended to +represent.</p> + +<p>Schadow is ill, but we were admitted by his order into his private +study; we saw there the Bacchante, which he has just finished in clay, +and which is to emulate or rival Canova's Dansatrice. He has been +at work upon a small but beautiful figure of a piping Shepherd-boy, +which is just made out: beside it lay Virgil's Eclogues, and his +spectacles were between the leaves.<a name="FNanchor_J_10" id="FNanchor_J_10"></a><a href="#Footnote_J_10" class="fnanchor">[J]</a></p> + +<p>Almost every thing I saw at Max Laboureur's struck me as vapid +and finikin. There were some pretty groups, but nothing to tempt +me to visit it again.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>30.</i>—We spent the whole morning at the Villa Albani, where there +is a superb collection of antique marbles, most of them brought from +the Villa of Adrian at Tivoli. To note down even a few of the objects +which pleased me would be an endless task. I think the busts interested +me most. There is a basso-relievo of Antinous—the beautiful +head declined in his usual pensive attitude: it is the most finished +and faultless piece of sculpture in relievo I ever saw; and as perfect +and as polished as if it came from the chisel yesterday. There is +another basso-relievo of Marcus Aurelius, and Faustina, equal to the +last in execution, but not in interest.</p> + +<p>We found Rogers in the gardens: the old poet was sunning himself—walking +up and down a beautiful marble portico, lined with works +of art, with his note-book in his hand. I am told he is now writing +a poem of which Italy is the subject; and here, with all the Campagna +di Roma spread out before him—above him, the sunshine and the +cloudless skies—and all around him, the remains of antiquity in a +thousand elegant, or venerable, or fanciful forms: he could not have +chosen a more genial spot for inspiration. Though we disturbed his +poetical reveries rather abruptly, he met us with his usual amiable +courtesy, and conversed most delightfully. I never knew him more +pleasant, and never saw him so animated.</p> + +<p>Our departure from Rome has been postponed from day to day in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span> +consequence of a <i>trifling</i> accident. An Austrian colonel was taken +by the banditti near Fondi, and carried up into the mountains: ten +thousand scudi were demanded for his ransom; and for many days +past, the whole city has been in a state of agitation and suspense about +his ultimate fate. The Austrians, roused by the insult, sent a large +body of troops (some say three thousand men) against about one hundred +and fifty robbers, threatening to exterminate them. They were +pursued so closely, that after dragging their unfortunate captive over +the mountains from one fastness to another, till he was nearly dead +from exhaustion and ill-treatment, they either abandoned or surrendered +him without terms. The troops immediately marched back to +Naples, and the matter rests here: I cannot learn that any thing farther +will be done. The robbers being at present panic-struck by such unusual +energy and activity, and driven from their accustomed haunts, by +these valorous champions of good order and good policy, it is considered +that the road is now more open and safe than it has been for +some time, and if nothing new happens to alarm us, we set off on +Friday next.</p> + +<p>I visited to-day the baths of Dioclesian, and the noble church which +Michel Angelo has constructed upon, and out of, their gigantic ruins. +It has all that grand simplicity, that <i>entireness</i> which characterizes his +works: it contains, too, some admirable pictures. On leaving the +church, I saw on each side of the door, the monuments of Salvator Rosa +and Carlo Maratti—what a contrast do they exhibit in their genius, in +their works, in their characters, in their countenances, in their lives! +Near this church (the Santa Maria dei Angeli) is the superb fountain +of the Acqua Felice, the first view of which rather disappointed me. +I had been told that it represented Moses striking the rock,—a magnificent +idea for a fountain! but the execution falls short of the conception. +The water, instead of gushing from the rock, is poured out +from the mouths of two prodigious lions of basalt, brought, I believe, +from Upper Egypt: they seem misplaced here. A little beyond the +Ponta Pia is the Campo Scelerato, where the Vestals were interred +alive. We afterwards drove to the Santi Apostoli to see the tomb of +the excellent Ganganelli, by Canova. Then to Sant' Ignazio, to see +the famous ceiling painted in perspective by the jesuit Pozzo. The +effect is certainly marvellous, making the interior appear to the eye, +at least twice the height it really is; but though the illusion pleased me +as a work of art, I thought the trickery unnecessary and misplaced. At +the magnificent church of the Gesuiti (where there are two entire columns +of giallo antico) I saw a list of relics for which the church is +celebrated, and whose efficacy and sanctity were vouched for by a very +respectable catalogue of miracles. Among these relics there are a few<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span> +worth mentioning for their oddity, viz. one of the Virgin's <i>shifts</i>, three +of her hairs, and the skirt of Joseph's coat.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>31.</i>—We spent nearly the whole day in the gallery of the Vatican, +and in the Pauline and Sistine chapels.</p> + +<p><i>February 1st, at Valletri.</i>—I left Rome this morning exceedingly +depressed: Madame de Staël may well call travelling <i>un triste plaisir</i>. +My depression did not arise from the feeling that I left behind me any +thing or any person to regret, but from mixed and melancholy emotions, +and partly perhaps from that weakness which makes my hand +tremble while I write—which has bound down my mind, and all its +best powers, and all its faculties of enjoyment, to a languid passiveness, +making me feel at every moment, I am not what I was, or +ought to be, or might have been.</p> + +<p>We arrived, after a short and most delightful journey by Albano, +the Lake Nemi, Gensao, etc. at Velletri, the birth-place of that wretch +Octavius, and famous for its wine. The day has been as soft and as +sunny as a May-day in England, and the country, through which we +travelled but too rapidly, beyond description lovely. The blue Mediterranean +spread far to the west, and on the right we had the snowy +mountains, with their wild fantastic peaks "rushing on the sky." I +felt it all in my heart with a mixture of sadness and delight which I +cannot express.</p> + +<p>This land was made by nature a paradise: it seems to want no +charm, "unborrowed from the eye,"—but how has memory sanctified, +history illustrated, and poetry illumined the scenes around us; +where every rivulet had its attendant nymph, where every wood was +protected by its sylvan divinity; where every tower has its tale of +heroism, and "not a mountain lifts its head unsung;" and though the +faith, the glory, and the power of the antique time be passed away—still</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i8">A spirit hangs,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beautiful region! o'er thy towns and farms,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Statues and temples, and memorial tombs.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>I can allow that one-half, at least, of the beauty and interest we see, +lies in our own souls; that it is our own enthusiasm which sheds this +mantle of light over all we behold: but, as colours do not exist in the +objects themselves, but in the rays which paint them—so beauty is not +less real, is not less <span class="smcap">beauty</span>, because it exists in the medium through +which we view certain objects, rather than in those objects themselves. +I have met persons who think they display a vast deal of common +sense, and very uncommon strength of mind, in rising superior to all +prejudices of education and illusions of romance—to whom <a name="enthusiasm" id="enthusiasm"></a>enthusiasm +is only another name for affectation—who, where the cultivated and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span> +the contemplative mind finds ample matter to excite feeling and reflection, +give themselves airs of fashionable <i>nonchalance</i>, or flippant +scorn—to whom the crumbling ruin is so much brick and mortar, no more—to +whom the tomb of the Horatii and Curiatii is a <i>stack of chimneys</i>, +the Pantheon <i>an old oven</i>, and the Fountain of Egeria a <i>pig-sty</i>. Are +such persons aware that in all this there is an affectation, a thousand +times more gross and contemptible, than that affectation (too frequent +perhaps) which they design to ridicule?</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He is a slave—the meanest we can meet."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><i>2.</i>—Our journey to-day has been long, but delightfully diversified, +and abounding in classical beauty and interest. I scarce know what +to say, now that I open my little book to record my own sensations: +they are so many, so various, so painful, so delicious—my senses and +my imagination have been so enchanted, my heart so very heavy—where +shall I begin?</p> + +<p>In some of the scenes of to-day—at Terracina, particularly, there +was beauty beyond what I ever beheld or imagined: the scenery of +Switzerland is of a different character, and on a different scale: it is +beyond comparison grander, more gigantic, more overpowering, but +it is not so poetical. Switzerland is not Italy—is not the enchanting +<i>south</i>. This soft balmy air, these myrtles, orange-groves, palm-trees; +these cloudless skies, this bright blue sea, and sunny hills, all breathe +of an enchanted land; "a land of Faery."</p> + +<p>Between Velletri and Terracina the road runs in one undeviating line +through the Pontine Marshes. The accounts we have of the baneful +effects of the malaria here, and the absolute solitude, (not a human face +or a human habitation intervening from one post-house to another,) +invest the wild landscape with a frightful and peculiar character of +desolation. As for the mere exterior of the country, I have seen more +wretched and sterile looking spots, (in France, for instance,) but none +that so affected the imagination and the spirits. On leaving the Pontine +Marshes, we came almost suddenly upon the sunny and luxuriant +region near Terracina: here was the ancient city of Anxur; and the +gothic ruins of the castle of Theodoric, which frown on the steep +above, are contrasted with the delicate and Grecian proportions of the +temple below. All the country round is famed in classic and poetic +lore. The Promontory (once poetically the <i>island</i>) of Circe is still +the Monte Circello: here was the region of the Lestrygons, and the +scene of part of the Æneid and Odyssey; and Corinne has superadded +romantic and charming associations quite as delightful, and quite as +<i>true</i>.</p> + +<p>Antiquarians, who, like politicians, "seem to see the things that are<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span> +not," have placed all along this road, the sites of many a celebrated +town and fane—"making hue and cry after many a city which has run +away, and by certain marks and tokens pursuing to find it:" as some +old author says so quaintly. At every hundred yards, fragments of +masonry are seen by the road-side; portions of brickwork, sometimes +traced at the bottom of a dry ditch, or incorporated into a fence; sometimes +peeping above the myrtle bushes on the wild hills, where the +green lizards lie basking and glittering on them in thousands, and the +stupid ferocious buffalo, with his fierce red eyes, rubs his hide and glares +upon us as we pass. No—not the grandest monuments of Rome—not +the Coliseum itself, in all its decaying magnificence, ever inspired me +with such profound emotions as did those nameless, shapeless vestiges +of the dwellings of man, starting up like memorial tombs in the midst +of this savage but luxuriant wilderness. Of the beautiful cities which +rose along this lovely coast, the colonies of elegant and polished Greece—one +after another swallowed up by the "insatiate maw" of ancient +Rome, nothing remains—their sites, their very names have passed +away and perished. We might as well hunt after a forgotten dream.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Vain was the chief's, the sage's pride,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They had no <small>POET</small>, and they died!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In vain they toil'd, in vain they bled,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They had no <small>POET</small>—and are dead.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>I write this a Gaëta—a name famous in the poetical, the classical, +the military story of Italy, from the day of Æneas, from whom it received +its appellation, down to the annals of the late war. On the site +of our inn, (the Albergo di Cicerone,) stood Cicero's Formian Villa; +and in an adjoining grove he was murdered in his litter by the satellites +of the Triumviri, as he attempted to escape. I stood to-night on a little +terrace, which hung over an orange grove, and enjoyed a scene which +I would paint, if words were forms, and hues, and sounds—not else. A +beautiful bay, enclosed by the Mola di Gaëta, on one side, and the Promontory +of Misenum on the other: the sky studded with stars and reflected +in a sea as blue as itself—and so glassy and unruffled, it seemed +to slumber in the moonlight: now and then the murmur of a wave, +not hoarsely breaking on rock and shingles, but kissing the turfy shore, +where oranges and myrtles grew down to the water edge. These, and +the remembrances connected with all, and a mind to think, and a heart +to feel, and thoughts both of pain and pleasure mingling to render the +effect more deep and touching.—Why should I write this? O surely +I need not fear that I shall <i>forget</i>!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span></p> + +<p><b>LINES WRITTEN AT MOLA DI GAETA, NEAR THE RUINS OF +CICERO'S FORMIAN VILLA.</b></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We wandered through bright climes, and drank the beams<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of southern suns: Elysian scenes we view'd,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Such as we picture oft in those day dreams<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That haunt the fancy in her wildest mood.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Upon the sea-heat vestiges we stood,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where Cicero dwelt, and watch'd the latest gleams<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of rosy light steal o'er the azure flood:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And memory conjur'd up most glowing themes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Filling the expanded heart, till it forgot<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its own peculiar grief!—O! if the dead<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet haunt our earth, around this hallow'd spot,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hovers sweet Tully's spirit, since it fled<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Roman Forum—Forum now no more!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though cold and silent be the sands we tread,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Still burns the "eloquent air," and to the shore<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There rolls no wave, and through the orange shade<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There sighs no breath, which doth not speak of him,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">The father of his country</span>: and though dim<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her day of empire—and her laurel crown<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Torn and defaced, and soiled with blood and tears,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And her imperial eagles trampled down—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Still with a queen-like grace, Italia wears<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her garland of bright names,—her coronal of stars,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Radiant memorials of departed worth!)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That shed a glory round her pensive brow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And make her still the worship of the earth!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><i>Naples. Sunday 3rd.</i>—We left Gaëta early. If the scene was +so beautiful in the evening—how bright, how lovely it was this morning! +The sun had not long risen; and a soft purple mist hung over +part of the sea; while to the north and west the land and water sparkled +and glowed in the living light. Some little fishing boats which had +just put off, rocked upon the glassy sea, which lent them a gentle +motion, though itself appeared all mirror-like and motionless. The +orange and lemon trees in full foliage literally bent over the water; and +it was so warm at half past eight that I felt their shade a relief.</p> + +<p>After leaving Gaëta, the first place of note is or <i>was</i> Minturnum, +where Marius was taken, concealed in the marshes near it. The +marshes remain, the city has disappeared. Capua is still a large town; +but it certainly does not keep up its ancient fame for luxury and good +cheer: for we found it extremely difficult to procure any thing to eat. +The next town is Avversa, a name unknown, I believe, in the classical +history of Italy: it was founded, if I remember rightly, by the Norman +knights. Near this place is or was the convent where Queen Joanna +strangled her husband Andrea, with a silken cord of her own weaving. +So says the story: <i>non lo credo io</i>.</p> + +<p>From Avversa to Naples the country is not interesting; but fertile +and rich beyond description: an endless succession of vineyards and +orange groves. At length we reached Naples; all tired and in a <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span>particularly +sober and serious mood: we remembered it was the Sabbath, +and had forgotten that it was the first day of the Carnival; and great +was our amazement at the scene which met us on our arrival—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I looked, I stared, I smiled, I laughed: and all<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The whole city seemed one vast puppet-show; and the noisy gaiety +of the crowded streets almost stunned me. One of the first objects +we encountered was a barouche full of Turks and Sultanas, driven by +an old woman in a tawdry court dress as coachman; while a merry-andrew +and a harlequin capered behind as footmen. Owing to the immense +size of the city, and the difficulty of making our way through the +motley throng of masks, beggars, lazzaroni, eating-stalls, carts and +carriages, we were nearly three hours traversing the streets before we +reached our inn on the Chiaja.</p> + +<p>I feel tired and over-excited: I have been standing on my balcony +looking out upon the moonlit bay, and listening to the mingled shouts, +the laughter, the music all around me; and thinking—till I feel in no +mood to write.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>7.</i>—Last night we visited the theatre of San Carlo. It did not strike +me as equal to the Scala at Milan. The form is not so fine, the extent +of the stage is, or appeared to be, less; but there is infinitely more +gilding and ornament; the mirrors and lights, the sky-blue draperies +produce a splendid effect, and the coup-d'œil is, on the whole, more +gay, more theatre-like. It was crowded in every part, and many of +the audience were in dominos and fancy dresses: a few were masked. +Rossini's Barbiere di Seviglia, which contains, I think more <i>melody</i> +than all his other operas put together, (the Tancredi perhaps excepted,) +was most enchantingly sung, and as admirably acted; and the beautiful +classical ballet of "Niobe and her Children," would have appeared +nothing short of perfection, had I not seen the Didone Abbandonata at +Milan. But they have no actress here like the graceful, the expressive +Pallerini; nor any actor equal to the Æneas of the Scala.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>The Austrians, who are paramount here, allow masks only twice a +week, Sundays and Thursdays. The people seem determined to indemnify +themselves for this restriction on their pleasures by every +allowed excess during the two days of merriment, which their despotic +conquerors have spared them. I am told by M** and S**, our +Italian friends, that the Carnival is now fallen off from its wild spirit of +fanciful gaiety; that it is stupid, dull, tasteless, in comparison to what it +was formerly, owing to the severity of the Austrian police. I know +nothing about the propriety of the measures which have been resorted<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span> +to for curbing the excesses of the Carnival: I think if people <i>will</i> run +away instead of fighting for their national rights, they must be content +to suffer accordingly—but I meddle not with politics, and with all my +heart abhor them. Whatever the gaities of the Carnival may have +been formerly, it is scarce possible to conceive a more fantastic, a more +picturesque, a more laughable scene than the Strada di Toledo exhibited +to-day; the whole city seemed to wear "one universal grin;" +and such an incessant fire of sugar-plums (or what seemed such) was +carried on, and with such eagerness and mimic fury, that when our carriage +came out of the conflict, we all looked as if a sack of flour had been +shaken over us. The implements used in this ridiculous warfare, are, +for common purposes, little balls of plaster of Paris and flour, made to +resemble small comfits: friends and acquaintances pelted each other +with real confetti, and those of the most delicious and expensive kinds. +A double file of carriages moved in a contrary direction along the +Corso; a space in the middle and on each side being left for horsemen +and pedestrians, and the most exact order was maintained by the guards +and police; so that if by chance a carriage lost its place in the line it +was impossible to recover it, and it was immediately obliged to leave +the street, and re-enter by one of the extremities. Besides the warfare +carried on below, the balconies on each side were crowded with people +in gay or grotesque dresses, who had <i>sacks</i> of bon-bons before them, +from which they showered vollies upon those beneath, or aimed across +the street at each other: some of them filled their handkerchiefs, and +then dexterously loosening the corners, and taking a certain aim, flung +a volley at once. This was like a cannon loaded with grape-shot, and +never failed to do the most terrific execution.</p> + +<p>Among the splendid and fanciful equipages of the masqueraders, +was one, containing the Duke of Monteleone's family, in the form of +a ship, richly ornamented, and drawn by six horses mounted by masks +for postilions. The fore part of the vessel contained the Duke's party, +dressed in various gay costumes, as Tartar warriors and Indian queens. +In the stern were the servants and attendants, <i>travestied</i> in the most +grotesque and ludicrous style. This magnificent and unwieldly car +had by some chance lost its place in the procession, and vainly endeavoured +to whip in; as it is a point of honour among the charioteers +not to yield the <i>pas</i>. Our coachman, however, was ordered (though +most unwilling) to draw up and make way for it; and this little civility +was acknowledged, not only by a profusion of bows, but by such a +shower of delicious sugar plums, that the seats of our carriage were +literally covered with them, and some of the gentlemen flung into our +laps elegant little baskets, fastened with ribbons, and filled with exquisite +sweetmeats. I could not enter into all this with much spirit; +"<i>non son io quel ch'un tempo fui:</i>" but I was an amused, though a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span> +quiet spectator; and sometimes saw much more than those who were +actually engaged in the battle. I observed that to-day our carriage +became an object of attention, and a favourite point of attack to several +parties on foot, and in carriages; and I was at no loss to discover the +reason. I had with me a lovely girl, whose truly English style of +beauty, her brilliant bloom, heightened by her eager animation, her +lips dimpled with a thousand smiles, and her whole countenance +radiant with glee and mischievous archness, made her an object of +admiration, which the English expressed by a fixed stare, and the +Italians by sympathetic smiles, nods, and all the usual superlatives of +delight. Among our most potent and malignant adversaries, was a +troop of elegant masks in a long open carriage, the form of which was +totally concealed by the boughs of laurel, and wreaths of artificial +flowers, with which it was covered. It was drawn by six fine horses, +fancifully caparisoned, ornamented with plumes of feathers, and led by +grotesque masks. In the carriage stood twelve persons in black silk +dominos, black hats, and black masks; with plumes of crimson feathers, +and rich crimson sashes. They were armed with small painted targets +and tin tubes, from which they shot vollies of confetti, in such quantities, +and with such dexterous aim, that we were almost overwhelmed +whenever we passed them. It was in vain we returned the compliment; +our small shot rattled on their masks, or bounded from their +shields, producing only shouts of laughter at our expense.</p> + +<p>A favourite style of mask here, is the dress of an English sailor, +straw hats, blue jackets, white trowsers, and very white masks with +pink cheeks: we saw hundreds in this whimsical costume.</p> + +<p><i>13.</i>—On driving home rather late this evening, and leaving the +noise, the crowds, the confusion and festive folly of the Strada di +Toledo, we came suddenly upon a scene, which, from its beauty, no +less than by the force of contrast, strongly impressed my imagination. +The shore was silent, and almost solitary: the bay as smooth as a +mirror, and as still as a frozen lake; the sky, the sea, the mountains +round were all of the same hue, a soft grey tinged with violet, except +where the sunset had left a narrow crimson streak along the edge of +the sea. There was not a breeze, not the slightest breath of air, and +a single vessel, a frigate with all its white sails crowded, lay motionless +as a monument on the bosom of the waters, in which it was reflected +as in a mirror. I have seen the bay more splendidly beautiful; but +I never saw so peculiar, so lovely a picture. It lasted but a short +time: the transparent purple veil became a dusky pall, and night and +shadow gradually enveloped the whole.<a name="FNanchor_K_11" id="FNanchor_K_11"></a><a href="#Footnote_K_11" class="fnanchor">[K]</a></p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span></p> +<p>How I love these resplendent skies and blue seas! Nature here +seems to celebrate a continual Festa, and to be for ever decked out in +holiday costume! A drive along the "<i>sempre beata Mergellina</i>" to +the extremity of the Promontory of Pausilippo is positive enchantment: +thence we looked over a landscape of such splendid and unequalled +interest! the shores of Baia, where Cicero, Horace, Virgil, Pliny, +Mecænas, lived; the white towers of Puzzuoli and the Islands of Ischia, +Procida, and Nisida. There was the Sybil's Cave, Lake Acheron, and the +fabled Lethe; there the sepulchre of Misenus, who defied the Triton; +and the scene of the whole sixth book of the Æneid, which I am now +reading in Annibal Caro's translation: there Agrippina mourned Germanicus; +and there her daughter fell a victim to her monster of a son. +At our feet lay the lovely little Island of Nisida, the spot on which +Brutus and Portia parted for the last time before the battle of Philippi.</p> + +<p>To the south of the bay the scenery is not less magnificent, and scarcely +less dear to memory: Naples, rising from the sea like an amphitheatre +of white palaces, and towers, and glittering domes: beyond, Mount +Vesuvius, with the smoke curling from its summits like a silver cloud, +and forming the only speck upon the intense blue sky; along its base +Portici, Annunziata, Torre del Greco, glitter in the sun; every white +building—almost every window in every building, distinct to the eye +at the distance of several miles: farther on, and perched like white +nests on the mountainous promontory, lie Castel a Mare, and Sorrento, +the birth-place of Tasso, and his asylum when the injuries of his cold-hearted +persecutors had stung him to madness, and drove him here +for refuge to the arms of his sister. Yet, farther on, Capua rises from +the sea, a beautiful object in itself, but from which the fancy gladly +turns to dwell again upon the snowy buildings of Sorrento.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"O de la liberté vieille et sainte patrie!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Terre autrefois féconde en sublimes vertus!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sous d'indignes Césars maintenant asservie<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ton empire est tombé! tes héros ne sont plus!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Mais dans son sein l'âme aggrandie<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Croit sur leurs monumens respirer leur génie,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Comme on respire encore dans un temple aboli<br /></span> +<span class="i1">La Majesté du Dieu dont il était rempli."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i11 smcap">De la Martine.<br /></span> +</div></div> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span></p> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i8" style="margin-top: 2em;"><b>THE</b><br /><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><b>SONG OF THE SYREN PARTHENOPE.</b><br /><br /></span> +<span class="i6"><b>A RHAPSODY,</b><br /><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4"><small>WRITTEN AT NAPLES.</small><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Mine are these waves, and mine the twilight depths<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O'er which they roll, and all these tufted isles<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That lift their backs like dolphins from the deep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And all these sunny shores that gird us round!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Listen! O listen to the Sea-maid's shell!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ye who have wander'd hither from far climes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Where the coy summer yields but half her sweets,)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To breathe my bland luxurious airs, and drink<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My sunbeams! and to revel in a land<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where Nature—deck'd out like a bride to meet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her lover—lays forth all her charms, and smiles<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Languidly bright, voluptuously gay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sweet to the sense, and tender to the heart.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Listen! O listen to the Sea-maid's shell;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ye who have fled your natal shores in hate<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or anger, urged by pale disease, or want,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or grief, that clinging like the spectre bat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sucks drop by drop the life-blood from the heart,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And hither come to learn forgetfulness,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or to prolong existence! ye shall find<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Both—though the spring Lethean flow no more,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There is a power in these entrancing skies<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And murmuring waters and delicious airs,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Felt in the dancing spirits and the blood,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And falling on the lacerated heart<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like balm, until that life becomes a boon,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which elsewhere is a burthen and a curse.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Hear then—O hear the Sea-maid's airy shell,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Listen, O listen! 'tis the Syren sings,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The spirit of the deep—Parthenope—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She who did once i' the dreamy days of old<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sport on these golden sands beneath the moon,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or pour'd the ravishing music of her song<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Over the silent waters; and bequeath'd<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To all these sunny capes and dazzling shores<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her own immortal beauty, and her <i>name</i>.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>This is the last day of the Carnival, the last night of the opera; the +people are permitted to go in masks, and after the performances there +will be a ball. To-day, when Baldi was describing the excesses +which usually take place during the last few hours of the Carnival, he +said, "the man who has but half a shirt will pawn it to-night to buy +a good supper and an opera-ticket: to-morrow for fish and soup-maigre—fasting +and repentance!"</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span></p> +<p><i>Saturday, 23.</i>—I have just seen a most magnificent sight; one +which I have often dreamed of, often longed to behold, and having +beheld, never shall forget. Mount Vesuvius is at this moment blazing +like a huge furnace; throwing up every minute, or half minute, +columns of fire and red-hot stones, which fall in showers and bound +down the side of the mountain. On the east, there are two distinct +streams of lava descending, which glow with almost a white heat, and +every burst of flame is accompanied by a sound resembling cannon at +a distance.—</p> + +<p>I can hardly write, my mind is so overflowing with astonishment, +admiration, and sublime pleasure: what a scene as I looked out on +the bay from the Sante Lucia! On one side, the evening star and the +thread-like crescent of the new moon were setting together over Pausilippo, +reflected in lines of silver radiance on the blue sea; on the +other the broad train of fierce red light glared upon the water with a +fitful splendour, as the explosions were more or less violent: before me +all was so soft, so lovely, so tranquil! while I had only to turn my +head to be awe-struck by the convulsion of fighting elements.</p> + +<p>I remember, that on our first arrival at Naples, I was disappointed +because Vesuvius did not smoke so much as I had been led to expect +from pictures and descriptions. The smoke then lay like a scarcely +perceptible cloud on the highest point, or rose in a slender white column; +to-day and yesterday, it has rolled from the crater in black +volumes, mixing with the clouds above, and darkening the sky.</p> + +<p><i>Half-past twelve.</i>—I have walked out again: the blaze from the +crater is less vivid; but there are now four streams of lava issuing from +it, which have united in two broad currents, one of which extends below +the hermitage. It is probable that by to-morrow night it will +have reached the lower part of the mountain.</p> + +<p><i>Sunday, 24.</i>—Just returned from chapel at the English ambassador's, +where the service was read by a dandy clergyman to a crowd of fine +and superfine ladies and gentlemen, crushed together into a hot room. +I never saw extravagance in dress carried to such a pitch as it is by my +countrywomen here,—whether they dress at the men or against each +other, it is equally bad taste. The sermon to-day was very appropriate, +from the text, "<i>Take ye no thought what ye shall eat, or what +ye shall drink, or what ye shall put on</i>," and, I dare say, it was listened +to with singular edification.</p> + +<p><i>5 o'clock.</i>—We have been driving along the Strada Nuova in L**'s +britschka, whence we had a fine view of Vesuvius. There are tremendous +bursts of smoke from the crater. At one time the whole mountain, +down to the very base, was almost enveloped, and the atmosphere +round it loaded with the vapour, which seemed to issue in volumes<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span> +half as large as the mountain itself. If horses are to be had we go up +to-night.</p> + +<p><i>Monday night.</i>—I am not in a humour to describe, or give way to +any poetical flights, but I must endeavour to give a faithful, sober, and +circumstantial account of our last night's expedition, while the impression +is yet fresh on my mind; though there is, I think, little danger +of my forgetting. We procured horses, which, from the number of +persons proceeding on the same errand with ourselves, was a matter of +some difficulty. We set out at seven in the evening in an open carriage, +and almost the whole way we had the mountain before us, +spouting fire to a prodigious height. The road was crowded with +groups of people who had come out from the city and environs to take +a nearer view of the magnificent spectacle, and numbers were hurrying +to and fro in those little flying <i>corricoli</i> which are peculiar to Naples. +As we approached, the explosions became more and more vivid, and at +every tremendous burst of fire our friend L** jumped half off his seat, +making most loud and characteristic exclamations,—"By Jove! a +magnificent fellow! now for it, whizz! there he goes, sky high, by +George!" The rest of the party were equally enthusiastic in a different +style; and I sat silent and quiet from absolute inability to express +what I felt. I was almost breathless with wonder, and excitement, +and impatience to be nearer the scene of action. While my eyes were +fixed on the mountain, my attention was, from time to time, excited +by regular rows of small shining lights, six or eight in number, creeping, +as it seemed, along the edge of the stream of lava; and, when +contrasted with the red blaze which rose behind, and the gigantic black +back-ground, looking like a procession of glowworms. These were the +torches of travellers ascending the mountain, and I longed to be one of +them.</p> + +<p>We reached Resina a little before nine, and alighted from the carriage; +the ascent being so rugged and dangerous, that only asses and +mules accustomed to the road are used. Two only were in waiting at +the moment we arrived, which L** immediately secured for me and +himself; and though reluctant to proceed without the rest of the party, +we were compelled to go on before, that we might not lose time, or +hazard the loss of our <i>monture</i>. We set off then, each with two attendants, +a man to lead our animals and a torch-bearer. The road, +as we ascended, became more and more steep at every step, being over +a stream of lava, intermixed with stones and ashes, and the darkness +added to the difficulty. But how shall I describe the scene and the +people who surrounded us; the landscape partially lighted by a fearful +red glare, the precipitous and winding road bordered by wild looking +gigantic aloes, projecting their huge spear-like leaves almost across our +path, and our lazzaroni attendants with their shrill shouts, and strange<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span> +dresses, and wild jargon, and striking features, and dark eyes flashing +in the gleam of the torches, which they flung round their heads to prevent +their being extinguished, formed a scene so new, so extraordinary, +so like romance, that my attention was frequently drawn from the +mountain, though blazing in all its tumultuous magnificence.</p> + +<p>The explosions succeeded each other with terrific rapidity about two +in every three minutes; and the noise I can only compare to the +roaring and hissing of ten thousand imprisoned winds, mingled at times +with a rumbling sound like artillery, or distant thunder. It frequently +happened that the guides, in dashing their torches against the ground, +set fire to the dried thorns and withered grass, and the blaze ran along +the earth like wildfire, to the great alarm of poor L**, who saw in +every burning bush a stream of lava rushing to overwhelm us.</p> + +<p>Before eleven o'clock we reached the Hermitage, situated between +Vesuvius and the Somma, and the highest habitation on the mountain. +A great number of men were assembled within, and guides, lazzaroni, +servants, and soldiers, were lounging round. I alighted, for I was benumbed +and tired, but did not like to venture among those people, and +it was proposed that we should wait for the rest of our party a little +further on. We accordingly left our donkeys and walked forward upon +a kind of high ridge which serves to fortify the Hermitage and its environs +against the lava. From this path, as we slowly ascended, we +had a glorious view of the eruption; and the whole scene around us, +in its romantic interest and terrible magnificence, mocked all power of +description. There were, at this time, five distinct torrents of lava +rolling down like streams of molten lead; one of which extended above +two miles below us and was flowing towards Portici. The showers of +red-hot stones flew up like thousands of sky rockets: many of them +being shot up perpendicularly fell back into the crater, others falling on +the outside bounded down the side of the mountain with a velocity +which would have distanced a horse at full speed: these stones were +of every size, from two to ten or twelve feet in diameter.</p> + +<p>My ears were by this time wearied and stunned by the unceasing +roaring and hissing of the flames, while my eyes were dazzled by the +glare of the red, fierce light: now and then I turned them for relief +to other features of the picture, to the black shadowy masses of the +landscape stretched beneath us, and speckled with shining lights, which +showed how many were up and watching that night; and often to the +calm vaulted sky above our heads, where thousands of stars (not +twinkling as through our hazy or frosty atmosphere, but shining out +of "heaven's profoundest azure," with that soft steady brilliance peculiar +to a highly rarified medium) looked down upon this frightful +turmoil in all their bright and placid loveliness. Nor should I forget +one other feature of a scene, on which I looked with a painter's eye.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span> +Great numbers of the Austrian forces, now occupying Naples, were on +the mountains, assembled in groups, some standing, some sitting, some +stretched on the ground and wrapped in their cloaks, in various attitudes +of amazement and admiration: and as the shadowy glare fell +on their tall martial figures and glittering accoutrements, I thought I +had never beheld any thing so wildly picturesque.</p> + +<p>The remainder of our party not yet appearing, we sent back for our +asses and guides, and determined to proceed. About half a mile +beyond, our companions came up, and here a division took place; some +agreeing to go forward, the rest turning back to wait at the Hermitage. +I was of course one of those who advanced. My spirits were again +raised, and the grand object of all this daring and anxiety was to approach +near enough to a stream of lava to have some idea of its consistency, +and the manner in which it flowed, or trickled down. The +difficulties of our road now increased, "if <i>road</i> that might be called, +which road was none," but black loose ashes, and masses of scoria and +lava heaped in ridges, or broken into hollows in a manner not to be +described. Even my animal, though used to the path, felt his footing +at every step, and if the torch was by accident extinguished, he stopped, +and nothing could make him move. My guide, Andrea, was very +vigilant and attentive, and, in the few words of Italian he knew, encouraged +me, and assured me there was no danger. I had, however, +no fear: in fact, I was infinitely too much interested to have been +alive to danger, had it really existed. Salvador, well known to all +who have visited Mount Vesuvius, had been engaged by Mr. R. as his +guide. He is the principal cicerone on the mountain. It is his business +to despatch to the king every three hours, a regular account of +the height of the eruption, the progress, extent, and direction of the +lava, and, in short, the most minute particulars. He also corresponds, +as he assured me, with Sir Humphry Davy;<a name="FNanchor_L_12" id="FNanchor_L_12"></a><a href="#Footnote_L_12" class="fnanchor">[L]</a> and is employed to +inform him of every interesting phenomenon which takes place on the +mountain. This man has resided at the foot of it, and been principal +guide, for thirty-three years, and knows every inch of its territory.</p> + +<p>As the lava had overflowed the usual footpath leading to that conical +eminence which forms the summit of the mountain and the exterior of +the crater, we were obliged to alight from our sagacious steeds; and, +trusting to our feet, walked over the ashes for about a quarter of a +mile. The path, or the ground rather, for there was no path, was +now dangerous to the inexperienced foot; and Salvador gallantly took +me under his peculiar care. He led me on before the rest, and I followed +with confidence. Our object was to reach the edge of a stream<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> +of lava, formed of two currents united in a point. It was glowing +with an intense heat; and flowing, not with such rapidity as to alarm +us, but rather slowly, and by fits and starts. <i>Trickling</i>, in short, is +the word which expresses its motion: if one can fancy it applied to +any object on so large a scale.</p> + +<p>At this time the eruption was at its extreme height. The column +of fire was from a quarter to a third of a mile high; and the stones +were thrown up to the height of a mile and a quarter. I passed close +to a rock about four feet in diameter, which had rolled down some +time before: it was still red-hot, and I stopped to warm my hands at +it. At a short distance from it lay another stone or rock, also red-hot, +but six times the size. I walked on first with Salvador, till we were +within a few yards of the lava—at this moment a prodigious stone, followed +by two or three smaller ones, came rolling down upon us with +terrific velocity. The gentlemen and guides all ran; my first impulse +was to run too; but Salvador called on me to stop and see what +direction the stone would take. I saw the reason of this advice, and +stopped. In less than a second he seized my arm and hurried me +back five or six yards. I heard the whizzing sound of the stone as +it rushed down behind me. A little further on it met with an impediment, +against which it bolted with such force, that it flew up into the +air to a great height, and fell in a shower of red-hot fragments. All +this passed in a moment; I have shuddered since when I thought of +that moment; but at the time, I saw the danger without the slightest +sensation of terror. I remember the ridiculous figures of the men, as +they scrambled over the ridges of scoria; and was struck by Salvador's +exclamation, who shouted to them in a tone which would have become +Cæsar himself,—"Che tema!—Sono Salvador!"<a name="FNanchor_M_13" id="FNanchor_M_13"></a><a href="#Footnote_M_13" class="fnanchor">[M]</a></p> + +<p>We did not attempt to turn back again: which I should have done +without any hesitation if any one had proposed it. To have come thus +far, and be so near the object I had in view, and then to run away at +the first alarm! It was a little provoking. The road was extremely +dangerous in the descent. I was obliged to walk part of the way, as +the guides advised, and but for Salvador, and the interesting information +he gave me from time to time, I think I should have been overpowered. +He amused and fixed my attention, by his intelligent conversation, +his assiduity, and solicitude for my comfort, and the <i>naïveté</i> +and self-complacency with which his information was conveyed. He +told me he had visited Mount Ætna (<i>en amateur</i>) during the last great +eruption of that mountain, and acknowledged with laudable candour, +that Vesuvius, in its grandest moments, was a mere bonfire in comparison: +the whole cone of Vesuvius, he said, was not larger than some<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> +of the masses of rock he had seen whirled from the crater of Mount +Ætna, and rolling down its sides. He frequently made me stop and +look back: and here I should observe that our guides seemed as +proud of the performances of the mountain, and as anxious to show it +off to the best advantage, as the keeper of a menagerie is of the tricks +of his dancing bear, or the proprietor of "Solomon in all his glory" +of his raree-show. Their enthusiastic shouts and exclamations would +have kept up my interest had it flagged. "O veda, Signora! O bella! +O stupenda!" The last great burst of fire was accompanied by a fresh +overflow of lava, which issued from the crater, on the west side, in +two broad streams, and united a few hundred feet below, taking the +direction of Torre del Greco. After this explosion the eruption subsided, +and the mountain seemed to repose: now and then showers of +stones flew up, but to no great height, and unaccompanied by any +vivid flames. There was a dull red light over the mouth of the crater, +round which the smoke rolled in dense tumultuous volumes, and +then blew off towards the south-west.</p> + +<p>After a slow and difficult descent we reached the Hermitage. I was +so exhausted that I was glad to rest for a few minutes. My good friend +Salvador brought me a glass of <i>Lachryma Christi</i> and the leg of a chicken; +and with recruited spirits we mounted our animals and again started.</p> + +<p>The descent was infinitely more slow and difficult than the ascent, +and much more trying to the nerves. I had not Salvador at my side, +nor the mountain before me, to beguile me from my fears; at length I +prevailed on one of our attendants, a fine tall figure of a man, to sing to +me; and though he had been up the mountain <i>six</i> times in the course +of the day, he sang delightfully and with great spirit and expression, +as he strided along with his hand upon my bridle, accompanied by a +magnificent rumbling bass from the mountain, which every now and +then drowned the melody of his voice, and made me start. It was +past three when we reached Resina, and nearly five when we got home: +yet I rose this morning at my usual hour, and do not feel much fatigued. +About twelve to-day I saw Mount Vesuvius, looking as +quiet and placid as the first time I viewed it. There was little smoke, +and neither the glowing lava nor the flames were visible in the glare +of the sunshine. The atmosphere was perfectly clear, and as I gazed, +almost misdoubting my senses, I could scarcely believe in the reality +of the tremendous scene I had witnessed but a few hours before.</p> + +<p><i>26.</i>—The eruption burst forth again to-day, and is exceedingly +grand; though not equal to what it was on Sunday night. The smoke +rises from the crater in dense black masses, and the wind having +veered a few points to the southward, it is now driven in the direction +of Naples. At the moment I write this, the skies are obscured by +rolling vapours, and the sun, which is now setting just opposite to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span> +Vesuvius, shines, as I have seen him through a London mist, red, and +shorn of his beams. The sea is angry and discoloured; the day most +oppressively sultry, and the atmosphere thick, sulphureous, and loaded +with an almost impalpable dust, which falls on the paper as I write.</p> + +<p><i>March 4.</i>—We have had delicious weather almost ever since we +arrived at Naples, but these last three days have been perfectly heavenly. +I never saw or felt any thing like the enchantment of the +earth, air, and skies. The mountain has been perfectly still, the atmosphere +without a single cloud, the fresh verdure bursting forth all +around us, and every breeze visits the senses, as if laden with a renovating +spirit of life, and wafted from Elysium. Whoever would truly +enjoy nature, should see her in this delicious land: "où la plus douce +nuit succède au plus beau jour;" for here she seems to keep holiday +all the year round. To stand upon my balcony, looking out upon the +sunshine and the glorious bay; the blue sea, and the pure skies—and to +feel that indefinite sensation of excitement, that <i>superflu de vie</i>, quickening +every pulse and thrilling through every nerve, is a pleasure peculiar +to this climate, where the mere consciousness of existence is +happiness enough. Then evening comes on, lighted by a moon and +starry heavens, whose softness, richness, and splendour, are not to be +conceived by those who have lived always in the vapoury atmosphere +of England—dear England! I love, like an Englishwoman, its fireside +enjoyments, and home-felt delights: an English drawing-room, +with all its luxurious comforts—carpets and hearth-rugs, curtains let +down, sofas wheeled round, and a group of family faces round a blazing +fire, is a delightful picture; but for the languid frame, and the +sick heart, give me this pure elastic air, "redolent of spring;" this +reviving sunshine and all the witchery of these deep blue skies!—</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>Numbers of people set off post-haste from Rome to see the eruption +of Mount Vesuvius, and arrived here Wednesday and Thursday; just +time enough to be too late. Among them our Roman friend Frattino, +who has afforded me more amusement than all our other acquaintance +together, and deserves a niche in my gallery of characters.</p> + +<p>Frattino is a young Englishman, who, if he were in England, would +probably be pursuing his studies at Eton or Oxford, for he is scarce +past the age of boyhood; but having been abroad since he was twelve +years old, and early plunged into active and dissipated life, he is an accomplished +man of fashion, and of the world, with as many airs and +caprices as a spoiled child. He is by far the most <i>beautiful</i> creature +of his sex I ever saw; so like the Antinous, that at Rome he went by +that name. The exquisite regularity of his features, the graceful air of +his head, his <i>antique</i> curls, the faultless proportions of his elegant figure, +make him a <i>thing</i> to be gazed on, as one looks at a statue. Then he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span> +possesses talents, wit, taste, and information: the most polished and +captivating manners, where he wishes to attract,—high honour and +generosity, where women are not concerned,—and all the advantages +attending on rank and wealth: but under this fascinating exterior, I +suspect our Frattino to be a very worthless, as well as a very unhappy +being. While he pleases, he repels me. There is a want of +heart about him, a want of fixed principles—a degree of profligacy, of +selfishness, of fickleness, caprice and ill-temper, and an excess of vanity, +which all his courtly address and <i>savoir faire</i> cannot hide. What +would be insufferable in another, is in him bearable, and even interesting +and amusing: such is the charm of manner. But all this cannot +last: and I should not be surprised to see Frattino, a few years hence, +emerge from his foreign frippery, throw aside his libertine folly, assume +his seat in the senate, and his rank in British society; and be the +very character he now affects to despise and ridicule—"a true-bred +Englishman, who rides a thorough-bred horse."</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>Our excursion to Pompeii yesterday was "a pic-nic party of pleasure," +<i>à l'Anglaise</i>. Now a party of pleasure is proverbially a <i>bore</i>: and +our expedition was in the beginning so unpromising, so mismanaged—our +party so numerous, and composed of such a heterogeneous mixture +of opposite tempers, tastes, and characters, that I was in pain for the +result. The day, however, turned out more pleasant than I expected: +exterior polish supplied the want of something better, and our excursion +had its pleasures, though they were not such as I should have sought +at Pompeii. I felt myself a simple <i>unit</i> among many, and found it +easier to sympathise with others, than to make a dozen others sympathise +with me.</p> + +<p>We were twelve in number, distributed in three light barouches, +and reached Pompeii in about two hours and a half—passing by the +foot of Vesuvius, through Portici, Torre del Greco, and l'Annonziata. +The streams of lava, which overwhelmed Torre del Greco in 1794, are +still black and barren; but the town itself is rising from its ruins; and +the very lava which destroyed it serves as the material to rebuild it.</p> + +<p>We entered Pompeii by the street of the tombs: near them are the +semicircular seats, so admirably adapted for conversation, that I wonder +we have not sofas on a similar plan, and similar scale. I need not dwell +on particulars, which are to be found in every book of travels: on the +whole, my expectations were surpassed, though my curiosity was not +half gratified.</p> + +<p>The most interesting thing I saw—in fact the only thing, for which +paintings and descriptions had not previously prepared me, was a building +which has been excavated within the last fortnight: it is only +partly laid open, and labourers are now at work upon it. Antiquarians<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span> +have not yet pronounced on its name and design; but I should imagine +it to be some public edifice, perhaps dedicated to religious purposes. +The paintings on the walls are the finest which have yet been discovered: +they are exquisitely and tastefully designed; and though executed +merely for <i>effect</i>, that effect is beautiful. I remarked one female figure +in the act of entering a half-open door: she is represented with +pencils and a palette of colours in her hand, similar to those which +artists now use: another very graceful female holds a lyre of peculiar +construction. These, I presume, were two of the muses: the +rest remained hidden. There were two small pannels occupied by +sea-pieces, with gallies; and two charming landscapes, so well coloured, +and drawn with such knowledge of perspective and effect, that +if we may form a comparative idea of the best pictures, from the specimens +of taste and skill in mere house-painting, the ancients must have +excelled us as much in painting as in sculpture. I remarked on the +wall of an entrance or corridor, a dog starting at a wreathed and crested +snake, vividly coloured, and full of spirit and expression. While I +lingered here a little behind the rest, and most reluctant to depart, a +ragged lazzarone boy came up to me, and seizing my dress, pointed to +a corner, and made signs that he had something to show me. I followed +him to a spot where a quantity of dust and ashes was piled +against a wall. He began to scratch away this heap of dirt with hands +and nails, much after the manner of an ape, every now and then looking +up in my face and grinning. The impediment being cleared away, there +appeared on the wall behind, a most beautiful aërial figure with floating +drapery, representing either Fame or Victory: but before I had time to +examine it, the little rogue flung the earth up again so as to conceal it +completely, then pointing significantly at the other workmen, he nodded, +shrugged, gesticulated, and held out both his paws for a recompense, +which I gave him willingly; at the same time laughing and shaking +my head to show I understood his knavery. I rewarded him apparently +beyond his hopes, for he followed me down the street, bowing, +grinning, and cutting capers like a young savage.</p> + +<p>The streets of Pompeii are narrow, the houses are very small, and the +rooms, though often decorated with exquisite taste, are constructed +without any regard to what <i>we</i> should term comfort and convenience; +they are dark, confined, and seldom communicate with each other, but +have a general communication with a portico, running round a central +court. This court is in general beautifully paved with mosaic, having +a fountain or basin in the middle, and possibly answered the purpose +of a drawing-room. It is evident that the ancient inhabitants of this +lovely country lived like their descendants mostly in the open air, and +met together in their public walks, or in the forums, and theatres. If +they <i>saw company</i>, the guests probably assembled under the porticoes,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> +or in the court round the fountain. The houses seem constructed on +the same principle as birds construct their nests; as places of retreat +and shelter, rather than of assemblage and recreation: the grand object +was to exclude the sunbeams; and this, which gives such gloomy and +chilling ideas in our northern climes, must here have been delicious.</p> + +<p>Hurried on by a hungry, noisy, merry party, we at length reached +the Caserna (the ancient barracks, or as Forsyth will have it, the prætorium). +The central court of this building has been converted into a +garden: and here, under a weeping willow, our dinner table was spread. +Where Englishmen are, there will be good cheer if possible; and our +banquet was in truth most luxurious. Besides more substantial cates, +we had oysters from Lake Lucrine, and classically excellent they were; +London bottled porter, and half a dozen different kinds of wine. Our +dinner went off most gaily, but no order was kept afterwards: the purpose +of our expedition seemed to be forgotten in general mirth: many +witty things were said and done, and many merry ones, and not a few +silly ones. We visited the beautiful public walk and the platform of +the old temple of Hercules (I call it <i>old</i>, because it was a ruin when +Pompeii was entire); the Temple of Isis, the Theatres, the Forum, the +Basilica, the Amphitheatre, which is in a perfect state of preservation, +and more elliptical in form than any of those I have yet seen, and the +School of Eloquence, where R** mounted the rostrum, and gave us an +oration extempore, equally pithy, classical and comical. About sunset +we got into the carriages, and returned to Naples.</p> + +<p>Of all the heavenly days we have had since we came to Naples, this +has been the most heavenly: and of all the lovely scenes I have +beheld in Italy, what I saw to-day has most enchanted my senses and +imagination. The view from the eminence on which the old temple +stood, and which was anciently the public promenade, was splendidly +beautiful, the whole landscape was at one time overflowed with light +and sunshine, and appeared as if seen through an impalpable but dazzling +veil. Towards evening the outlines became more distinct: the +little white towns perched upon the hills, the gentle sea, the fairy +island of Rivegliano with its old tower, the smoking crater of Vesuvius, +the bold forms of Mount Lactarius and Cape Minerva, stood out full +and clear under the cloudless sky: as we returned, I saw the sun +sink behind Capri, which appeared by some optical illusion like a +glorious crimson transparency suspended above the horizon: the sky, +the earth, the sea, were flushed with the richest rose colour, which +gradually softened and darkened into purple: the short twilight faded +away, and the full moon, rising over Vesuvius, lighted up the scenery +with a softer radiance.</p> + +<p>Thus ended a day which was not without its pleasures:—yet had I +planned a party of pleasure to Pompeii, methinks I could have <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span>managed +better. <i>Par exemple</i>, I would have deferred it a fortnight later, +or till the vines were in leaf; I would have chosen for my companions +two or at most three persons whom I could name, whose cultivated +minds and happy tempers would have heightened their own enjoyment +and mine. After spending a few hours in taking a general view of +the whole city, we would have sat down on the platform of the old +Greek Temple which commands a view of the mountains and the bay; +or, if the heat were too powerful, under the shade of the hill near it. +There we would make our cheerful and elegant repast, on bread and +fruits, and perhaps a bottle of Malvoisie or Champagne: the rest of the +day should be devoted to a minute examination of the principal objects +of interest and curiosity: we would wait till the shadows of evening +had begun to steal over the scene, purpling the mountains and the sea; +we would linger there to enjoy all the splendours of an Italian sunset; +and then, with minds softened and elevated by the loveliness and solemnity +of the scenes around, we would get into our carriage, and drive +back to Naples beneath the bright full moon; and, by the way, we +would "talk the flowing heart," and make our recollections of the +olden time, our deep impressions of the past, heighten our enjoyment +of the present: and this would be indeed a day of <i>pleasure</i>, of such +pleasure as I think I am capable of feeling—of imparting—of remembering +with unmixed delight. Such was <i>not</i> yesterday.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>M** brought with him this evening, for our amusement, an old +man, a native of Cento, who gains his livelihood by a curious exhibition +of his peculiar talents. He is blind, and plays well on the violin: +he can recite the whole of the Gerusalemme from beginning to end +without missing a word: he can repeat any given stanza or number of +stanzas either forwards or backwards: he can repeat the last words +one after another of any stanzas: if you give him the first word and +the last, he can name immediately the particular line, stanza, and +book: lastly, he can tell instantly the exact number of words contained +in any given stanza. This exhibition was at first amusing; but as I +soon found that the man's head was a mere machine, that he was +destitute of imagination, and that far from feeling the beauty of the +poet, he did not even understand the meaning of the lines he thus +repeated up and down, and backwards and forwards, it ceased to +interest me after the first sensations of surprise and curiosity were +over.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>After I had read Italian with Signior B** this evening, he amused +me exceedingly by detailing to me the plan of two tragedies he is now +writing or about to write. He has already produced one piece on +the story of Boadicea, which is rather a drama than a regular tragedy.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span> +It was acted here with great success. After giving his drama due +praise, I described to him the plan and characters of Fletcher's Bonduca; +and attempted to give him in Italian some idea of the most +striking scenes of that admirable play: he was alternately in enchantment +and despair, and I thought he would have torn and bitten his +Boadicea to pieces, in the excess of his vivacity.</p> + +<p>The subject of one of his tragedies is to be the Sicilian Vespers. +Casimir Delavigne, who wrote <i>Les Vêpres Siciliennes</i>, which obtained +some years ago such amazing popularity at Paris, and in which the +national vanity of the French is flattered at the expense of the Italians, +received a pension from Louis XVIII. B** spoke with contempt of +Casimir Delavigne's tragedy, and with indignation of what he called +"his wilful misrepresentation of history." He is determined to give +the reverse of the picture: the French will be represented as "<i>gente +crudeli—tiranni—oppressori, senza fede</i>;" Giovanni di Procida, as a +hero and patriot, <i>à l'antique</i>, and the Sicilians as rising in defence of +their freedom and national honour. The other tragedy is to be +founded on the history of the famous <i>Congiura dei Baroni</i> in the reign +of Ferdinand the First, as related by Giannone. The simple facts of +this history need not any ornaments, borrowed from invention or +poetry, to form a most interesting tale, and furnish ample materials +for a beautiful tragedy, in incident, characters, and situations. B** +is a little man, dwarfish and almost deformed in person; but full of +talent, spirit, and enthusiasm. I asked him why he did not immediately +finish these tragedies, which appeared from the sketches he had +given me, so admirably calculated to succeed. He replied, that under +the present regime, he dared not write up to his own conceptions; and +if he curbed his genius, he could do nothing; "Besides," added he +mournfully, "I have no time; I am poor—poverissimo! I must +work hard all to-day to supply the wants of to-morrow: I am always +surveillé by the police, as a known liberal and <i>literato</i>." +"<i>Davvero</i>," added he, gaily, "I would soon do, or say, or write +something to attract the honour of their more particular notice, if I +could be certain they would only imprison me for a couple of years, +and ensure me during that time a blanket, bread and water, and the +use of pen and ink: then I would write! I would write! <i>dalla mattina +alla sera</i>; and thank my gaolers as my best friends: but pens +are poignards, ink is poison in the eyes of the present government; +imprisonment for life, or banishment, is the least I could expect. Now +the mere idea of imprisonment for life would kill me in a week, and +banishment!—<i>Ah lungi dallá mia bella Patria, come cantare! +come scrivere! come vivere! moriro io anzi nell' momento di +partire!</i>"</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span></p> +<p>I drove to-day, tête-à-tête with Laura, to the Lago d'Agnano, about +a mile and a half beyond Pausilippo. This lovely fair lake is not +more than two miles in circuit; and embosomed in romantic woody +hills: innumerable flocks of wild fowl were skimming over its surface, +and gave life and motion to the beautiful but quiet landscape. While +we were wandering here, enjoying the stillness and solitude, so delightfully +contrasted with the unceasing noise, bustle, and crowd of the +city, the charm was rudely broken by the appearance of the king; +who, attended by a numerous party of his guards and huntsmen, had +been wild boar shooting in the neighbouring woods. The waterfowl, +scared by the report of fire arms, speedily disappeared, and the +guards shouted to each other, and galloped round the smooth sloping +banks; cutting up the turf with their horses' hoofs, and deforming the +whole scene with uproar, confusion, and affright. Devoutly did I wish +them all twenty miles off. The famous Grotto del Cane is on the +south bank of the lake, a few yards from the edge of the water. We +saw the torch, when held in the vapour, instantaneously extinguished. +The ground all around the entrance of the grotto is hot to the touch; +and when I plunged my hand into the deleterious gas, which rises +about a foot, or a foot and a half, above the surface of the ground, it +was so warm I was glad to withdraw it. The disagreeable old woman +who showed us this place, brought with her a wretched dog with a +rope round his neck, bleared eyes, thin ribs, and altogether of a most +pitiful aspect. She was most anxious to exhibit the common but +cruel experiment of suspended animation, by holding his head over +the mephitic vapour, insisting that he was accustomed to it, and even +liked it; of course, we would not suffer it. The poor animal made no +resistance; only drooped his head, and put his tail between his legs, +when his tyrant attempted to seize him.</p> + +<p>Though now so soft, so lovely, and so tranquil, the Lago d'Agnano +owes its existence to some terrible convulsion of the elements. The +basin is the crater of a sunken volcano, which, bursting forth here, +swallowed up a whole city. And the whole region round, bears evident +marks of its volcanic origin.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>This morning we visited several churches, not one of them worthy +of a remark. The architecture is invariably in the vilest taste; and +the interior decorations, if possible, still worse: white-washing +gilding, and gaudy colours, every where prevail. We saw, however, +some good pictures. At the San Gennaro are the famous frescos of +Domenichino and Lanfranco: the church itself is hideous. At the +Girolomini there is no want of magnificence and ornament; but a +barbarous misapplication of both, as usual. The church of the convent +of Santa Chiara was painted in fresco by Ghiotto: it is now white-washed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span> +all over. At this church, which I first visited during the +merry days of the carnival, I saw a large figure of our Saviour suspended +on the cross, dressed in a crimson domino, and blue sash. To +what a pitch, thought I, must the love of white-washing and masquerading +be carried in this strange city, where the Deity himself is burlesqued, +and bad taste is carried to profanation! To-day I saw the +same crucifix in a suit of mourning; why should not our South Sea +missionaries come and preach here?</p> + +<p>The church of San Severo is falling to ruins, owing to some defect +in the architecture. It is only remarkable for containing three celebrated +statues. The man enveloped in a net, and the Pudicità draped +from head to foot, pleased me only as specimens of the patience and +ingenuity of the sculptor. The dead Christ covered with a veil, by +Corradini, has a merit of a higher class: it is most painful to look +upon; and affected me so strongly, that I was obliged to leave the +church, and go into the air.</p> + +<p>I went to-day with two agreeable and intelligent friends, to take +leave of the Studeo and the Museum. I have often resolved not to +make my little journal a mere catalogue of objects, which are to be +found in my pocket guide, and bought for a few pence; but I cannot +resist the temptation of making a few notes of admiration, and commemoration, +for my own peculiar use.</p> + +<p>The Gallery of Painting contains few pictures; but among them are +some master-pieces. The St. John of Leonardo da Vinci (exquisite +as it is, considered as a mere painting), provoked me. I am sick of +his eternal simpering face: the aspect is that of a Ganymede or a +young Bacchus; and if instead of <i>Ecce Agnus Dei</i>, they had written +over it, <i>Ecce vinum bonum</i>, all would have been in character.</p> + +<p>How I coveted the beautiful "Carità," the Capo d'Opera of Schidone!—and +next to it, Parmegiano's Gouvernante—a delicious picture. +A portrait of Columbus, said to be by the same master, is not +like him, I am sure; for the physiognomy is vacant and disagreeable. +Domenichino's large picture of the Angel shielding Innocence from a +Demon pleases me, as all his pictures do—but not perfectly: the devil +in the corner, with his fork, and hoofs, and horns, shocks my taste as +a ludicrous and vulgar idea, far removed from poetry; but the figure +of the angel stretching a shield over the infant, is charming. There are +also two fine Claudes, two Holy Families, by Raffaelle, in his sweetest +style; and one by Correggio, scarcely less beautiful.</p> + +<p>The Gallery of Sculpture is so rich in chef-d'œuvres, that to particularise +would be a vain attempt. Passing over those which every +one knows by heart, the statue of Aristides struck me most. It was +found in Herculaneum; and is marked with ferruginous stains, as if +by the action of fire or the burning lava; but it is otherwise uninjured,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span> +and the grave, yet graceful simplicity of the figure and attitude, and the +extreme elegance of the drapery, are truly Grecian. It is the union of +<i>power</i> with <i>repose</i>—of perfect <i>grace</i> with perfect <i>simplicity</i>, which distinguishes +the ancient from the modern style of sculpture. The sitting +Agrippina, for example, furnished Canova with the model for his statue +of Madame Letitia—the two statues are, in point of fact, nearly the +same, except that Canova has turned Madame Letitia's head a little on +one side; and by this single and trifling alteration has destroyed that +quiet and beautiful simplicity which distinguishes the original, and +given his statue at once a modern air.</p> + +<p>The Flora Farnese is badly placed, in a space too confined for its +size, and too near the eye; so that the exquisite harmony and delicacy +of the figure are partly lost in its colossal proportions: it should be +placed at the end of a long gallery or vista.</p> + +<p>There is here a statue of Nero when he was ten years old; from +which it would seem that he was not by nature the monster he afterwards +became. The features are beautiful; and the expression all +candour and sweetness.</p> + +<p>One statue struck me exceedingly—not by the choice of the subject, +nor the beauty of the workmanship, but from its wonderful force of +expression. It is a dying gladiator; but very different from the gladiator +of the Capitol. The latter declines gradually, and sickens into +death; but memory and feeling are not yet extinct: and what thoughts +may pass through that brain while life is thus languishing away! +what emotions may yet dwell upon the last beatings of that heart! it +is the <i>sentiment</i> which gives such profound pathos to that matchless +statue: but the gladiator of the Studii has only physical expression: it +is sudden death in all its horrors: the figure is still erect, though the +mortal blow has been given; the sword has dropt from the powerless +hand; the limbs are stiffening in death; the eyes are glazed; the features +fixed in an expression of mortal agony; and in another moment +you expect the figure to fall at your feet.</p> + +<p>The Venus, the Hercules, the Atlas, the Antinous (not equal to that +in the Capitol,) the Ganymede, the Apollo, the equestrian statues of the +two Balbi, etc. are all familiar to my imagination, from the numerous +copies and models I have seen: but the most interesting department of +the Museum is the collection of antiques from Herculaneum and Pompeii, +which have lately been removed hither from Portici. One room +contains specimens of cooking utensils, portable kitchens, tripods, instruments +of sacrifice, small bronze Lares, and Penates, urns, lamps, +and candelabras of the most elegant forms, and the most exquisite +workmanship. Another room contains specimens of ancient armour, +children's toys, etc. I remarked here a helmet which I imagine +formed part of a trophy; or at least was intended for ornament rather<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span> +than use. It is exceedingly heavy; and on it is represented in the +most exquisite relievo the War of Troy. Benvenuto Cellini himself +never produced any thing equal to the chased work on this helmet.</p> + +<p>In a third room is the paraphernalia of a lady's toilette: mirrors of +different sizes, fragments of combs, a small crystal box of rouge, +etc. Then follow flutes and pipes, all carved out of bone, surgical +instruments, moulds for pastry, sculptors' tools, locks and keys, bells, etc.</p> + +<p>The room containing the antique glass, astonished me more than any +thing else. I knew that glass was an ancient invention: but I thought +that its application to domestic purposes was of modern date. Here I +found window panes, taken from the Villa of Diomed at Pompeii; +bottles of every size and form, white and coloured; pitchers and vases; +necklaces; imitations of gems, etc.</p> + +<p>There is a little jeu d'esprit of Voltaire's "La Toilette de Madame +de Pompadour," in which he wittily exalts the moderns above the ancients, +and ridicules their ignorance of the luxuries and comforts of +life: but Voltaire had not seen the museum of Portici. We can add +few distinct articles to the list of comforts and luxuries it contains: +though it must be confessed that we have improved upon them, and +varied them <i>ad infinitum</i>. In those departments of the mechanics +which are in any way connected with the fine arts, the ancients appear +to have attained perfection. To them belongs the invention of +all that embellishes life, of all the graceful forms of imitative art, varied +with such exquisite taste, such boundless fertility of fancy, that nothing +is left to us but to refine upon their ideas, and copy their creations. +With all our new invented machines, and engines, we can do little +more than what the ancients performed without them.</p> + +<p>I ought not to forget one room containing some objects, more curious +and amusing than beautiful, principally from Pompeii, such as loaves +of bread, reduced to a black cinder, figs in the same state, grain of +different kinds, colours from a painter's room, ear-rings and bracelets, +gems, specimens of mosaic, etc. etc.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>March 7.</i>—Frattinto brought me to-day the last numbers of the +Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviews: a great treat so far from home. +Both contain some clever essays: among them, an article on prisons, +in the Edinburgh, interested me most.</p> + +<p>Methinks these two Reviews stalk through the literary world, like +the two giants in Pulci's Morgante Maggiore: the one pounding, slaying, +mangling, despoiling with blind fury, like the heavy orthodox +club-armed Morgante; the other, like the sneering, witty, half-pagan, +half-baptized Margutte, slashing and cutting, and piercing through +thick and thin; <i>à tort et à travers</i>. Truly the simile is more à-propos +than I thought when it first occurred to me.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span></p> + +<p>I went the other day to a circulating library and reading-room kept +here by a little cross French-woman, and asked to see a catalogue. +She showed me, first, a list of all the books, Italian, French, and English, +she was allowed to keep and sell: it was a thin pamphlet of about +one hundred pages. She then showed me the catalogue of prohibited +books, which was at least as thick as a good sized octavo. The book +to which I wished to refer, was the second volume of Robertson's +Charles the Fifth. After some hesitation, Madame P** led me into +a back room; and opening a sliding pannel, discovered a shelf let into +the wall, on which were arranged a number of authors, chiefly English +and French. I was not surprised to find Rousseau and Voltaire +among them; but am still at a loss to guess what Robertson has done +or written to entitle him to a place in such select company.</p> + +<p><i>8th.</i>—Forsyth might well say that Naples has no parallel on earth. +Viewed from the sea it appears like an amphitheatre of palaces, temples +and castles, raised one above another, by the wand of a necromancer: +viewed within, Naples gives me the idea of a vast Bartholomew +fair. No street in London is ever so crowded as I have seen the streets +of Naples. It is a crowd which has no pause or cessation: early in +the morning, late at night, it is ever the same. The whole population +seems poured into the streets and squares; all business and amusement +is carried on in the open air: all those minute details of domestic +life, which, in England, are confined within the sacred precincts of +<i>home</i>, are here displayed to public view. Here people buy and sell, +and work, wash, wring, brew, bake, fry, dress, eat, drink, sleep, etc. +etc. all in the open streets. We see every hour, such comical, indescribable +appalling sights; such strange figures, such wild physiognomies, +picturesque dresses, attitudes and groups—and eyes—no! +I never saw such eyes before, as I saw to-day, half languor and half +fire, in the head of a ruffian Lazzarone, and a ragged Calabrian beggar +girl. They would have <i>embrâsé</i> half London or Paris.</p> + +<p>I know not whether it be incipient illness, or the enervating effects +of this soft climate, but I feel unusually weak, and the least exertion +or excitement is not only disagreeable but painful. While the rest +were at Capo di Monte, I stood upon my balcony looking out upon +the lovely scene before me, with a kind of pensive dreamy rapture, +which if not quite pleasure, had at least a power to banish pain: and +thus hours passed away insensibly—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"As if the moving time had been<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A thing as stedfast as the scene,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On which we gazed ourselves away."<a name="FNanchor_N_14" id="FNanchor_N_14"></a><a href="#Footnote_N_14" class="fnanchor">[N]</a><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span></p> +<p>All my activity of mind, all my faculties of thought and feeling and +suffering, seemed lost and swallowed up in an indolent delicious reverie, +a sort of vague and languid enjoyment, the true "<i>dolce far +niente</i>" of this enchanting climate. I stood so long leaning on my +elbow without moving, that my arm has been stiff all day in consequence.</p> + +<p>"How I wish," said I this evening, when they drew aside the +curtain, that I might view the sunset from my sofa, and sky, earth +and ocean, seemed to commingle in floods of glorious light—"how I +wish I could transport those skies to England!" <i>Cruelle!</i> exclaimed +an Italian behind me, <i>ôtez-nous notre beau ciel, tout est perdu pour +nous</i>.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><b>THE LAST EVENING AT NAPLES</b><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yes, Laura! draw the shade aside<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And let me gaze—while yet I may,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Upon that gently heaving tide,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Upon that glorious sun-lit bay.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Land of Romance! enchanting shore!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fair scenes, near which I linger yet!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Never shall I behold ye more,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Never this last—last look forget!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What though the clouds that o'er me lour<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Have tinged ye with a mournful hue,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Deep in my heart I felt your power,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And bless ye, while I sigh—Adieu!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<p><i>Velletri, March 13.</i>—It is now a week since I opened my little +book. Ever since the 9th I have been seriously ill: and yesterday +morning I left Naples still low and much indisposed, but glad of a +change which should substitute any external excitement, however +painful, to that unutterable dying away of the heart and paralysis of +the mind which I have suffered for some days past. When we turned +into the Strada Chiaja, and I gave a last glance at the magnificent bay +and the shores all resplendent with golden light, I could almost have +exclaimed like Eve, "must I then leave thee, Paradise!" and dropped +a few natural tears—tears of weakness, rather than of grief: for what +do I leave behind me worthy one emotion of regret? Even at Naples, +even in this all-lovely land, "fit haunt for gods," has it not been with +me as it has been elsewhere? as long as the excitement of change and +novelty lasts, my heart can turn from itself "to luxuriate with indifferent +things:" but it cannot last long; and when it is over, I +suffer, I am ill: the past returns with tenfold gloom; interposing like +a dark shade between me and every object: an evil power seems to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span> +reside in every thing I see, to torment me with painful associations, +to perplex my faculties, to irritate and mock me with the perception +of what is lost to me: the very sunshine sickens me, and I am +forced to confess myself weak and miserable as ever. O time! how +slowly you move! how little you can do for me! and how bitter is +that sorrow which has no relief to hope but from time alone!</p> + +<p>Last night we reached Mola di Gaëta, which looked even more +beautiful than before, in the eyes of all but <i>one</i>, whose senses were +blinded and dulled by dejection, lassitude, and sickness. When I +felt myself passively led along the shore, placed where the eye might +range at freedom over the living and rejoicing landscape—when I +heard myself repeating mechanically the exclamations of others, and +felt no ray of beauty, no sense of pleasure penetrate to my heart—shall +I own, even to myself, the mixture of anguish and terror with +which I shrunk back, conscious of the waste within me? The conviction +that now it was all over, that the last and only pleasures +hitherto left to me had perished, that my mind was contracted by the +selfishness of despondency, and my quick spirit of enjoyment utterly +subdued into apathy, gave me for a moment a pang sharper than if a +keen knife had cut me to the quick; and then I relapsed into a kind +of torpid languor of mind and frame, which I thought was resignation, +and as such indulged it.</p> + +<p>From my bed this morning I stepped out upon my balcony just as +the sun was rising. I wished to convince myself whether the beauty +on which I had lately looked with such admiration and delight, had +indeed lost all power to touch my heart. The impression made upon +my mind at that instant I can only compare to the rolling away of a +palpable and suffocating cloud: every thing on which I looked had +the freshness and brightness of novelty: a glory beyond its own was +again diffused over the enchanting scene from the stores of my own +imagination: the sea breeze which blew against my temples new-strung +every nerve; and I left Mola with a heart so lightened and so +grateful, that not for hours afterwards, not till fatigue and hurry had +again wearied down my spirits, did that impression of happy thankfulness +pass away.</p> + +<p>I am sensible I owed this sudden renovation of health solely to the +contemplation of Nature; and a true feeling for all the "maggior +pompa" she has poured forth over this glorious region. The shores +of Terracina, the azure sea, dancing in the breeze, the waves rolling +to our feet, the sublime cliffs, the fleet of forty sail stretching away +till lost in the blaze of the horizon, the Circean promontory, even the +picturesque fisherman, whom we saw throwing his nets from an insulated +rock at some distance from the shore, and whom a very trifling +exertion of fancy might have converted into some sea divinity, a Glaucus,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span> +or a Proteus, formed altogether a picture of the most wonderful +and luxuriant beauty. In England there is a peculiar charm in the +soft aërial perspective, which even in the broadest glare of noonday, +blends and masses the forms of the distant landscape; and in that +mingling of colours into a cool neutral gray tint so grateful to the eye. +Hence it has happened that in some of the Italian pictures I have seen +in England, I have often been struck by what appeared to me a violence +in the colouring, and a sharp decision in the outline, o'erstepping +the modesty of nature—that is, of <i>English nature</i>: but there is +in this climate a prismatic splendour of tint, a glorious all-embracing +light, a vivid distinctness of outline, something in the reality more +gorgeous, glowing, and luxuriant, than poetry could dare to express, +or painting imitate.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Ah that such beauty, varying in the light<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of living nature, cannot be portrayed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By words, nor by the pencil's silent skill;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But is the property of those alone<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who have beheld it, noted it with care,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in their minds recorded it with love."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i11 smcap">Wordsworth.</span> +</div></div> + + +<p>And now we have left the enchanting south; myrtle-hedges, palm-trees, +orange-groves, bright Mediterranean, all adieu! How, under +other circumstances, should I regret you, with what reluctance +should I leave you, thus half explored, half enjoyed! but now other +thoughts engross me, the hard struggle to overcome myself, or at +least to appear the thing I am not.——</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>Man has done what he can to deform this lovely region. The most +horrible places we have yet met with are Itri and Fondi, which look +like recesses of depravity and dirt, and the houses more like the dens +and kennels of wild beasts, than the habitations of civilized human +beings. In fact, the populace of these towns consists chiefly of the +families of the briganti. The women we saw here were bold coarse +Amazons; and the few men who appeared had a slouching gait, and +looked at us from under their eyebrows with an expression at once +cunning and fierce. <a name="We" id="We"></a>We met many begging friars—horrible specimens +of their species: altogether I never beheld such a desperate +set of canaille as appear to have congregated in these two wretched +towns.</p> + +<p>At Mola I remarked several beautiful women. Their head-dress is +singularly graceful: the hair being plaited round the back of the head, +and there fastened with two silver pins, much in the manner of some of +the ancient statues. The costume of the peasantry, there, and all the +way to Rome, is very striking and picturesque. I remember one +woman whom I saw standing at her door spinning with her distaff:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span> +her long black hair, floating down from its confinement, was spread +over her shoulders; not hanging in a dishevelled and slovenly style, +but in the most rich and luxuriant tresses. Her attitude as she stood +suspending her work to gaze at <i>me</i>, as I gazed at her with open admiration, +was graceful and dignified; and her form and features would +have been a model for a Juno or a Minerva.<a name="FNanchor_O_15" id="FNanchor_O_15"></a><a href="#Footnote_O_15" class="fnanchor">[O]</a></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4"><b>LINES.</b></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Quenched is our light of youth!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And fled our days of pleasure,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When all was hope and truth,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And trusting—without measure.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Blindly we believed<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Words of fondness spoken—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cruel hearts deceived,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">So our peace was broken!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What can charm us more?<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Life hath lost its sweetness!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Weary lags the hour—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">"Time hath lost its fleetness!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">As the buds in May<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Were the joys we cherished,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sweet—but frail as they,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Thus they passed and perished!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And the few bright hours<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Wintry age can number,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sickly, senseless flowers,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Lingering through December!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><i>Rome, March 15.</i>—We arrived here yesterday morning about +one, after a short but delightful journey from Velletri. We have now +a suite of apartments in the Hotel d'Europe; and our accommodations +are in all respects excellent, almost equal to Schneiderf's at Florence.</p> + +<p>On entering Rome through the gate of the Lateran, I was struck by +the emptiness and stillness of the streets, contrasted with those of Naples; +and still more by the architectural grandeur and beauty which +everywhere met the eye. This is as it should be: the merry, noisy, +half-naked, merry-andrew set of ragamuffins which crowd the streets +and shores of Naples, would strangely misbecome the desolate majesty<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span> +of the "Eternal City." Though we now reside in the most fashionable +and frequented part of Rome, the sound of carts and carriages is seldom +heard. After nine in the evening a profound stillness reigns; and I +distinguish nothing from my window but the splashing of the Fountain +della Barchetta.</p> + +<p>The weather is lovely; we were obliged to close our Venetian +blinds against the heat at eight this morning, and afterwards we drove +to the gardens of the Villa Borghese, where we wandered about in +search of coolness and shade.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>26.</i>—I must now descend to the common occurrences of our every-day +life.</p> + +<p>For the last week we have generally spent the whole or part of the +morning, in some of the galleries of art; and the afternoon in the +gardens of the neighbouring villas. Those of the Villa Medici have +their vicinity to our inn, and their fine air to recommend them. From +the Villa Lanti, and the Monte Mario, we have a splendid view of the +whole city and Campagna of Rome. The Pope's gardens on the +Monte Cavallo, are pleasant, <a name="accessible" id="accessible"></a>accessible, and very private: the gardens +of the Villa Pamfili, are enchanting; but our usual haunt is the garden +of the Villa Borghese. In this delightful spot we find shade and +privacy, or sunshine and society, as we may feel inclined. To-day +it was intensely hot; but we found the cool sequestered walks and alleys +of cypress and ilex, perfectly delicious. I spread my shawl upon +a green bank carpeted with violets, and lounged in most luxurious indolence. +I had a book with me, but felt no inclination to read. The +soft air, the trickling and murmuring of innumerable fountains, the +urns, the temples, the statues—the localities of the scene—all dispose +the mind to a kind of vague but delightful reverie to which we "find +no end, in wandering mazes lost."</p> + +<p>In these gardens we frequently meet the Princess Pauline: sometimes +alone, but oftener surrounded by a cortège of beaux. She is no +longer the "Venere Vincitrice" of Canova; but her face, though faded, +is pretty and intelligent; and she still preserves the "andar celeste," +and all the distinguished elegance of her petite and graceful figure. +Of the stories told of her, I suppose one half <i>may</i> be true—and that +half is quite enough. She is rather more famous for her gallantries, +than for her bon-gout in the choice of her favourites; but it is justice +to Pauline to add, that her native benevolence of heart seems to have +survived all her frailties; and every one who speaks of her here, +even those who must condemn her, mention her in a tone of kindness, +and even of respect. She is still in deep mourning for the Emperor.</p> + +<p>The Villa Pamfili is about two miles from Rome on the other side of +the Monte Gianicolo. The gardens are laid out in the artificial style<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span> +of Italian gardening, a style which in England would horrify me as +in the vilest and most old-fashioned taste—stiff, cold, unnatural, and +altogether detestable. Through what inconsistency or perversity of +taste is it then, that I am enchanted with the fantastic elegance, and +the picturesque gaiety of the Pamfili gardens; where sportive art revels +and runs wild amid the luxuriance of nature? Or is it, as I would +rather believe, because these long arcades of verdure, these close <i>walls</i> +of laurel, pervious to the air, but impervious to the sunshine, these +broad umbrageous avenues and marble terraces, these paved grottoes +and ever trickling fountains, these gods and nymphs, and urns and +sarcophagi, meeting us at every turn with some classical or poetical association, +harmonize with the climate and the country, and the minds +of the people; and are <i>comfortable</i> and consistent as a well carpeted +drawing-room and a warm chimney-corner would be in England?</p> + +<p>"But it is all so artificial and unnatural"—Agreed;—so are our +yellow unsheltered gravel walks, meandering through smooth shaven +lawns, which have no other beauty than that of being dry when every +other place is wet; our shapeless flower-beds so elaborately irregular, +our clumps and dots of trees, and dwarfish shrubberies. I have seen +some over-dressed grounds and gardens in England, the perpetrations +of Capability Brown and his imitators, the landscape gardeners, quite as +bad as any thing I see here, only in a different style, and certainly +more adapted to England and English taste. I must confess, that in +these enchanting gardens of the Villa Pamfili, a little less "ingenuity +and artifice" would be better. I hate <i>mere</i> tricks and gimcrackery, +of which there are a few instances, such as their hydraulic music, +jets-d'eau—water-works that play occasionally to the astonishment of +children and the profit of the gardeners—but how different, after all, +are these Italia gardens to the miserable grandeur, and senseless, tasteless +parade of Versailles!</p> + +<p>In these gardens an interesting discovery has just been made; an +extensive burial place, or columbarium, in singular preservation. The +skeletons and ashes have not been removed. Some of the tombs are +painted in fresco, others floored with very pretty mosaic. The disposition +of the urns is curious: they are imbedded in the masonry of the +wall with moveable lids. On a tile I found the name of Sextus +Pompeius, in letters beautifully formed, and deeply and distinctly cut, +and an inscription which I was not Latinist enough to translate accurately, +but from which it appears that these columbaria belonged to a +branch of the Pompey family.</p> + +<p><i>27.</i>—To-day, after English chapel, I look a walk to the San Gregorio, +on the other side of the Palatine, which since I first came to +Rome has been to me a favourite and chosen spot. I sat down on the +steps of the church to rest, and enjoy at leisure the fine view of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span> +hill and ruins opposite. Arches on arches, a wilderness of desolation! +and mingled with massive fragments of the halls and towers of the +Cæsars, were young shrubs just putting on their brightest green, and +the almond-trees covered with their gay blossoms, and the cloudless +and resplendent skies bending over all.</p> + +<p>I tried to sketch the scene before me, but could not form a stroke. +I cannot now take a short walk without feeling its ill effects; and my +hand shook so much from nervous weakness, that after a few vain +efforts to steady it, I sorrowfully gave up the attempt. On returning +home by the Coliseum, and through the Forum and Capitol, I met +many things I should wish to remember. After all, what place is like +Rome, where it is impossible to move a step without meeting with +some incident or object to excite reflection, to enchant the eye, or interest +the imagination? Rome may yield to Naples or Florence in +mere external beauty; but every other spot on earth, Athens perhaps +alone excepted, must yield to Rome in interest.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>28.</i>—This morning we walked down to the studio of Mr. Wagenal, +to see the Ægina marbles; which, as objects of curiosity, interested +me extremely. These statues are on a smaller scale than I expected, +being not much more than half the size of life, but of better workmanship, +and in a style of sculpture altogether different from any thing +I ever saw before. They formed the ornaments of the pediment of the +Temple of Jupiter in the island of Ægina, and represented a group of +fighting and dying warriors, with an armed Pallas in the centre: but +the subject is not known.</p> + +<p>The execution of these statues must evidently be referred to the earliest +ages of Grecian art; to a period when sculpture was confined to +the exact imitation of natural forms. Several of the figures were extremely +spirited, and very correct both in design and execution; but +there is no attempt at grace, and a total deficiency of ideal beauty: in +the Pallas, especially, the drapery and forms are but one remove from +the cold formal Etruscan style, which in its turn is but one remove +from the yet more tasteless Egyptian. I think it was at the Villa Albani, +I saw the singular Etruscan basso-relievo which I was able to +compare mentally with what I saw to-day; and the resemblance in +<i>manner</i> struck me immediately. Thorwaldson is now restoring these +marbles in the most admirable style for the King of Bavaria, to whom +they were sold by Messrs. Cockerel and Linkh (the original discoverers) +for 8000<i>l.</i></p> + +<p>Gibson, the celebrated English sculptor, joined us while looking at +the Ægina marbles, and accompanied us to the studio of Pozzi, the +Florentine statuary. Here I saw several instances of that affected and +meretricious taste which prevails too much among the foreign sculptors.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span> +I remember one example almost ludicrous, a female Satyr with her +hair turned up behind and dressed in the last Parisian fashion; as if +she had just come from under the hands of Monsieur Hyppolite. By +the same hand which committed this odd solecism, I saw a statue of +Moses, now modelling in clay, which, if finished in marble in a style +worthy of its conception, and if not spoiled by some affected niceties +in the execution, will be a magnificent and sublime work of art.</p> + +<p>Gibson afterwards showed us round his own studio: his exquisite +group of Psyche borne away by the Zephyrs enchanted me. The necessity +which exists for supporting all the figures has rendered it impossible +to give them the same aërial lightness I have seen in paintings +of the same subject, yet they are all <i>but</i> aërial. Psyche was criticised +by two or three of our party; but I thought her faultless: she is a +lovely timid girl; and as she leans on her airy supporters, she seems +to contemplate her flight down the precipice, half-shrinking, though +secure. Mr. W** told me that in the original design, the left foot of +one of the Zephyrs rested upon the ground: and that Canova, coming +in by chance while Gibson was working on the model, lifted it up, and +this simple and masterly alteration has imparted the most exquisite +lightness to the attitude.</p> + +<p>Gibson was Canova's favourite pupil: he has quite the air of a +genius: plain features, but a countenance all beaming with fire, +spirit, and intelligence. His Psyche remains still in the model, as he +has not yet found a patron munificent enough to order it in marble; +at which I greatly wonder. Could I but afford to bestow seven hundred +pounds on my own gratification, I would have given him the +order on the spot.<a name="FNanchor_P_16" id="FNanchor_P_16"></a><a href="#Footnote_P_16" class="fnanchor">[P]</a></p> + +<p><i>30.</i>—Yesterday we dined <i>al fresco</i> in the Pamfili gardens: and +though our party was rather too large, it was well assorted, and the +day went off admirably. The queen of our feast was in high good +humour, and irresistible in charms; Frattino very fascinating, T** +was caustic and witty, W** lively and clever, Sir J** mild, intelligent, +and elegant, V**, as usual, quiet, sensible, and self-complacent, +L** as absurd and assiduous as ever. Every body played their part +well, each by a tacit convention sacrificing to the <i>amour propre</i> of the +rest. Every individual really occupied with his own particular <i>rôle</i>, +but all apparently happy, and mutually pleased. Vanity and selfishness, +indifference and ennui, were veiled under a general mask of good +humour and good breeding, and the flowery bonds of politeness and +gallantry held together those who knew no common tie of thought or +interest; and when parted (as they soon will be, north, south, east,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span> +and west), will probably never meet again in this world; and whether +they do or not, who thinks or cares!</p> + +<p>Our luxurious dinner, washed down by a competent proportion of +Malvoisie and Champagne, were spread upon the grass, which was +literally <i>flowery turf</i>, being covered with violets, iris, and anemones +of every dye. Instead of changing our plates, we washed them +in a beautiful fountain which murmured near us, having first, by a +libation, propitiated the presiding nymph for this pollution of her limpid +waters. For my own peculiar taste there were too many servants +(who on these occasions are always <i>de trop</i>), too many luxuries, too +much fuss; but considering the style and number of our party, it was +all consistently and admirably managed: the grouping of the company, +picturesque because unpremeditated, the scenery round, the +arcades, and bowers, and columns, and fountains, had an air altogether +quite poetical and romantic; and put me in mind of some of Watteau's +beautiful garden-pieces, and Stothard's fêtes-champêtres.</p> + +<p>To me the day was not a day of pleasure; for the small stock of +strength and spirits with which I set out was soon exhausted, and the +rest of the day was wasted in efforts to appear cheerful and support +myself to the end, lest I should spoil the general mirth: on all I looked +with complacency tinged with my habitual melancholy. What I +most admired was the delicious view, from an eminence in the wildest +part of the gardens, over the city and Campagna to the blue Apennines, +where Frascati and Albano peeped forth like nests of white +buildings glittering upon a rich back ground, tinted with blue and purple; +the hill where Cato's villa stood, and still called the Portian Hill, +and on the highest point the ruined temple of Jupiter Latialis visible +at the distance of seventeen miles, and shining in the setting sun like +burnished gold. What I most felt and enjoyed was the luxurious +temperature of the atmosphere, the purity and brilliance of the skies, +the delicious security with which I threw myself down on the turf +without fear of damp and cold, and the thankful consciousness, that +neither the light or worldly beings round me, nor the sadness which +weighed down my own heart, had quite deadened my once quick sense +of pleasure, but left me still some perception of the splendour and classical +interest of the glorious scenes around me, combined as it was with +all the enchantment of natural beauty—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">"——The music and the bloom<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And all the mighty ravishment of spring."<br /></span> +</div></div> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span></p> +<p style="margin-top: 2em;"><b>TOLSE AI MARTIRI OGNI CONFIN, CHI AL CORE TOGLIER POTEO +LA LIBERTA DEL PIANTO!</b></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O ye blue luxurious skies!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Sparkling fountains,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Snow-capp'd mountains,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Classic shades that round me rise!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Towers and temples, hills and groves,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Scenes of glory,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Fam'd in story,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the eye enchanted roves!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O thou rich embroider'd earth!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Opening flowers,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Leafy bowers,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sights of gladness, sounds of mirth!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Why to my desponding heart,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Darkly thinking,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Sadly sinking,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Can ye no delight impart?<a name="FNanchor_Q_17" id="FNanchor_Q_17"></a><a href="#Footnote_Q_17" class="fnanchor">[Q]</a><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><i>Sunday, 31.</i>—To-day the Holy week begins, and a kind of programma +of the usual ceremonies of each day was laid on my toilette +this morning. The bill of fare for this day runs thus:—</p> + +<p>"Domenica delle Palme, nel Capella Papale nel Palazzo Apostolico, +canta messa un Cardinal Prete. Il Sommo Pontefice fa la benedizione +delle Palme, con processione per la Sala Regia."</p> + +<p>I gave up going to the English service accordingly, and consented +to accompany R** and V** to the Pope's Chapel. We entered just +as the ceremony of blessing the palms was going on: a cardinal officiated +for the poor old pope, who is at present ill.</p> + +<p>After the palms had been duly blessed, they were carried in procession +round the splendid anti-chamber, called the Sala Regia; meantime +the chapel doors were closed upon them, and on their return, +they (not the palms, but the priests) knocked and demanded entrance +in a fine recitative; two of the principal voices replied from within; +the choir without sung a response, and after a moment's silence the +doors were opened, and the service went on.</p> + +<p>This was very trivial and tedious. Rospo said, very truly, that the +procession in Blue Beard was much better <i>got up</i>. All these processions +sound very fine in mere description, but in the reality there is +always something to disappoint or disgust; something which leaves +either a ludicrous or a painful impression on the mind. The old +priests and cardinals to-day looking like so many old beggar-women +dressed up in the cast-off finery of a Christmas pantomime, the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span>assistants +smirking and whispering, the singers grinning at each other +between every solemn strain of melody, and blowing their noses and +spitting about like true Italians—in short, the want of keeping in the +<i>tout ensemble</i> shocked my taste and my imagination, and, I may add, +better, more serious feelings. It is well to see these things once, that +we may not be cheated with fine words, but judge for ourselves. I +foresee, however, that I shall not be tempted to encounter any of the +more crowded ceremonies.</p> + +<p>I remarked that all the Italians wore black to-day.</p> + +<p>We spent the afternoon at the Vatican. We found St. Peter's almost +deserted; few people, no music, the pictures all muffled, and the +altars hung with black drapery. The scaffolding was preparing for +the ceremonies of the week; and, on the whole, St. Peter's appeared, +for the first time, disagreeable and gloomy.</p> + +<p><i>Monday, April 1.</i>—Non riconosco oggi la mia bella Italia! Clouds, +and cold, and rain, to which we have been so long unaccustomed, +seem unnatural; and deform that peculiar character of sunny loveliness +which belongs to this country: and, à-propos to climate, I may as well +observe now, that since the 1st of February, when we left Rome for +Naples, up to this present 1st of April, not one day has been so rainy +as to confine us to the house: and on referring to my memoranda of +the weather, I find that at Naples it rained one day for a few hours only, +and for about two hours on the morning we left it: since then, not a +drop of rain has fallen: all hot, cloudless, lovely weather. We have +been for the last three weeks in summer costume, and guard against +the heat as we should in England during the dog-days. To have an +idea of an Italian summer, Mr. W** says we must fancy the present +heat <i>quadrupled</i>.</p> + +<p>The day, notwithstanding, has been unusually pleasant, the afternoon, +<a name="though126" id="though126"></a>though not brilliant, was clear and soft; and we drove in the +open carriage first to the little church of Santa Maria della Pace, to see +Raffaelle's famous fresco, the Four Sybils. It is in the finest preservation, +and combines all his peculiar graces of design and expression. +The colouring has not suffered from time and damp like that of +the frescos in the Vatican, but it is at once brilliant and delicate. +Nothing can exceed the exquisite grace of the Sibilla Persica, nor the +beautiful drapery and inspired look of the Cumana. Fortunately, I +had never seen any copy or engraving of this master piece: its beauty +was to me enhanced by surprise and all the charm of novelty: and my +gratification was complete.</p> + +<p>We afterwards spent half an hour in the gardens of the Villa Lanti, +on the Monte Gianicolo. The view of Rome from these gardens is +superb: though the sky was clouded, the <a name="atmosphere" id="atmosphere"></a>atmosphere was perfectly +pure and clear: the eye took in the whole extent of ancient and <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span>modern +Rome; beyond it the Campagna, the Alban Hills, and the <a name="Apennines127" id="Apennines127"></a>Apennines, +which appeared of a deep purple, with pale clouds floating over +their summits. The city lay at our feet, silent, and clothed with the +daylight as with a garment—no smoke, no vapour, no sound, no motion, +no sign of life: it looked like a city whose inhabitants had been +suddenly petrified, or smitten by a destroying angel; and such was the +effect of its strange and solemn beauty, that, before I was aware, I felt +my eyes fill with tears as I looked upon it.</p> + +<p>I saw Naples from the Castle of Saint Elmo—setting aside the sea and +Mount Vesuvius, those unequalled features in that radiant picture—the +view of the <i>city</i> of Naples is not so fine as the view of Rome: it is, +comparatively, deficient in sentiment, in interest, and in dignity. +Naples wears on her brow the voluptuous beauty of a syren—Rome +sits desolate on her seven-hilled throne, "<i>the Niobe of Nations</i>."</p> + +<p>I wish I could have painted what I saw to-day <i>as</i> I saw it. Yet no—the +reality was perhaps too much like a picture to please in a picture: +the exquisite harmony of the colouring, the softness of the lights and +shades, the solemn death-like stillness, the distinctness of every form +and outline, and the classic interest attached to every noble object, +combined to form a scene, which hereafter, in the silence of my own +thoughts, I shall often love to recall and to dwell upon.</p> + +<p>To-night I read with Incoronati, the Fourth book of Dante, and two +of Petrarch's Canzoni "I' vo pensando," and "Verdi panni," making +notes from his explanations and remarks as I went along. These two +Canzoni I had selected as being among the most <i>puzzling</i> as well as +the most beautiful. Those are strangely mistaken, who from a superficial +study of a few of his amatory sonnets, regard Petrarch as a mere +love-sick poet, who spent his time in be-rhyming an obdurate mistress; +and those are equally mistaken who consider him as the poetical +votarist of an imaginary fair one. I know but little, even of the little +that is known of his life; for I remember being as much terrified by +the ponderous quartos of the Abbé de Sade, as I was discomfited and +disappointed by the flimsy octavo of Mrs. Dobson. I am now studying +Petrarch in his own works; and it seemeth to me, in my simple wit, +that such exquisite touches of truth and nature, such depth and purity +of feeling, such felicity of expression, such vivid yet delicate pictures +of female beauty, could spring only from a real and heartfelt passion. +We know too little of Laura: but it is probable, if she had always preserved +a stern and unfeeling indifference, she would not have so entirely +commanded the affections of a feeling heart; and had she yielded +she would not so long have preserved her influence.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Think you if Laura had been Petrarch's wife,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He would have written sonnets all his life?<br /></span> +</div></div> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span></p> +<p>In truth she appears to have been the most finished coquette of her +own or any other age.<a name="FNanchor_R_18" id="FNanchor_R_18"></a><a href="#Footnote_R_18" class="fnanchor">[R]</a></p> + +<p><i>3.</i>—What a delight it would be, if, at the end of a day like this, I +had <i>somebody</i> with whom I could talk over things—with whose feelings +and impressions I could compare my own—who would direct my +judgment, and assist me in arranging my ideas, and double every pleasure +by sharing it with me! What would have become of me if I had +not thought of keeping a Diary? I should have died of a sort of mental +repletion! What a consolation and employment has it been to me +to let my overflowing heart and soul exhale themselves on paper! +When I have neither power nor spirits to join in common-place conversation, +I open my dear little Diary, and feel, while my pen thus +swiftly glides along, much less as if I were writing than as if I were +speaking—yes! speaking to one who perhaps will read this when I am +no more—but not till <i>then</i>.</p> + +<p>I was well enough to <i>walk</i> up to the Rospigliosi Palace this morning +to see Guido's Aurora: it is on the ceiling of a pavilion: would it +were not! for I looked at it till my neck ached, and my brain turned +round "like a parish top." I can only say that it far surpassed my +expectations: the colouring is the most brilliant, yet the most harmonious, +in the world: and there is a depth, a strength, a richness in the +tints, not common to Guido's style. The whole is as fresh as if painted +yesterday; though Guido must have died sometime about 1640.</p> + +<p>On each side of the hall or pavilion adorned by the Aurora, there is +a small room, containing a few excellent pictures. The Triumph of +David, by Domenichino, a fine rich picture; an exquisite Andromeda, +by Guido, painted with his usual delicacy and sentiment; the twelve +Apostles, by Rubens, some of them very fine; "the Five Senses," said +to be by Carlo Cignani, but if so he has surpassed himself: it is like +Domenichino. The Death of Samson, by L. Carracci, wearies the eye +by the number and confusion of the figures: it has no principal group +upon which the attention can rest. There is also a fine portrait of +Nicolo Poussin, by himself, and an interesting head of Guido.</p> + +<p>At three o'clock we went down to the Capella Sistina to hear the +Miserere. In describing the effect produced by this divine music, the +time, the place, the scenic contrivance should be taken into account: +the time—solemn twilight, just as the shades begin to fall around: the +place—a noble and lofty hall where the terrors of Michel Angelo's Last +Judgment are rendered more terrible by the gathering gloom, and his +sublime Prophets frown dimly upon us from the walls above. The +extinguishing of the tapers, the concealed choir, the angelic voices<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span> +chosen from among the finest in the world, and blended by long practice +into the most perfect unison, were combined to produce that overpowering +effect which has so often been described. Many ladies wept, +and one fainted. Unassisted vocal music is certainly the finest of all: no +power of instruments could have thrilled me like the blended stream +of melancholy harmony, breathed forth with such an expression of +despairing anguish, that it was almost too much to bear.</p> + +<p><i>Good-Friday.</i>—I saw more new, amusing, and delightful things +yesterday, than I can attempt to describe or even enumerate: but I +think there is no danger of my forgetting general impressions: if my +memory should fail me in particulars, my imagination can always recall +the whole.</p> + +<p>In the morning I declined going to see the ceremonies at the Vatican. +The procession of the host from the Sistine to the Pauline Chapel; the +washing of the Pilgrims' feet, etc.—all these things are less than indifferent +to me; and the illness and absence of the poor old pope rendered +them particularly uninteresting. Every body went but myself; +and it was agreed that we should all meet at the door of the Sistine +Chapel at five o'clock. I remained quietly at home on my sofa till one; +and then drove to the Museum of the Vatican, where I spent the rest +of the day; it was a grand festa, and the whole of the Vatican, including +the immense suite of splendid libraries, was thrown open to the +public. All the foreigners in Rome having crowded to St. Peter's, or the +chapels, to view the ceremonies going on, I was the only stranger amidst +an assemblage of the common people and peasantry, who had come to +lounge there till the lighting up of the Cross. I walked on and on, hour after +hour, lost in amazement, and wondering where and when this glorious +labyrinth was to end; successive galleries fitted up with the gay splendour +of an Oriental Haram, in which the books and manuscripts are all arranged +and numbered in cases; the beautiful perspective of hall beyond +hall vanishing away into immeasurable distance; the refulgent light +shed overall; and add to this, the extraordinary visages and costumes +of the people, who with their families wandered along in groups or +singly, all behaving with the utmost decorum, and making emphatic +exclamations on the beauties around them. "<i>Ah! che bella cosa! Cosa +rara! O bella assai!</i>" all furnished me with such ample matter for +amusement, and observation, and admiration, that I was insensible to +fatigue, and knew not that in five hours I had scarcely completed the +circuit of the Museum.</p> + +<p>One room (the Camera del Papiri) struck me particularly: it is a +small octagon, the ceiling and ornaments painted by Raffaelle Mengs +with exquisite taste. The group on the ceiling represents the Muse of +History writing, while her book reposes on the wings of Time, and a +Genius supplies her with materials: the pannels of this room are formed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span> +of old manuscripts, pasted up against the walls and glazed. The effect +of the whole is as singular as beautiful.</p> + +<p>A new gallery of marbles has lately been opened by the Pope, +called from its form the <i>Sala della Croce</i>: in splendid, classical, and +tasteful decoration, it equals any of the others, but is not, perhaps, so +remarkable for the intrinsic value of its contents.</p> + +<p>I never more deeply felt my own ignorance and deficiencies than I +did to-day. I saw so many things I did not understand, so much +which I wished to have explained to me, I longed so inexpressibly for +someone to talk to, to exclaim to, to help me to wonder, to admire, +to be <i>extasiée</i>! but I was alone: and I know not how it is, or why, +but when I am alone, not only my powers of enjoyment seem to fail +me in a degree, but even my mental faculties; and the multitude of my +own ideas and sensations confuse, oppress, and irritate me.</p> + +<p>I walked through the whole gyro of the Museum, examining the +busts and pictures particularly, with the help of Este's admirable catalogue +raisonnée, and at half-past five I reached the Sistine just in time +to hear the second Miserere: neither the music nor the effort were +equal to the first evening. The music, though inferior to Allegri's, was +truly beautiful and sublime; but the scenic pageantry did not strike so +much on repetition: the chapel was insufferably crowded, I was sick +and stupid from heat and fatigue, and to crown all, just in the midst of +one of the most overpowering strains, the cry of condemned souls +pleading for mercy, which made my heart pause, and my flesh creep—a +lady behind me whispered loudly, "Do look what lovely broderie +Mrs. L** has on her white satin spencer!"</p> + +<p>After the Miserere, we adjourned to St. Peter's, to see the illumination +of the Girandola. I confess the first glance disappointed me; for +the cross, though more than thirty feet in height, looks trivial and diminutive, +compared with the immensity of the dome in which it is suspended; +but just as I was beginning to admire the sublime effect of the +whole scene, I was obliged to leave the church, being unable to stand +the fatigue any longer.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>To-day we have remained quietly at home, recruiting after the exertions +of yesterday. After dinner, Colonel —— and Mr. W** began +to discuss the politics of Italy, and from abusing the governments +they fell upon the people; and being of very opposite principles and +parties, they soon began an argument which ended in a warm dispute, +and sent me to take refuge in my own room. How I detest politics +and discord! How I hate the discussion of politics in Italy! and, +above all, the discussion of Italian politics, which offer no point upon +which the mind can dwell with pleasure. I have not wandered to +Italy—"this land of sun-lit skies and fountains clear," as Barry<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span> +Cornwall calls it, only to scrape together materials for a quarto tour, +or to sweep up the leavings of the "fearless" Lady Morgan; or to dwell +upon the heart-sickening realities which meet me at every turn; evils +of which I neither understand the cause nor the cure. And yet say +not to Italy</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Caduta è la tua gloria—e tu nol' vedi!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>She does see it,—she does feel it. A spirit is silently and gradually +working its way beneath the surface of society, which must, erelong, +break forth either for good or for evil. Between a profligate and servile +nobility, and a degraded and enslaved populace, a middle class has +lately sprung up; the men of letters, the artists, the professors in the +sciences, who have obtained property, or distinction at least, in the +commotions which have agitated their country, and those who have +served at home or abroad in the revolutionary wars. These all seem +impelled by one and the same spirit; and make up for their want of +numbers by their activity, talents, enthusiasm, and the secret but increasing +influence which they exert over the other classes of society. +But on subjects like these, however interesting, I have no means of +obtaining information at once general and accurate: and I would rather +not think, nor speak, nor write, upon "matters which are too high for +me." Let the modern Italians be what they may,—what I hear them +styled six times a day at least—a dirty, demoralized, degraded, unprincipled +race,—centuries behind our thrice-blessed, prosperous, and +comfort-loving nation in civilization and morals; if I were come +among them as a resident, this picture might alarm me; situated as I +am, a nameless sort of person, a mere bird of passage, it concerns me +not. I am not come to spy out the nakedness of the land, but to implore +from her healing airs and lucid skies the health and peace I have +lost, and to worship as a pilgrim at the tomb of her departed glories.—I +have not many opportunities of studying the national character; I +have no dealings with the lower classes, little intercourse with the +higher. No tradesmen cheat me, no hired menials irritate me, no +innkeepers fleece me, no postmasters abuse me. I love these rich +delicious skies; I love this genial sunshine, which, even in December, +sends the spirits dancing through the veins; this pure elastic atmosphere, +which not only brings the distant landscape, but almost heaven +itself nearer to the eye; and all the treasures of art and nature which +are poured forth around me; and over which my own mind, teeming +with images, recollections, and associations, can fling a beauty even +beyond their own. I willingly turn from all that excites the spleen +and disgust of others; from all that may so easily be despised, derided—reviled, +and abandon my heart to that state of calm benevolence +towards all around me, which leaves me undisturbed, to enjoy, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span>admire, +observe, reflect, remember, with pleasure, if not with profit, and +enables me to look upon the glorious scenes with which I am surrounded, +not with the impertinent inquisition of a book-maker, nor +the gloomy calculations of a politician, nor the sneering selfism of a +Smelfungus—but with the eye of the painter, and the feeling of the +poet.</p> + +<p>A-propos to poets!—Lady C** has just sent us tickets for Sestini's +Accademia to-morrow night. So far from the race of Improvvisatori +being extinct, or living only in the pages of Corinne, or in the memory +of the Fantastici, and the Bandinelli, the Gianas, and the Corillas of +other days,—there is scarcely a small town in Italy, as I am informed, +without its Improvvisatore; and I know several individuals in the +higher classes of society, both here, and at Florence more particularly, +who are remarkable for possessing this extraordinary talent—though, +of course, it is only exercised for the gratification of a private circle. +Of those who make a public exhibition of their powers, Sgricci and +Sestini are the most celebrated—and of these Sgricci ranks first. I +never heard him; but Signior Incoronati, who knows him well, +described to me his talents and powers as almost supernatural. A +wonderful display of his art was the <i>improvvisazione</i>—we have no +English word for a talent which in England is unknown,—of a regular +tragedy on the Greek model, with the choruses and dialogue complete. +The subject proposed was from the story of Ulysses, which +afforded him an opportunity of bringing in the whole sonorous nomenclature +of the Heathen Mythology,—which, says Forsyth, enters in the +web of every improvvisatore, and assists the poet both with rhymes and +ideas. Most of the celebrated improvvisatori have been Florentines: +Sgricci is, I believe, a Neapolitan, and his rival Sestini a Roman.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>April 7.</i>—Any public exhibition of talent in the Fine Arts is here +called an <i>Accademia</i>. Sestini gave his Accademia in an anti-chamber +of the Palazzo ——, I forget its name, but it was much like all +the other <i>palaces</i> we are accustomed to see here; exhibiting the same +strange contrast of ancient taste and magnificence, with present +meanness and poverty. We were ushered into a lofty room of noble +size and beautiful proportions, with its rich fresco-painted walls and +ceiling faded and falling to decay; a common brick floor, and sundry +window panes broken, and stuffed with paper. The room was nearly +filled by the audience, amongst whom I remarked a great number of +English. A table with writing implements, and an old shattered +jingling piano, occupied one side of the apartment, and a small space +was left in front for the poet. Whilst we waited with some impatience +for his appearance, several persons present walked up to the table and +wrote down various subjects; which on Sestini's coming forward, he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span> +read aloud, marking those which were distinguished by the most general +applause. This selection formed our evening's entertainment. +A lady sat down in her bonnet and shawl to accompany him; and when +fatigued, another fair musician readily supplied her place. It is seldom +that an improvvisatore attempts to recite without the assistance +of music. When Dr. Moore heard Corilla at Florence, she sung to +the accompaniment of two violins.<a name="FNanchor_S_19" id="FNanchor_S_19"></a><a href="#Footnote_S_19" class="fnanchor">[S]</a> La Fantastici preferred the guitar; +and I should have preferred either to our jingling harpsichord. However, +a few chords struck at intervals were sufficient to support the +voice, and mark the time. Several airs were tried, and considered +before the poet could fix on one suited to his subject and the measure +he intended to employ. In general they were pretty and simple, consisting +of very few notes, and more like a chant or recitative, than a +regular air: one of the most beautiful I have obtained, and shall bring +with me to England.</p> + +<p>The moment Sestini had made his choice, he stepped forward, and +without further pause or preparation, began with the first subject upon +his list,—"<i>Il primo Navigatore</i>."</p> + +<p>Gesner's beautiful Idyl of "<i>The First Navigator</i>," supplied Sestini +with the Story, in all its details; but he versified it with surprizing facility: +and, as far as I could judge, with great spirit and elegance. +He added, too, some trifling circumstances, and several little <i>traits</i>, +the naïveté of which afforded considerable amusement. When an +accurate rhyme, or apt expression, did not offer itself on the instant it +was required, he knit his brows and clenched his fingers with impatience; +but I think he never hesitated more than half a second. At +the moment the chord was struck, the rhyme was ready. In this +manner he poured forth between thirty and forty stanzas, with still +increasing animation; and wound up his poem with some beautiful +images of love, happiness, and innocence. Of his success I could form +some idea by the applauses he received from better judges than +myself.</p> + +<p>After a few minutes' repose and a glass of water, he next called on +the company to supply him with rhymes for a sonnet. These, as fast +as they were suggested by various persons, he wrote down on a slip of +paper. The last rhyme given was "<i>Ostello</i>,"—(a common alehouse)—at +which he demurred, and submitting to the company the +difficulty of introducing so vulgar a word into an heroic sonnet, respectfully +begged that another might be substituted. A lady called out +"<i>Avello</i>" the poetical term for a grave, or a sepulchre, which expression<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span> +bore a happy analogy to the subject proposed. The poet smiled, +well pleased;—and stepping forward with the paper in his hand, he +immediately, without even a moment's preparation, recited a sonnet on +the second subject upon his list,—"<i>La Morte di Alfieri</i>."—I could +better judge of the merit of this effusion, because he spoke it unaccompanied +by music; and his enunciation was remarkably distinct. The +subject was popular, and treated with much feeling and poetic fervour. +After lamenting Alfieri as the patriot, as well as the bard, and as the +glory of his country, he concluded, by indignantly repelling the supposition +that "the latest sparks of genius and freedom were buried in +the tomb of Vittorio Alfieri." A thunder of applause followed; and +cries of "O bravo Sestini! bravo Sestini!" were echoed from the Italian +portion of the audience, long after the first acclamations had subsided. +The men rose simultaneously from their seats; and I confess I could +hardly keep mine. The animation of the poet, and the enthusiasm of +the audience, sent a thrill through every nerve and filled my eyes with +tears.</p> + +<p>The next subject was "<i>La Morte di Beatrice Cenci</i>;"—and this, +I think, was a failure. The frightful story of <i>Cenci</i> is too well known +in England since the publication of Shelley's Tragedy. Here it is familiar +to all classes; and though two centuries have since elapsed, it +seems as fresh in the memory, or rather in the imagination of these +people, as if it had happened but yesterday. The subject was not well +chosen for a public and mixed assembly; and Sestini, without adverting +to the previous details of horror, confined himself most scrupulously, +with propriety, to the subject proposed. He described Beatrice led to +execution,—"<i>con baldanza casta e generosa</i>"—and the effect produced +on the multitude by her youth:—not forgetting to celebrate +"<i>those tresses like threads of gold whose wavy splendour dazzled all +beholders</i>," as they are described by a contemporary writer. He put into +her mouth a long and pious dying speech, in which she expressed her +trust in the blessed Virgin, and her hopes of pardon from eternal justice +and mercy. To my surprise, he also made her in one stanza confess +and repent the murder, or rather sacrifice,<a name="FNanchor_T_20" id="FNanchor_T_20"></a><a href="#Footnote_T_20" class="fnanchor">[T]</a> which she had perpetrated; +which is contrary to the known fact, that Beatrice <i>never</i> confessed to +the last moment of existence, nor gave any reason to suppose that she +repented. The whole was drawn out to too great a length, and, with +the exception of a few happy touches, and pathetic sentiments, went off +flatly. It was very little applauded.</p> + +<p>The next subject was the "<i>Immortality of the Soul</i>," on which the +poet displayed amazing pomp and power of words, and a wonderful<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span> +affluence of ideas. He showed, too, an intimate acquaintance with all +that had ever been said, or sung, upon the same subject, from Plato to +Thomas Aquinas. I confess I derived little benefit from all this display +of poetry and erudition; for, after the first few stanzas, finding himself +irretrievably perplexed by the united difficulties of the language and +the subject, I withdrew my attention, and amused myself with the +paintings on the walls, and with reveries on the past and present, till I +was roused by the acclamations that followed the conclusion of the poem; +which excited very general admiration and applause.</p> + +<p>The company then furnished the <i>bouts-rimés</i> for another sonnet: +the subject was "<i>L'Amor della Patria</i>." The title, even before he +began, was hailed by a round of plaudits; and the sonnet itself was +excellent and spirited. <i>Excellent</i> I mean in its general effect, as an +<i>improvvisazione</i>:—how it would stand the test of cool criticism I cannot +tell; nor is that any thing to the purpose: these extemporaneous +effusions ought to be judged merely as what they are,—not as finished +or correct poems, but as wonderful exercises of tenacious memory, +ready wit, and that quickness of imagination which can soar</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">——"al bel cimento<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sulle ali dell' momento."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>To return to Sestini. It may be imagined, that on such a subject as +"<i>L'Amor della Patria</i>," the ancient Roman worthies were not forgotten, +and accordingly, a Brutus, a Scipio, a Fabius, or a Fabricius, +figured in every line. And surely on no occasion could they have +been more appropriately introduced:—in Rome, and when addressing +Romans, who showed, by their enthusiastic applause, that though the +spirit of their forefathers may be extinct, their memory is not.</p> + +<p>The next subject, which formed a sort of <i>pendant</i> to the Cenci, was +the "<i>Parricide of Tullia</i>." In this again his success was complete. +The stanza in which Tullia ordered her charioteer to "drive on," was +given with such effect as to electrify us: and a sudden burst of approbation +which caused a momentary interruption, evidently lent the +poet fresh spirits and animation.</p> + +<p>The evening concluded with a lively burlesque, entitled "<i>Il Mercato +d'Amore</i>" which represented Love as setting up a shop to sell +"<i>la Mercanzia della Gioventù</i>." The list of his stock in trade, though +it could not boast of much originality, was given with admirable wit +and vivacity. In conclusion, Love being threatened with a bankruptcy, +took shelter, as the poet assured us, in the bright eyes of the ladies +present. This farewell compliment was prettily turned, and intended, +of course, to be general: but it happened, luckily for Sestini, that just +opposite to him, and fixed upon him at the moment, were two of the +brightest eyes in the world. Whether he owed any of his inspiration to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span> +their beams I know not; but the <i>à-propos</i> of the compliment was +seized immediately, and loudly applauded by the gentlemen round +us.</p> + +<p>Sestini is a young man, apparently about five-and-twenty: of a +slight and delicate figure, and in his whole appearance, odd, wild, and +picturesque. He has the common foreign trick of running his fingers +through his black bushy hair; and accordingly it stands on end in all +directions. A pair of immense whiskers, equally black and luxuriant, +meet at the point of his chin, encircling a visage of most cadaverous +hue, and features which might be termed positively ugly, were it not +for the "<i>vago spirito ardento</i>" which shines out from his dark eyes, +and the fire and intelligence which light up his whole countenance, till +it almost kindles into beauty. Though he afterwards conversed with +apparent ease, and replied to the compliments of the company, he was +evidently much exhausted by his exertions. I should fear that their +frequent repetition, and the effervescence of mind, and nervous excitement +they cannot but occasion, must gradually wear out his delicate +frame and feeble temperament, and that the career of this extraordinary +genius will be short as it is brilliant.<a name="FNanchor_U_21" id="FNanchor_U_21"></a><a href="#Footnote_U_21" class="fnanchor">[U]</a></p> + +<p><i>April 8.</i>—As Maupertuis said after his journey to Lapland—for the +universe I would not have missed the sights and scenes of yesterday; +but, for the whole universe, I would not undergo such another day of +fatigue, anxiety, and feverish excitement.</p> + +<p>In the morning about ten o'clock, we all went down to St. Peter's, +to hear high mass. The absence of the Pope (who is still extremely +ill) detracted from the interest and dignity of the ceremony: there was +no general benediction from the balcony of St. Peter's; and nothing +pleased me, except the general <i>coup d'œil</i>; which in truth was splendid. +The theatrical dresses of the mitred priests, the countless multitude +congregated from every part of Christendom, in every variety of +national costume, the immensity and magnificence of the church, and +the glorious sunshine—all these enchanted the eye; but I could have +fancied myself in a theatre. I saw no devotion, and I felt none. The +whole appeared more like a triumphal pageant acted in honour of a +heathen deity, than an act of worship and thanksgiving to the Great +Father of all.</p> + +<p>I observed an immense number of pilgrims, male and female, who +had come from various parts of Italy to visit the shrine of St. Peter on +this grand occasion. I longed to talk to a man who stood near me, +with a very singular and expressive countenance, whose cape and +looped hat were entirely covered with scallop shells and reliques, and +his long staff surmounted by a death's head.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span></p> + +<p>I was restrained by a feeling which I now think rather ridiculous: +I feared, lest by conversing with him, I should diminish the effect his +romantic and picturesque figure had made on my imagination.</p> + +<p>The exposition of the relics was from a balcony half way up the +dome, so high and distant that I could distinguish nothing but the impression +of our Saviour's face on the handkerchief of St. Veronica, +richly framed—at the sight whereof the whole multitude prostrated +themselves to the earth: the other relics I forget, but they were all +equally marvellous and equally credible.</p> + +<p>We returned after a long fatiguing morning to an early dinner; +and then drove again to the Piazza of St. Peter's, to see the +far-famed illumination of the church. We had to wait a considerable +time; but the scene was so novel and beautiful, that I found +ample amusement in my own thoughts and observations. The twilight +rapidly closed round us: the long lines of statues along the roof and +balustrades, faintly defined against the evening sky, looked like spirits +come down to gaze; a prodigious crowd of carriages, and people on +foot, filled every avenue: but all was still, except when a half-suppressed +murmur of impatience broke through the hushed silence of +suspense and expectation. At length, on a signal, which was given +by the firing of a cannon, the whole of the immense façade and dome, +even up to the cross on the summit, and the semicircular colonnades +in front, burst into a blaze, as if at the touch of an enchanter's wand; +adding the pleasure of surprise to that of delight and wonder. The +carriages now began to drive rapidly round the piazza, each with a +train of running footmen, flinging their torches round and dashing +them against the ground. The shouts and acclamations of the crowd, +the stupendous building with all its architectural outlines and projections, +defined in lines of living flame, the universal light, the sparkling +of the magnificent fountains—produced an effect far beyond any thing +I could have anticipated, and more like the gorgeous fictions of the +Arabian Nights, than any earthy reality.</p> + +<p>After driving round the piazza, we adjourned to a balcony which had +been hired for us overlooking the Tiber, and exactly opposite to the +Castle of St. Angelo. Hence we commanded a view of the fireworks, +which were truly superb, but made me so nervous and giddy with +noise and light and wonder, that I was rejoiced when all was over. +A flight of a thousand sky-rockets sent up at once, blotting the stars +and the moonlight—dazzling our eyes, stunning our ears, and amazing +all our senses together, concluded the Holy Week at Rome.</p> + +<p>To-morrow morning we start for Florence, and to-night I close this +second volume of my Diary. Thanks to my little ingenious Frenchmen +in the Via Santa Croce, I have procured a lock for a third volume,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span> +almost equal to my patent <i>Bramah</i> in point of security, though very +unlike it in every other respect.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>Viterbo</i>, <i>April 9.</i>—"In every bosom Italy is the <i>second</i> country +in the world, the surest proof that it is in reality the <i>first</i>."</p> + +<p>This elegant and just observation occurs, I think, in Arthur Young's +travels; I am not sure I quote the words correctly, but the sense will +come home to every cultivated mind with the force of a proverbial +truism.</p> + +<p>One leaves Naples as a man parts with an enchanting mistress, +and Rome as we would bid adieu to an old and dear-loved friend. I +love it, and grieve to leave it for its own sake; it is painful to quit a +place where we leave behind us many whom we love and regret; and +almost or quite as painful, I think, to quit a place in which we leave +behind us no one to regret, or think of us more; a feeling like this +mingled with the sorrow with which I bade adieu to Rome this +morning.</p> + +<p>Our journey has been fatiguing, <i>triste</i>, and tedious.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>Radicofani</i>, <i>10th.</i>—I could almost regret at this moment that I am +past the age of romance, for I am in a fine situation for mysterious +and imaginary horrors, could I but feel again as I did at gay sixteen; +but, alas! <i>ces beaux jours sont passés</i>! and here I am on the top of a +dreary black mountain, in a rambling old inn which looks like a ci-devant +hospital or dismantled barracks, in a bed-room which resembles +one of the wards of a poor-house, one little corner lighted by my lamp, +and the other three parts all lost in black ominous darkness; while a +tempest rages without as if it would break in the rattling casements, +and burst the roof over our heads; and yet, insensible that I am! I +can calmly take up my pen to amuse myself by scribbling, since +sleep is impossible. I can look round my vast and solitary room +without fancying a ghost or an assassin in every corner, and listen to +the raving and lamenting of the storm, without imagining I hear in +every gust the shrieks of wailing spirits, or the groans of murdered +travellers; only wishing that the wind were rather less cold, or my +fire a little brighter, or my dormitory less <i>infinitely</i> spacious; for at +present its boundaries are invisible.</p> + +<p>The first part of our journey this morning was delightful and picturesque; +we passed the beautiful lake of Bolsena and Montepulciano, +so famous for its wine (<i>il Rei di Vino</i>, as Redi calls it in the <i>Bacco +in Toscana</i>). Later in the day we entered a gloomy and desolate +country; and after crossing the rapid and muddy torrent of Rigo, which, +as our <i>Guide des Voyageurs</i> wittily informs us, we shall have to cross<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span> +<i>four</i> times if we are not drowned the <i>third</i> time, we began to ascend +the mountainous region which divides the Tuscan from the Roman +states—a succession of wild barren hills, intersected in every direction +by deep ravines, and presenting a scene, sublime indeed from its waste +and wild grandeur, but destitute of all beauty, interest, magnificence +and variety.</p> + +<p>I remember the strange emotion which came across me, when—on +the horses stopping to breathe on the summit of a lofty ridge, where +all around, as far as the eye could reach, nothing was to be seen but +the same unvarying, miserable, heart-sinking barrenness, without a +trace of human habitation, except the black fort or the highest point of +Radicofani—a soft sound of bells came over my ear as if brought +upon the wind. There is something in the sound of bells in the +midst of a solitude which is singularly striking, and may be cheering +or melancholy, according to the mood in which we may happen +to be.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>Florence, April 14.</i>—I have not written a word since we arrived +at Sienna. What would it avail me to keep a mere journal of suffering? +O that I could change as others do, could forget that such things +have been which can never be again! that there were not this tenacity +in my heart and soul which clings to the shadow though the substance +be gone!</p> + +<p>This is not a mere effusion of low spirits; I was never more cheerful. +I have just left a gay party, where Mr. Rogers (whom by special good +fortune we meet at every resting-place, and who dined with us to-day) +has been entertaining us delightfully. I disdain low spirits as a mere +disease which comes over us, generally from some physical or external +cause; to prescribe for them is as easy as to disguise them is difficult: +but the hopeless, cureless sadness of a heart which droops with regret, +and throbs with resentment, is easily, very easily disguised, but not +so easily banished. I hear every body round me congratulating themselves, +and <i>me</i> more particularly, that we have at last reached Florence, +that we are so far advanced on our road homewards, that soon +we shall be at Paris, and Paris is to do wonders—Paris and Dr. +R** are to <i>set me up</i> again, as the phrase is. But I shall never be +set up again, I shall never live to reach Paris; none can tell how I +sicken at the very name of that detested place; none seem aware how +fast, how very fast the principle of life is burning away within me: +but why should I speak? and what earthly help can now avail me? I +can suffer in silence, I can conceal the weakness which increases upon +me, by retiring, as if from choice and not necessity, from all exertion +not absolutely inevitable; and the change is so gradual, none will <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span>perceive +it till the great change of all comes, and then I shall be at +rest.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>Florence looked most beautiful as we approached it from the south, +girt with her theatre of verdant hills, and glittering in the sunshine. +All the country from Sienna to Florence is richly cultivated; diversified +with neat hamlets, farms and villas. I was more struck with the appearance +of the Tuscan peasantry on my return from the Papal dominions +than when we passed through the country before: no where +in Tuscany have we seen that look of abject negligent poverty, those +crowds of squalid beggars which shocked us in the Ecclesiastical States. +In the towns where we stopped to change horses, we were presently +surrounded by a crowd of people: the women came out spinning, or +sewing and plaiting the Leghorn hats; the children threw flowers into +our barouche, the men grinned and gaped, but there was no vociferous +begging, no disgusting display of physical evils, filth, and wretchedness. +The motive was merely that idle curiosity for which the Florentines +in all ages have been remarked. I remember an amusing +instance which occurred when I was here in December last. I was +standing one evening in the Piazza del Gran Duca, looking at the group +of the Rape of the Sabines: in a few minutes a dozen people gathered +round me, gaping at the statue, and staring at that and at me alternately, +either to enjoy my admiration, or find out the cause of it: the +people came out of the neighbouring shops, and the crowd continued +to increase, till at length, though infinitely amused, I was glad to make +my escape.</p> + +<p>I suffered from cold when first we arrived at Florence, owing to the +change of climate, or rather to mere weakness and fatigue: to-day I +begin to doubt the possibility of outliving an Italian summer. The +blazing atmosphere which depresses the eyelids, the enervating heat, +and the rich perfume of the flowers all around us, are almost too +much.</p> + +<p><i>April 20.</i>—During our stay at Florence, it has been one of my favourite +occupations to go to the Gallery or the Pitti Palace, and placing +my portable seat opposite to some favourite pictures, minutely study +and compare the styles of the different masters. By the style of any +particular painter, I presume we mean to express the combination of +two separate essentials—first, his peculiar conception of his subject; +secondly, his peculiar method of executing that conception, with regard +to colouring, drawing, and what artists call handling. The +former department of style lies in the mind, and will vary according +to the feelings, the temper, the personal habits, and previous education +of the painter: the latter is merely mechanical, and is technically<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span> +termed the <i>manner</i> of a painter; it may be cold or warm, hard, dry, +free, strong, tender: as we say the cold manner of Sasso Ferrato, the +warm manner of Giorgione, the hard manner of Holbein, the dry +manner of Perugino, the free manner of Rubens, the strong manner +of Carravaggio, and so forth; I heard an amateur once observe, that +one of Morland's Pig-sties was painted with great <i>feeling</i>: all this refers +merely to mechanical execution.</p> + +<p>I am no connaisseur; and I should have lamented, as a misfortune, +the want of some fixed principles of taste and criticism to guide my +judgment; some nomenclature by which to express certain effects, peculiarities, +and excellencies which I felt, rather than understood; if +my own ignorance had not afforded considerable amusement to myself, +and perhaps to others. I have derived some gratification from observing +the gradual improvement of my own taste: and from comparing +the decisions of my own unassisted judgment and natural feelings, +with the fiat of profound critics and connaisseurs: the result has been +sometimes mortifying, sometimes pleasing. Had I visited Italy in the +character of a ready-made connaisseur, I should have lost many +pleasures; for as the eye becomes more practised, the taste becomes +more discriminative and fastidious; and the more extensive our +acquaintance with the works of art, the more limited is our sphere of +admiration; as if the circle of enjoyment contracted round us, in proportion +as our sense of beauty became more intense and exquisite. A +thousand things which once had power to charm, can charm no longer; +but, <i>en revanche</i>, those which <i>do</i> please, please a thousand times +more: thus what we lose on one side, we gain on the other. Perhaps, +on the whole, a technical knowledge of the arts is apt to divert +the mind from the general effect, to fix it on petty details of execution. +Here comes a connaisseur, who has found his way, good man! from +Somerset House, to the Tribune at Florence: see him with one hand +passed across his brow, to shade the light, while the other extended +forwards, describes certain indescribable circumvolutions in the air, +and now he retires, now advances, now recedes again, till he has hit +the exact distance from which every point of beauty is displayed to the +best possible advantage, and there he stands—gazing, as never gazed +the moon upon the waters, or love-sick maiden upon the moon! We +take him perhaps for another Pygmalion? We imagine that it is +those parted and half-breathing lips, those eyes that <i>seem</i> to float in +light; the pictured majesty of suffering virtue, or the tears of repenting +loveliness; the divinity of beauty, or "<i>the beauty of holiness</i>," which +have thus transfixed him? No such thing: it is <i>fleshiness</i> of the +tints, the <i>vaghezza</i> of the colouring, the brilliance of the carnations, +the fold of a robe, or the fore-shortening of a little finger. O!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span> +whip me such connaisseurs! the critic's stop-watch was nothing to +this.</p> + +<p>Mere mechanical excellence, and all the tricks of art have their +praise as long as they are subordinate and conduce to the general effect. +In painting as in her sister arts it is necessary</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Che l'arte che tutto fa nulla si scuopre."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Of course I do not speak here of the Dutch school, whose highest +aim, and highest praise, is exquisite mechanical precision in the representation +of common nature and still life: but of those pictures +which are the productions of mind, which address themselves to the understanding, +the fancy, the feelings, and convey either a moral or a +poetical pleasure.</p> + +<p>In taking a retrospective view of all the best collections in Italy +and of the Italian school in particular, I have been struck by the +endless multiplication of the same subjects, crucifixions, martyrdoms, +and other scripture horrors;—virgins, saints, and holy families. The +prevalence of the former class of subjects is easily explained, and has +been ingeniously defended; but it is not so easily reconciled to the imagination. +The mind and the eye are shocked and fatigued by the +succession of revolting and sanguinary images which pollute the walls +of every palace, church, gallery, and academy, from Milan to Naples. +The splendour of the execution only adds to their hideousness; we at +once seek for nature, and tremble to find it. It is hateful to see the +loveliest of the arts degraded to such butcher-work. I have often +gone to visit a famed collection with a secret dread of being led through +a sort of intellectual shambles, and returned with the feeling of one +who had supped full of horrors. I do not know how <i>men</i> think, and feel, +though I believe many a man, who with every other feeling absorbed +in overpowering interest, could look unshrinking upon a real scene of +cruelty and blood, would shrink away disgusted and sickened from the +cold, obtrusive, <i>painted</i> representation of the same object; for the +truth of this I appeal to men. I can only see with woman's eyes, and +think and feel as I believe every woman <i>must</i>, whatever may be her +love for the arts. I remember that in one of the palaces at Milan—(I +think it was in the collection of the Duca Litti)—we were led up to a +picture defended from the air by a plate of glass, and which being +considered as the gem of the collection, was reserved for the last as a +kind of <i>bonne bouche</i>. I gave but one glance, and turned away +loathing, shuddering, sickening. The cicerone looked amazed at my +bad taste, he assured me it was <i>un vero Correggio</i> (which by the way +I can never believe), and that the duke had refused for it I know not +how many thousand scudi. It would be difficult to say what was +most execrable in this picture, the appalling nature of the subject, the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span> +depravity of mind evinced in its conception, or the horrible truth and +skill with which it was delineated. I ought to add that it hung up in +the family dining-room and in full view of the dinner-table.</p> + +<p>There is as picture among the chefs-d'œuvres in the Vatican, which, +if I were pope (or Pope Joan) for a single day, should be burnt by the +common hangman, "with the smoke of its ashes to poison the air," +as it now poisons the sight by its unutterable horrors. There is another +in the Palazzo Pitti, at which I shiver still, and unfortunately +there is no avoiding it, as they have hung it close to Guido's lovely +Cleopatra. In the gallery there is a Judith and Holofernes which +irresistibly strikes the attention—if any thing would add to the horror +inspired by the sanguinary subject, and the atrocious fidelity and talent +with which it is expressed, it is that the artist was a <i>woman</i>. I must +confess that Judith is not one of my favourite heroines; but I can more +easily conceive how a woman inspired by vengeance and patriotism +could execute such a deed, than that she could coolly sit down, and +day after day, hour after hour, touch after touch, dwell upon and +almost realize to the eye such an abomination as this.</p> + +<p>We can study anatomy, if (like a certain princess) we have a taste +that way, in the surgeon's dissecting-room; we do not look upon pictures +to have our minds agonized and contaminated by the sight of human +turpitude and barbarity, streaming blood, quivering flesh, wounds, +tortures, death, and horrors in every shape, even though it should be +all very <i>natural</i>. Painting has been called the handmaid of nature; +is it not the duty of a handmaid to array her mistress to the best +possible advantage? At least to keep her infirmities from view and +not to expose her too undressed?</p> + +<p>But I am not so weak, so cowardly, so fastidious, as to shrink from +every representation of human suffering, provided that our sympathy +be not strained beyond a certain point. To <i>please</i> is the genuine aim +of painting, as of all the fine arts; when pleasure is conveyed through +deeply excited interest, by affecting the passions, the senses, and the +imagination, painting assumes a higher character, and almost vies +with tragedy: in fact, it <i>is</i> tragedy to the eye, and is amenable to the +same laws. The St. Sebastians of Guido and Razzi; the St. Jerome +of Domenichino; the sternly beautiful Judith of Allori; the Pietà of +Raffaelle; the San Pietro Martire of Titian; are all so many tragic +<i>scenes</i> wherein whatever is revolting in circumstances or character is +judiciously kept from view, where human suffering is dignified by the +moral lesson it is made to convey, and its effect on the beholder at +once softened and heightened by the redeeming grace which genius +and poetry have shed like a glory round it.</p> + +<p>Allowing all this, I am yet obliged to confess that I am wearied +with this class, of pictures, and that I wish there were fewer of them.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span></p> + +<p>But there is one subject which never tires, at least never tires <i>me</i>, +however varied, repeated, multiplied. A subject so lovely in itself that +the most eminent painter cannot easily embellish it, or the meanest degrade +it; a subject which comes home to our own bosoms and dearest +feelings; and in which we may "lose ourselves in all delightfulness," +and indulge unreproved pleasure. I mean the <i>Virgin and Child</i>, or +in other words, the abstract personification of what is loveliest, purest, +and dearest, under heaven—maternal tenderness, virgin meekness, +and childish innocence, and the <i>beauty of holiness</i> over all.</p> + +<p>It occurred to me to-day, that if a gallery could be formed of this +subject alone, selecting one specimen from among the works of every +painter, it would form not only a comparative index to their different +styles, but we should find, on recurring to what is known of the lives +and characters of the great masters, that each has stamped some peculiarity +of his own disposition on his Virgins; and that, after a little +consideration and practice, a very fair guess might be formed of the +character of each artist, by observing the style in which he has treated +this beautiful and favourite subject.</p> + +<p>Take Raffaelle for example, whose delightful character is dwelt upon +by all his biographers; his genuine nobleness of soul, which raised him +far above interest, rivalship, or jealousy, the gentleness of his temper, +the suavity of his manners, the sweetness of his disposition, the benevolence +of his heart, which rendered him so deeply loved and admired, +even by those who pined away at his success, and died of his superiority<a name="FNanchor_V_22" id="FNanchor_V_22"></a><a href="#Footnote_V_22" class="fnanchor">[V]</a>—are +all attested by contemporary writers: where but in his own +harmonious character, need Raffaelle have looked for the prototypes of +his half-celestial creations?</p> + +<p>His Virgins alone combine every grace which the imagination can +require—repose, simplicity, meekness, purity, tenderness; blended +without any admixture of earthly passion, yet so varied, that though +all his Virgins have a general character, distinguishing them from those +of every other master, no two are exactly alike. In the Madonna del +Seggiola, for instance, the prevailing expression is a serious and pensive +tenderness; her eyes are turned from her infant, but she clasps him to +her bosom, as if it were not necessary to <i>see</i> him, to <i>feel</i> him in her +heart. In another Holy Family in the Pitti Palace, the predominant +expression is maternal rapture: in the Madonna di Foligno, it is a +saintly benignity becoming the Queen of Heaven: in the Madonna del +Cardellino, it is a meek and chaste simplicity: it is the "<i>Vergine dolce<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span> +e pia</i>" of Petrarch. This last picture hangs close to the Fornarina in +the Tribune,—a strange contrast! Raffaelle's love for that haughty and +voluptuous virago, had nothing to do with his conception of ideal beauty +and chastity; and could one of his own Virgins have walked out of her +frame, or if her prototype could have been found on earth, he would +have felt, as others have felt—that to look upon such a being with +aught of unholy passion would be profanation indeed.</p> + +<p>Next to Raffaelle, I would rank Correggio, as a painter of Virgins. +Correggio was remarkable for the humility and gentleness of his deportment, +for his pensive and somewhat anxious disposition, and kindly +domestic feelings: these are the characteristics which have poured +themselves forth upon his Madonnas. They are distinguished generally +by the utmost sweetness, delicacy, grace, and devotional feeling. +I remember reading somewhere that Correggio had a large family, and +was a particularly fond father; and it is certain, that in the expression +of maternal tenderness, he is superior to all but Raffaelle: his Holy +Family in the Studii at Naples, and his lovely Virgin in the gallery, +are instances.</p> + +<p>Guido ranks next in my estimation, as a painter of Virgins. He is +described as an elegant and accomplished man, remarkable for the +modesty of his disposition, and the dignity and grace of his manner; +as delicate in his personal habits, and sumptuous in his dress and style +of living. He had unfortunately contracted a taste for gaming, which +latterly plunged him into difficulties, and tinged his mind with bitterness +and melancholy. All his heads have a peculiar expression of elevated +beauty, which has been called Guido's air. His Madonnas are +all but heavenly: they are tender, dignified, lovely:—but when compared +with Raffaelle's, they seem more touched with earthly feeling, +and have less of the pure ideal: they are, if I may so express myself, +too <i>sentimental</i>: sentiment is, in truth, the distinguishing characteristic +of Guido's style. It is remarkable, that towards the end of his life, +Guido more frequently painted the Mater Dolorosa, and gave to the +heads of his Madonnas a look of melancholy, disconsolate resignation, +which is extremely affecting.</p> + +<p>Titian's character is well known: his ardent cheerful temper, his +sanguine enthusiastic mind, his love of pleasure, his love of women; and +true it is, that through all his glowing pictures, we trace the voluptuary. +His Virgins are rather "<i>des jeunes épouses de la veille</i>"—far too like +his Venuses and his mistresses: they are all luxuriant <i>human</i> beauty; +with that peculiar air of blandishment which he has thrown into all his +female heads, even into his portraits, and his old women. Witness +his lovely Virgin in the Vatican, his Mater Sapientiæ, and his celebrated +Assumption at Venice, in which the eyes absolutely float in +rapture. There is nothing ideal in Titian's conception of beauty: he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span> +paints no saints and goddesses <i>fancy-bred</i>: his females are all true, +lovely women; not like the heavenly creation of Raffaelle, looking as +if a touch, a breath would profane them; but warm flesh and blood—heart +and soul—with life in their eyes, and love upon their lips: even +over his Magdalenes, his beauty-breathing pencil has shed a something +which says,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A misura che amò—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Piange i suoi falli!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>But this is straying from my subject; as I have embarked in this fanciful +hypothesis, I shall multiply my proofs and examples, as far as I can, +from memory.</p> + +<p>In some account I have read of Murillo, he is emphatically styled +<i>an honest man</i>: this is all I can remember of his character; and <i>truth</i> +and nature prevail through all his pictures. In his Virgins, we can +trace nothing elevated, poetical or heavenly: they have not the <i>ideality</i> +of Raffaelle's, nor the tender sweetness of Correggio's; nor the +glowing loveliness of Titian's; but they have an individual reality +about them, which gives them the air of portraits. That chef-d'œuvre, +in the Pitti Palace, for instance, call it a beautiful peasant girl and her +baby, and it is faultless: but when I am told it is the "<i>Vergine gloriosa, +del Re Eterno Madre, Figliuola, e Sposa</i>," I look instantly for +something far beyond what I see expressed. All Murillo's Virgins are +so different from each other, that it is plain the artist did not paint from +any preconceived idea of his own mind, but from different originals; +they are all impressed with that general air of truth, nature, and common +life, which stamps upon them a peculiar and distinct character.</p> + +<p>Andrea del Sarto, who is in style as in character the very reverse of +Murillo, fascinated me at first by his enchanting colouring, and the +magical aërial depths of his chiaro-oscuro; but on a further acquaintance +with his works, I was struck by the predominance of external +form and colour over mind and feeling. His Virgins look as if they +had been born and bred in the first circles of society, and have a particular +air of elegance, an artificial grace, an attraction, which may be +entirely traced to exterior; to the cast of the features, the contour of +the form, the disposition of the draperies, the striking attitudes, and, +above all, the divine colouring: beauty and dignity, and powerful effect, +we always find in his pictures: but no <i>moral</i> pathos—no poetry—no +sentiment—above all, a strange and total want of devotional expression, +simplicity and humility. His Virgin with St. Francis and +St. John, which hangs behind the Venus in the Tribunes, is a wonderful +picture; and there are two charming Madonnas in the Borghese +Palace at Rome. In the first we are struck by the grouping and colouring; +in the last, by a certain graceful <i>lengthiness</i> of the limbs and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span> +fine animated drawing in the attitudes. But we look in vain for the +"sacred and the sweet," for heart, for soul, for countenance.</p> + +<p>Andrea del Sarto had, in his profession, great talents rather than +genius and enthusiasm. He was weak, dissipated, unprincipled; +without elevation of mind or generosity of temper; and that his moral +character was utterly contemptible, is proved by one trait in his life. +A generous patron who had relieved him in his necessity, afterwards +entrusted him with a considerable sum of money, to be laid out in +certain purchases; Andrea del Sarto perfidiously embezzled the whole, +and turned it to his own use. This story is told in his life, with the +addition that "he was persuaded to it by his wife, as profligate and extravagant +as himself."</p> + +<p>Carlo Dolce's gentle, delicate, and melancholy temperament, are +strongly expressed in his own portrait, which is in the Gallery of Paintings +here. All his pictures are tinged by the morbid delicacy of his +constitution, and the refinement of his character and habits. They +have exquisite finish, but a want of power, degenerating at times into +coldness and feebleness; his Madonnas are distinguished by regular +feminine beauty, melancholy, devotion, or resigned sweetness: he excelled +in Mater Dolorosa. The most beautiful of his Virgins is in Pitti +Palace, of which picture there is a duplicate in the Borghese Palace +at Rome.</p> + +<p>Carlo Marratti, without distinguished merit of any kind—unless it +was a distinguished merit to be the father of Faustina Zappi,—owed +his fortune, his title of <i>Cavaliere</i>, and the celebrity he once enjoyed, +not to any superiority of genius, but to his successful arts as a courtier, +and his assiduous flattery of the great. What can be more characteristic +of the man, than his simpering Virgins, fluttering in tasteless, +many-coloured draperies, with their sky blue back-grounds, and +golden clouds?</p> + +<p>Caravaggio was a gloomy misanthrope and a profligate ruffian: we +read, that he was banished from Rome, for a murder committed in a +drunken brawl; and that he died at last of debauchery and want. +Caravaggio was perfect in his gamblers, robbers, and martyrdoms, and +should never have meddled with Saints and Madonnas. In his famous +<i>Pietà</i> in the Vatican, the Virgin is an old beggar-woman, the +two Maries are fish-wives, in "maudlin sorrow," and St. Peter and +St. John, a couple of bravoes, burying a murdered traveller: <i>dipinse +ferocemente sempre perche feroce era il suo carrattere</i>, says his biographer; +an observation, by the way, in support of my hypothesis.</p> + +<p>Rubens, with all his transcendent genius, had a coarse imagination: +he bore the character of an honest, liberal, but not very refined man. +Rubens painted Virgins—would he had let them alone! fat, comfortable<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span> +farmers' wives, nursing their chubby children. Then follows +Vandyke in the opposite extreme. Vandyke was celebrated in his +day, for his personal accomplishments: he was, says his biographers, +a complete scholar, courtier and gentleman. His beautiful Madonnas +are, accordingly, what we might expect—rather too intellectual and +lady-like: they all look as if they had been polished by education.</p> + +<p>The grand austere genius of Michel Angelo was little calculated to +portray the dove-like meekness of the <i>Vergine dolce e pia</i>, or the playfulness +of infantine beauty. In his Mater Amabilis, sweetness and +beauty are sacrificed to expression; and dignity is exaggerated into +masculine energy. In the Mater Dolorosa, suffering is tormented +into agony: the anguish is too human: it is not sufficiently softened +by resignation; and makes us turn away with a too painful sympathy. +Such is the admirable head in the Palazzo Litti at Milan; such his sublime +<i>Pietà</i> in the Vatican—but the last, being in marble, is not quite +a case in point.</p> + +<p>I will mention but two more painters of whose lives and characters +I know nothing yet, and may therefore fairly make their works a test +of both, and judge of them in their Madonnas, and afterwards measure +my own penetration and the truth of my hypothesis, by a reference +to the biographical writers.</p> + +<p>In the few pictures I have seen of Carlo Cignani, I have been struck +by the predominance of mind and feeling over mere external form: +there is a picture of his in the Rospigliosi Palace—or rather, to give an +example which is nearer at hand, and fresh in my memory, there is +in the gallery <i>here</i>, his Madonna del Rosario. It represents a beautiful +young woman, evidently of plebeian race: the form of the face is +round, the features have nothing of the beau-ideal, and the whole head +wants dignity: yet has the painter contrived to throw into this lovely +picture an inimitable expression which depends on nothing external, +which in the living prototype we should term <i>countenance</i>; as if a +chastened consciousness of her high destiny and exalted character +shone through the natural rusticity of her features, and touched them +with a certain grace and dignity, emanating from the mind alone, +which only mind could give, and mind perceive. I have seen within +the last few days, three copies of this picture, in all of them the charming +simplicity and rusticity, but in none the exquisite expression of +the original: even the hands are expressive, without any particular +delicacy or beauty of form. An artist who was copying the picture +to-day while I looked at it, remarked this; and confessed he had made +several unsuccessful attempts to render the fond pressure of the fingers +as she clasps the child to her bosom.</p> + +<p>Were I to judge of Carlo Cignani by his works, I should pronounce<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span> +him a man of elevated character, noble by instinct, if not by descent, +but simple in his habits, and a despiser of outward show and +ostentation.</p> + +<p>The other painter I alluded to, is Sasso Ferrato, a great and admired +manufacturer of Virgins, but a mere copyist, without pathos, power, or +originality; sometimes he resembles Guido, sometimes Carlo Dolce; +but the graceful harmonious delicacy of the former becomes coldness +and flatness in his hands, and the refinement and sweetness of the +latter sink into feebleness and insipidity. Were I to judge of his +character by his Madonnas, I should suppose that Sasso Ferrato had +neither original genius nor powerful intellect, nor warmth of heart, nor +vivacity of temper; that he was, in short, a mere mild, inoffensive, +good sort of man, studious and industrious in his art, not without a +feeling for the excellence he wanted power to attain.<a name="FNanchor_W_23" id="FNanchor_W_23"></a><a href="#Footnote_W_23" class="fnanchor">[W]</a></p> + +<p>I might pursue this subject further, but my memory fails, my head +aches, and my pen is tired for to-night.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>Both here and at Rome, I have found considerable amusement in +looking over the artists who are usually employed in copying or studying +from the celebrated pictures in the different galleries; but I have +been taught discretion on such occasions by a ridiculous incident which +occurred the other day, as absurdly comic as it was unlucky and vexatious. +A friend of mine observing an artist at work in the Pitti +palace, whom, by his total silence and inattention to all around, she +supposed to be a native Italian who did not understand a word of +English, went up to him, and peeping over his shoulder, exclaimed +with more truth than discretion, "Ah! what a hideous attempt! that +will never be like, I'm sure!" "I am very sorry you think so, +ma'am," replied the painter, coolly looking up in her face. He must +have read in that beautiful face an expression which deeply avenged +the cause of his affronted picture.</p> + +<p>We have been twice to the opera since we arrived here. At the +Pergola, Bassi, though a woman, is the <i>Primo Uomo</i>; the rare quality +of her voice, which is a kind of rich deep counter-tenor, unfitting +her for female parts. Her voice and science are so admirable, that it +would be delicious to hear her blindfold; but her large clumsy figure +disguised, or rather <i>exposed</i>, in masculine attire, is quite revolting.</p> + +<p>At the Cocomero we had the "Italiana in Algieri:" the Prima +Donna, who is an admired singer, gave the comic airs with great power +and effect, but her bold execution and her ungraceful unliquid voice +disgusted me, and I came away fatigued and dissatisfied. The dancing +is execrable at both theatres.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span></p> + +<p>From one end of Italy to the other, nothing is listened to in the way +of music but Rossini and his imitators. The man must have a transcendant +genius, who can lead and pervert the taste of his age as Rossini +has done; but unfortunately those who have not his talent, who +cannot reach his beauties nor emulate his airy brilliance of imagination, +think to imitate his ornamented style by merely crowding note upon +note, semi-quavers, demi-semi-quavers, and semi-demi-semi-quavers +in most perplexed succession; and thus all Italy, and thence all Europe, +is deluged with this busy, fussy, hurry-skurry music, which means +nothing, and leaves no trace behind it either on the fancy or the memory. +Must it be ever thus? are Paesiello, and Pergolesi, and Cimarosa—and +those divine German masters, who formed themselves on the +Italian school and surpassed it—Winter and Mozart<a name="FNanchor_X_24" id="FNanchor_X_24"></a><a href="#Footnote_X_24" class="fnanchor">[X]</a> and Gluck—are +they eternally banished? must sense and feeling be for ever sacrificed +to mere sound, the human organ degraded into a mere instrument,<a name="FNanchor_Y_25" id="FNanchor_Y_25"></a><a href="#Footnote_Y_25" class="fnanchor">[Y]</a> +and the ear tickled with novelty and meretricious ornament, till the +taste is utterly diseased?</p> + +<p>There was a period in the history of Italian literature, when the +great classical writers were decried and neglected, and the genius of +one man depraved the taste of the age in which he lived. Marini introduced, +or at least rendered general and fashionable, that far-fetched +wit, that tinsel and glittering style, that luxurious pomp of words, +which was easily imitated by talents of a lower order: yet in the +Adonis there are many redeeming passages, some touches of real +pathos, and some stanzas of natural and beautiful description: and thus +it is with Rossini; his best operas contain some melodies among the +finest ever composed, and even in his worst, the ear is every now and +then roused and enchanted by a few bars of graceful and beautiful +melody, to be in the next moment again bewildered in the maze of +unmeaning notes, and the clash of overpowering accompaniments.</p> + +<p><i>Lucca, April 23.</i>—Lucca disappoints me in every respect: it was +once, when a republic, one of the most flourishing, rich, and populous +cities in Italy; it is now consigned over to the Ex-queen of Etruria; +and its fate will be perhaps the same as that of Venice, Pisa, and Sienna, +which, when they lost their independence, lost also their public spirit, +their public virtue, and their prosperity.</p> + +<p>It is impossible to conceive any thing more rich and beautiful, than<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span> +the country between Florence and Lucca, though it can boast little of +the elevated picturesque, and is destitute of poetical associations. The +road lay through valleys, with the Apennines (which are here softened +down into gently sunny hills) on each side. Every spot of ground is +in the highest state of cultivation; the boundaries between the small +fields of wheat or lupines, were rows of olives or mulberries, with an +interminable treillage of vines flung from tree to tree. In England we +should be obliged to cut them all down for fear of depriving the crops +of heat and sunshine, but here they have no such fears. The style of +husbandry is exquisitely neat, and in general performed by manual +labour. The only plough I saw would have excited the amusement +and amazement of an English farmer: I should think it was exactly +similar to the ploughs of Virgil's time: it was drawn by an ox and an +ass yoked together, and guided by a woman. The whole country +looked as if it had been laid out by skilful gardeners, and the hills in +many parts were cut into terraces, that not one available inch of soil +might be lost. The products of this luxuriant country are corn, silk, +wine, and principally oil: potteries abound, the making of jars and +flasks being an immense and necessary branch of trade.</p> + +<p>The city of Lucca has an appearance in itself of stately solemn dulness, +and bears no trace of the smiling prosperity of the adjacent country: +the shops are poor and empty, there are no signs of business, and +the streets swarm with beggars. The interior of the Duomo is a fine +specimen of Gothic: the exterior is Greek, Gothic, and Saracenic +jumbled together in vile taste: it contains nothing very interesting. +The palace is like other palaces, very fine and so forth; and only remarkable +for not containing one good picture, or one valuable work of +art.</p> + +<p><i>Pisa, April 25.</i>—Pisa has a look of elegant tranquillity, which is +not exactly <i>dulness</i>, and pleases me particularly: if the thought of its +past independence, the memory of its once proud name in arts, arms, +and literature, came across the mind, it is not accompanied by any +painful regret caused by the sight of present misery and degradation, +but by that philosophic melancholy with which we are used to contemplate +the mutability of earthly greatness.</p> + +<p>The Duomo, the Baptistry, the Leaning Tower, and the Campo +Santo, stand altogether in a fine open elevated part of the city. The +Duomo is a magnificent edifice in bad taste. The interior, with its +noble columns of oriental granite, is grand, sombre, and very striking. +As to the style of architecture, it would be difficult to determine what +name to give it: it is not Greek, nor Gothic, nor Saxon, and exhibits a +strange mixture of Pagan and Christian ornaments, not very unfrequent +in Italian churches. The Leaning Tower should be contemplated +from the portico of the church to heighten its effect: when the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span>perpendicular +column cuts it to the eye like a plumb line, the obliquity +appears really terrific.</p> + +<p>The Campo Santo is an extraordinary place: <a name="it152" id="it152"></a>it affects the mind like +the cloisters of one of our Gothic cathedrals which it resembles in +effect. Means have lately been taken to preserve the singular frescos +on the walls, which for five hundred years have been exposed to the +open air.</p> + +<p>I remarked the tomb of that elegant fabulist Pignotti; the last +personage of celebrity buried in the Campo Santo.</p> + +<p>The university of Pisa is no longer what it was when France and +Venice had nearly gone to war about one of its law professors, and its +colleges ranked next to those of Padua: it has declined in fame, in +riches, and in discipline. The Botanic Garden was a few years ago +the finest in all Europe, and is still maintained with great cost and +care: it contains a lofty magnolia, the stem of which is as bulky as a +good sized tree: the gardener told us rather poetically, that when in +blossom it perfumed the whole city of Pisa.</p> + +<p><i>Leghorn, April 26.</i>—So different from any thing we have yet seen +in Italy! busy streets—gay shops—various costumes—Greeks, Turks, +Jews, and Christians, mingled on terms of friendly equality—a +crowded port, and all the activity of prosperous commerce.</p> + +<p>Leghorn is in every sense a <i>free</i> port: all kinds of merchandise enter +exempt from duty, all religions are equally tolerated, and all nations +trade on an equal footing.</p> + +<p>The Jews, who are in every other city a shunned and degraded +race, are among the most opulent and respectable inhabitants of +Leghorn: their quarter is the richest, and, I may add, the <i>dirtiest</i> in +the city: their synagogue here is reckoned the finest in Europe, and +I was induced to visit it yesterday at the hour of worship. I confess +I was much disappointed; and, notwithstanding my inclination to +respect always what is respectable in the eyes of others, I never felt so +strong a disposition to smile. An old Rabbi with a beard of venerable +length, a pointed bonnet, and a long white veil, got up into a superb +marble pulpit and chanted in strange nasal tones, something which +was repeated after him in various and discordant voices by the rest of +the assembly. The congregation consisted of an uncouth set of men +and boys, many of them from different parts of the Levant, in the +dresses of their respective countries: there was no appearance of devotion, +no solemnity; all wore their hats, some were poring over ragged +books, some were talking, some sleeping, or lounging, or smoking. +While I stood looking about me, without exciting the smallest attention, +I heard at every pause a prodigious chattering and whispering, +which seemed to come from the regions above, and looking up I saw a +row of latticed and skreened galleries where the women were caged<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span> +up like the monkies at a menagerie, and seemed as noisy, as restless, +and as impatient of confinement: the door-keeper offered to introduce +me among them, but I was already tired and glad to depart.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>We have visited the pretty English burial-ground, and the tomb of +Smollet, which in the true English style is cut and scratched all over +with the names of fools, who think thus to link their own insignificance +to his immortality. We have also seen whatever else is to be seen, and +what all travellers describe: to-morrow we leave Leghorn—for myself +without regret: it is a place with which I have no sympathies, and +the hot, languid, damp atmosphere, which depresses the spirits and +relaxes the nerves, has made me suffer ever since we arrived.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>Lucca.</i>—Had I never visited Italy I think I should never have understood +the word <i>picturesque</i>. In England we apply it generally to +rural objects or natural scenery, for nothing else in England <i>can</i> deserve +the epithet. Civilization, cleanliness, and comfort are excellent things, +but they are sworn enemies to the picturesque: they have banished it +gradually from our towns, and habitations, into remote countries, and +little nooks and corners, where we are obliged to hunt after it to find +it; but in Italy the picturesque is every where, in every variety of +form; it meets us at every turn, in town and in country, at all times +and seasons; the commonest objects of every-day life here become +picturesque, and assume from a thousand causes a certain character of +poetical interest it cannot have elsewhere. In England, when travelling +in some distant county, we see perhaps a craggy hill, a thatched +cottage, a mill on a winding stream, a rosy milkmaid, or a smock-frocked +labourer whistling after his plough, and we exclaim "How +picturesque!" Travelling in Italy we see a piny mountain, a little +dilapidated village on its declivity, the ruined temple of Jupiter or +Apollo on its summit; a peasant with a bunch of roses hanging from +his hat, and singing to his guitar, or a cotadina in her white veil and +scarlet petticoat, and we exclaim "How picturesque!" but how different! +Again—a tidy drill or a hay-cart, with a team of fine horses, +is a very useful, valuable, civilized machine; but a grape-waggon +reeling under its load of purple clusters, and drawn by a pair of oxen +in their clumsy, ill-contrived harness, and bowing their patient heads +to the earth, is much more picturesque. A spinning wheel is very +convenient it must be allowed, but the distaff and spindle are much +more picturesque. A snug English villa with its shaven lawn, its +neat shrubbery, and its park, is a delightful thing—an Italian villa is +probably far less <i>comfortable</i>, but with its vineyards, its gardens, its +fountains, and statutes, is far more picturesque. A laundry-maid at +her wash-tub, immersed in soap-suds, is a vulgar idea, though our<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span> +clothes may be the better for it. I shall never forget the group of +women I saw at Terracina washing their linen in a bubbling brook as +clear as crystal, which rushed from the mountains to the sea—there +were twenty of them at least grouped with the most graceful effect, +some standing up to the mid-leg in the stream, others spreading the +linen on the sunny bank, some, flinging back their long hair, stood +shading their brows with their hands and gazing on us as we passed: it +was a <i>scene</i> for a poet, or a painter, or a melo-drama. An English +garden, adorned at every turn with statues of the heathen deities (although +they were all but personifications of the various attributes of +nature,) would be ridiculous. Setting aside the injury they must sustain +from our damp, variable climate, they would be <i>out of keeping</i> +with all around; here it is altogether different; the very air of Italy is +embued with the spirit of ancient mythology; and though "the fair +humanities of old religion," the Nymphs, the Fauns, the Dryads be +banished from their haunts and live no longer in the faith of reason, +yet still, whithersoever we turn, some statue, some temple in ruins, +some fragment of an altar, some inscription half effaced, some name +half-barbarized, recalls to the fancy those forms of light, of beauty, of +majesty, which poetry created to people scenes for which mere humanity +was not in itself half pure enough, fair enough, bright enough.</p> + +<p>What can be more grand than a noble forest of English oak? or +more beautiful than a grove of beeches and elms, clothed in their rich +autumnal tints? or more delicious than the apple orchard in full +bloom? but it is true, notwithstanding, that the olive, and cypress, and +cedar, the orange and the citron, the fig and the pomegranate, the myrtle +and the vine, convey a different and more luxuriant feeling to the +mind; and are associated with ideas which give to the landscape they +adorn a character more delightfully, more <i>poetically</i> picturesque.</p> + +<p>When at Lord Grosvenor's or Lord Stafford's I have been seated +opposite to some beautiful Italian landscape, a Claude or a Poussin, with +a hill crowned with olives, a ruined temple, a group of peasants seated +on a fallen column, or dancing to the pipe and the guitar, and over all +the crimson glow of evening, or the violet tints of morning, I have exclaimed +with others, "How lovely! how picturesque, how very +poetical!" No one thought of saying "How <i>natural</i>!" because it is a +style of nature with which we are totally unacquainted; and if some +amateurs of real taste and feeling prefer a rural cattle scene of Paul +Potter or Cuyp, to all the grand or lovely creations of Salvator, or +Claude, or Poussin, it is perhaps, because the former are associated in +their minds with reality and familiar nature, while the latter appear in +comparison mere inventions of the painter's fertile fancy, mere visionary +representations of what may or might exist but which do not come +home to the memory or the mind with the force of truth or delighted<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span> +recollection. So when I have been travelling in Italy how often I have +exclaimed, "How like a picture!" and I remember once, while contemplating +a most glorious sunset from the banks of the Arno, I caught +myself saying, "This is truly one of Claude's sunsets!" Now should +I live to see again one of my favourite Grosvenor Claudes I shall probably +exclaim, "How natural! how like what I have seen so often +on the Arno, or from the Monte Pincio!"</p> + +<p>And, in conclusion, let it be remembered by those who are inclined +to smile (as I have often done) when travellers fresh from Italy <i>rave</i> +almost in blank verse, and think it all as unmeaning as</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Lutes, laurels, seas of milk, and ships of amber!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>let them recollect that it is not alone the <i>visible</i> picturesque of Italy +which thus intoxicates; it is not only her fervid skies, her sunsets, +which envelope one-half of heaven from the horizon to the zenith, in +living blaze; nor her soaring pine-clad mountains; nor her azure +seas; nor her fields, "ploughed by the <a name="sunbeams" id="sunbeams"></a>sunbeams;" nor her gorgeous +cities, spread out with all their domes and towers, unobscured by +cloud or vapours;—but it is something more than these, something +beyond, and over all—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i6">——The gleam,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The light that never was on sea or land<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The consecration, and the poet's dream!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><i>Genoa, 30.</i>—We arrived here late, and I should not write now, +weary, weak, sick, and down-spirited as I am, did I not know how +the impressions of one day efface those of the former; and as I cannot +sleep, it is better to scribble than to think.</p> + +<p>As to describing all I have seen, thought, and felt in three days, +that were indeed impossible: I think I have exhausted all my prose +eloquence, and all allowable raptures; so that unless I ramble into absolute +poetry, I dare not say a word of the scenery around Sarzana +and Lerici. After spending one evening at Sarzana, in lingering through +green lanes and watching the millions of fire-flies, sparkling in the dark +shade of the trees, and lost again in the brilliant moonlight—we left it +the next morning about sunrise, to embark in a felucca at Lerici, as +the road between Spezia and Sestri is not yet completed. The groves +and vineyards on each side of the road were filled with nightingales, +singing in concert loud enough to overpower the sound of our carriage-wheels, +and the whole scene, as the sun rose over it, and the purple +shadows drew off and disclosed it gradually to the eye, was so enchanting—that +positively I will say nothing about it.</p> + +<p>Lerici is a small fishing town on the Gulf of Spezia. Here I met +with an adventure which with a little exaggeration and embellishment,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span> +such as no real story-teller ever spares, would make an admirable +morceau for a quarto tourist; but, in simple truth, was briefly thus.</p> + +<p>While some of our party were at breakfast, and the servants and +sailors were embarking the carriages and baggage, I sat down to sketch +the old grey fort on the cliff above the town; but every time I looked +up, the scene was so inexpressibly gay and lovely, it was with difficulty +and reluctance I could turn my eyes down to my paper again; +and soon I gave up the attempt, and threw away both paper and pencil. +It struck me that the view <i>from</i> the castle itself must be a thousand +times finer than the view of the castle from below, and without loss of +time I proceeded to explore the path leading to it. With some fatigue +and difficulty, and after losing myself once or twice, I reached the top +of the rock, and there a wicket opened into a walled passage cut into +steps to ease the ascent. I knocked at the wicket with three strokes, +that being the orthodox style of demanding entrance into the court +of an enchanted castle, using my parasol instead of a dagger,<a name="FNanchor_Z_26" id="FNanchor_Z_26"></a><a href="#Footnote_Z_26" class="fnanchor">[Z]</a> +and no one appearing, I entered, and in a few moments reached +a small paved terrace in front of the fortress, defended towards +the sea by a low parapet wall. The massy portal was closed, and +instead of a bugle horn hanging at the gate I found only the handle and +fragments of an old birch-broom, which base utensil I presently applied +to the purpose of a horn, viz. sounding an alarm, and knocked and +knocked—but no hoary-headed seneschal nor armed warder appeared +at my summons. After a moment's hesitation, I gave the door a push +with all my strength: it yielded, creaking on its hinges, and I stepped +over the raised threshold. I found myself in a low dark vaulted hall +which appeared at first to have no communication with any other +chamber: but on advancing cautiously to the end I found a low door +in the side, which had once been defended by a strong iron grating of +which some part remained: it led to a flight of stone stairs, which I +began to ascend slowly, stopping every moment to listen; but all was +still as the grave. On each side of this winding staircase I peeped into +several chambers, all solitary and ruinous: more and more surprised, +I continued to ascend till I put my head unexpectedly through a trap-door, +and found myself on the roof on the tower: it was spacious, +defended by battlements, and contained the only signs of warlike preparation +I had met with; <i>videlicet</i>, two cannons, or culverins, as they +are called, and a pyramidal heap of balls, rusted by the sea air.</p> + +<p>I sat down on one of the cannon, and leaning on the battlements, +surveyed the scene around, below me, with a feeling of rapture, not +a little enhanced by the novelty and romance of my situation. I was +alone—I had no reason to think there was a single human being<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span> +within hearing. I was at such a vast height above the town and the +shore, that not a sound reached me, except an indistinct murmur now +and then, borne upwards by the breeze, and the scream of the sea-fowl +as they wheeled round and round my head. I looked down giddily +upon the blue sea, all glowing and trembling in the sunshine: and the +scenery around me was such, as the dullest eye—the coldest, the most +<i>unimaginative</i> soul, could not have contemplated without emotion. I +sat, I know not how long, abandoned to reveries, sweet and bitter, till +I was startled by footsteps close to me, and turning round, I beheld a +figure so strange and fantastic, and considering the time, place, and +circumstance, so incomprehensible and extraordinary, that I was dumb +with surprise. It was a little spare old man, with a face and form +which resembled the anatomy of a baboon, dressed in an ample nightgown +of flowered silk, which hung upon him as if it had been made +for a giant, and trailed on the ground, a yard and a half behind him. +He had no stockings, but on his feet a pair of red slippers, turned up in +front like those the Turks wear. His beard was grizzled, and on his +head he wore one of the long many-coloured woollen caps usually worn +in this country, with two tassels depending from it, which nearly +reached his knees. I had full time to examine the appearance and +costume of this strange apparition as he stood before me, bowing profoundly, +and looking as if fright and wonder had deprived him of +speech. As soon as I had recovered from my first amazement, I replied +to every low bow, by as low a courtesy, and waited till it should +please him to begin the parley.</p> + +<p>At length he ventured to ask, in bad provincial Italian, what I did there?</p> + +<p>I replied that I was only admiring the fine prospect.</p> + +<p>He begged to know, "<i>come diavolo</i>," I had got there?</p> + +<p>I assured him I had not got there by any <i>diabolical</i> aid, but had +merely walked through the door.</p> + +<p><i>Santi Apostoli!</i> did not my excellency know, that, according to +the laws and regulations of war, no one could enter the fort, without +permission first obtained of the governor?</p> + +<p>I apologized politely: "And where," said I, "is the governor?"</p> + +<p><i>Il Governatore son io per servirla!</i> he replied, with a low bow.</p> + +<p>You! <i>O che bel ceffo!</i> thought I—"and what, Signor Governor, +is the use of your fort?"</p> + +<p>"To defend the bay and town of Lerici from enemies and pirates."</p> + +<p>"But," said I, "I see no soldier; where is the garrison to defend +the fort?"</p> + +<p><a name="The157" id="The157"></a>The little old man stepped back two steps—"<i>Eccomi!</i>" he replied, +spreading his hand on his breast, and bowing with dignity.</p> + +<p>It was impossible to make any reply: I therefore wished the governor +and garrison good morning; and disappearing through my<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span> +trap-door, I soon made my way down to the shore, where I arrived out +of breath, and just in time to step into our felucca.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>If there be a time when we most wish for those of whom we always +think, when we most love those who are always dearest, it must be +on such a delicious night as that we passed at Sarzana, or on such a +morning as that we spent at Lerici; and if there be a time when we +least love those we always love—least wish for them, least think of +them, it must be in such a moment as the noontide of yesterday—when +the dead calm overtook us, half way between Lerici and Sestri, +and I sat in the stern of our felucca, looking with a sort of despairing +languor over the smooth purple sea, which scarcely heaved round us, +while the flapping sails drooped useless round the masts, and the +rowers indolently leaning on their oars, sung in a low and plaintive +chorus. I sat hour after hour, still and silent, sickening in the sunshine, +dazzled by its reflection on the water, and overcome with deadly +nausea: I believe nothing on earth could have roused me at that moment. +But evening so impatiently invoked, came at last: the sun set, +the last gleam of his "golden path of rays" faded from the waters, +the sea assumed the hue of ink; the breeze sprung up, and our little +vessel, with all its white sails spread, glanced like a white swan over +the waves, leaving behind "a moon-illumined wake." Two hours +after dark we reached Sestri, where we found miserable accommodations; +and after foraging in vain for something to eat, after our +day's fast, we crept to bed, all sick, sleepy, hungry, and tired.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>We leave Genoa to-morrow: I can say but little of it, for I have +been ill, as usual, almost ever since we arrived; and though my little +Diary has become to me a species of hobby, I have lately found it +fatiguing, even to write! and the pleasure and interest it used to afford +me, diminish daily.</p> + +<p>Genoa, though fallen, is still "Genoa the proud." She is like a +noble matron, blooming in years, and dignified in decay; while her +rival Venice always used to remind me of a beautiful courtezan repenting +in sackcloth and ashes, and mingling the ragged remnants of her +former splendour with the emblems of present misery, degradation, +and mourning. Pursue the train of similitude, Florence may be +likened to a blooming bride dressed out to meet her lover; Naples to +Tasso's Armida, with all the allurements of the Syren, and all the +terrors of the Sorceress; Rome sits crowned upon the grave of her +power, widowed indeed, and desolate, but still, like the queenly Constance, +she maintains the majesty of Sorrow—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"This is my throne, let kings come bow to it!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span></p> +<p>The coup-d'œil of Genoa, splendid as it is, is not equal to that of +Naples, even setting poetical associations aside: it is built like a +crescent round the harbour, rising abruptly from the margin of the +water, which makes the view from the sea so beautiful: to the north +the hills enclose it round like an amphitheatre. The adjacent country +is covered with villas, gardens, vineyards, woods, and olive-groves +forming a scene most enchanting to the eye and mind, though of a +character very different from the savage luxuriance of the south of +Italy.</p> + +<p>The view of the city from any of the heights around, more particularly +from that part of the shore called the Ponente, where we were +to-day, is grand beyond description; on every side the church of +Carignano is a beautiful and striking object.</p> + +<p>There is but one street, properly so called, in Genoa—the Strada +Nuova; the others are little paved alleys, most of them impassable to +carriages, both from their narrowness and the irregularity of the +ground on which the city is built.</p> + +<p>The Strada Nuova is formed of a double line of magnificent palaces, +among which the Doria Palace is conspicuous. The architecture is in +general fine; and when not good is at least pleasing; the fronts of +the houses are in general gaily painted and stuccoed. The best apartments +are usually at the top; and the roofs often laid out in terraces, +or paved with marble and adorned with flowers and shrubs.</p> + +<p>I have seen few good pictures here: the best collections are those +in the Brignolet and Durazzo palaces. In the latter are some striking +pictures by Spagnoletto (or Ribera, as he is called here). In the +Brignolet, the Roman Daughter, by Guido, struck me most. I was +also pleased by some fine pictures of the Genoese painter Piola, who +is little known beyond Genoa.</p> + +<p>The church of the Carignano, which is a miniature model of St. +Peter's, contains Paget's admirable statue of St. Sebastian, which +Napoleon intended to have conveyed to Paris.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>Beauty is no rarity at Genoa: I think I never saw so many fine +women in one place, though I have seen finer faces at Rome and +Naples than any I see here. The mezzaro, a veil or shawl thrown +over the head and round the shoulders, is universal, and is certainly +the most natural and becoming dress which can be worn by our sex: +the materials differ in fineness, from the most exquisite lace and the +most expensive embroidery, to a piece of chintz or linen, but the effect +is the same. This costume, which prevails more or less through all +Italy, but here is general, gives something of beauty to the plainest face, +and something of elegance to the most vulgar figure; it can make <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span>deformity +itself look passable: and when worn by a really graceful and +beautiful female, the effect is peculiarly picturesque and bewitching.</p> + +<p>It was a Festa to-day; and we drove slowly along the Ponente +after dinner. Nothing could be more gay than the streets and public +walks, crowded with holiday people: the women were in proportion +as six to one; and looked like groups dressed to figure in a melodrame +or ballet.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>When once we have left Genoa behind us, and have taken our last +look of the blue Mediterranean, I shall indeed feel that we have quitted +Italy. Piedmont is not Italy. Cities which are only famous for their +sieges and fortifications, plains only celebrated as fields of battle and +scenes of blood, have neither charms nor interest for me.</p> + +<p>On Monday we set off for Turin: how I dread travelling! and the +motion of the carriage, which has now become <i>so</i> painful! Yet a little, +a very little longer, and it will all be over.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2"><b>FAREWELL TO ITALY.</b><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">Mira il ciel com'e bello, e mira il sole,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Ch'a se par che n'inviti, e ne console.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Farewell to the Land of the South!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Farewell to the lovely clime<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the sunny valleys smile in light,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And the piny mountains climb!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Farewell to her bright blue seas!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Farewell to her fervid skies!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O many and deep are the thoughts which crowd<br /></span> +<span class="i1">On the sinking heart, while it sighs,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">"Farewell to the Land of the South!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">As the look of a face beloved,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Was that bright land to me!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It enchanted my sense, it sunk on my heart<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Like music's witchery!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In every kindling pulse<br /></span> +<span class="i1">I felt the genial air,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For life is <i>life</i> in that sunny clime,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">—'Tis <i>death</i> of life elsewhere:<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Farewell to the Land of the South!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The poet's splendid dreams,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Have hallowed each grove and hill,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the beautiful forms of ancient Faith<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Are lingering round us still.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the spirits of other days,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Invoked by fancy's spell,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are rolled before the kindling thought,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">While we breathe our last farewell<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To the glorious Land of the South!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A long—a last adieu,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Romantic Italy!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou land of beauty, and love, and song<br /></span> +<span class="i1">As once of the brave and free!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Alas! for thy golden fields!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Alas! for thy classic shore!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Alas! for thy orange and myrtle bowers!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">I shall never behold them more—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Farewell to the Land of the South!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><i>Turin, May 10th.</i>—We arrived here yesterday, after a journey to +me most trying and painful: I thought at Novi and afterwards at Asti, +that I should have been obliged to give up and confess my inability to +proceed; but we know not what we can bear till we prove ourselves; +I can live and suffer still.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>I agree with —— who has just left me, that nothing can be more +animating and improving than the conversation of intelligent and clever +men, and that lady-society is in general very <i>fade</i> and tiresome: and +yet I truly believe that no woman can devote herself exclusively to the +society of men without losing some of the best and sweetest characteristics +of her sex. The conversation of men of the world and men of +gallantry, gives insensibly a taint to the mind; the unceasing language +of adulation and admiration intoxicates the head and perverts the heart; +the habit of <i>tête-à-têtes</i>, the habit of being always either the sole or the +principal object of attention, of mingling in no conversation which is +not personal, narrows the disposition, weakens the mind, and renders +it incapable of rising to general views or principles; while it so excites +the senses and the imagination, that every thing else becomes in comparison +stale, flat, and unprofitable. The life of a coquette is very like +that of a drunkard or an opium eater, and its end is the same—the +utter extinction of intellect, of cheerfulness, of generous feeling, and of +self-respect.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>St. Michel, Monday.</i>—I know not why I open my book, or why I +should keep accounts of times and places. I saw nothing of Turin but +what I beheld from my window: and as soon as I could travel we set +off, crossed Mount Cenis in a storm, slept at Lans-le-bourg, and reached +this place yesterday, where I am again ill, and worse—worse than +ever.</p> + +<p>Is it not strange that while life is thus rapidly wasting, I should still +be so strong to suffer? the pang, the agony is not less acute at this moment, +than when, fifteen months ago, the poignard was driven to my +heart. The cup, though I have nearly drained it to the last, is not less +bitter now than when first presented to my lips. But this is not well;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span> +why indeed should I repine? mine was but a common fate—like a true +woman, I did but stake my all of happiness upon one cast—and lost!</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>Lyons, 19th.</i>—Good God! for what purpose do we feel! why within +our limited sphere of action, our short and imperfect existence have we +such boundless capacity for enjoying and suffering? no doubt for some +good purpose. But I cannot think as I used to think: my ideas are perplexed: +it is all pain of heart and confusion of mind; a sense of bitterness, +and wrong, and sorrow, which I cannot express, nor yet quite <i>suppress</i>. +If the cloud would but clear away that I might feel and see to do what +is right! but all is dark, and heavy, and vacant; my mind is dull, +and my eyes are dim, and I am scarce conscious of any thing around +me.</p> + +<p>A few days passed here in quiet, and kind Dr. P** have revived me +a little.</p> + +<p>All the way from Turin I have slept almost constantly, if that can +be called <i>sleep</i>, which was rather the stupor of exhaustion, and left me +still sensible of what was passing round me. I heard voices, though I +knew not what they said; and I felt myself moved from place to place +though I neither knew nor cared whither.</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p>All that I have seen and heard, all that I have felt and suffered, +since I left Italy, recalls to my mind that delightful country. I should +regret what I have left behind, had I not outlived all regrets—but one—for +there, though</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I vainly sought from outward forms to win<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The passion and the life whose fountains are within;<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>all feeling was not yet worn out of my heart: I was not then blinded +nor stupified by sorrow and weakness as I have been since.</p> + +<p>There are some places we remember with pleasure, because we +have been happy there; others, because endeared to us as the residence +of friends. We love our country because it is <i>our country</i>; our home +because it is <i>home</i>: London or Paris we may prefer, as comprehending +in themselves, all the intellectual pleasures, and luxuries of life: but, +dear Italy!—we love it, simply for its own sake: not as in general we +are attached to places and things, but as we love a friend, and the face +of a friend; there it was "<i>luxury to be</i>,"—there I would willingly +have died, if so it might have pleased God.</p> + +<p>Till this evening we have not seen a gleam of sunshine, nor a glimpse +of the blue sky, since we crossed Mount Cenis. We entered Lyons +during a small drizzling rain. The dirty streets, the black gloomy-looking +house, the smoking manufactories, and busy looks of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span> +people, made me think of Florence and Genoa, and their "fair white +walls" and princely domes; and when in the evening I heard the whining +organ which some wretched Savoyard was grinding near us, I remembered +even with emotion the delightful voices I heard singing "<i>Di +piacer mi balza il cor</i>" under my balcony at Turin—my last recollection +of Italy: and to-night, when they opened the window to give me +air, I felt, on recovering, the cold chill of the night breeze; and as I +shivered, and shrunk away from it, I remembered the delicious and +genial softness of our Italian evenings—</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<p><i>22.</i>—No letters from England.</p> + +<p>Now that it is past, I may confess, that till now, a faint—a very faint +hope did cling to my heart. I thought it might have been just possible; +but it is over now—<i>all</i> is over!</p> + +<p>We leave Lyons on Tuesday, and travel by short easy stages; and +they think I may still reach Paris. I will hold up—if possible.</p> + +<p>Yet if they would but lay me down on the road-side, and leave me to +die in quietness! to rest is all I ask.</p> + +<p><i>24.</i>—St. Albin. We arrived here yesterday—</p> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>The few sentences which follow are not legible.</p> + +<p>Four days after the date of the last paragraph, the writer +died at Autun in her 26th year, and was buried in the garden +of the Capuchin Monastery, near that city.—<span class="smcap">Editor.</span></p></div> + + +<p class="center">THE END.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span></p> + + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_A_1" id="Footnote_A_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_1"><span class="label">[A]</span></a> First published in 1826.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_B_2" id="Footnote_B_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_B_2"><span class="label">[B]</span></a> It must not be forgotten that this was written ten years ago: the aspect of Paris +is much changed since then.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_C_3" id="Footnote_C_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_C_3"><span class="label">[C]</span></a> By Christian Friederich Tieck.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_D_4" id="Footnote_D_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_D_4"><span class="label">[D]</span></a> +<br /></p> +<p> +"Rousseau, Voltaire, our Gibbon, and De Staël,<br /> +Leman! those names are worthy of thy shore."<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 17.5em;" class="smcap">Lord Byron</span>.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_E_5" id="Footnote_E_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_E_5"><span class="label">[E]</span></a> The sentence which follows is so blotted as to be illegible.—<span class="smcap">Ed.</span></p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_F_6" id="Footnote_F_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_F_6"><span class="label">[F]</span></a> This was indeed ignorance! (1834.)</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_G_7" id="Footnote_G_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_G_7"><span class="label">[G]</span></a> Hail, O Maria, full of grace! the Lord is with thee! blessed art thou among +women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, even <span class="smcap">Jesus</span>. Holy Virgin Mary, +mother of God! pray for us sinners—both now and in the hour of death! Amen.—<span class="smcap">Ed</span>.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_H_8" id="Footnote_H_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_H_8"><span class="label">[H]</span></a> The family of the Cenci was a branch of the house of Colonna, now extinct in +the direct male line. The last Prince Colonna, left two daughters, co-heiresses, of +whom one married the Prince Sciarra, and the other the Prince Barberini. In this +manner the portrait of Beatrice Cenci cane into the Barberini family. The authenticity +of this interesting picture has been disputed: but last night after hearing +the point extremely well contested by two intelligent men, I remained convinced +of its authenticity.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_I_9" id="Footnote_I_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_I_9"><span class="label">[I]</span></a> TRANSLATION, EXTEMPORE. +<br /></p> +<p> +Love, by my fair one's side is ever seen,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He hovers round her steps, where'er she strays,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Breathes in her voice, and in her silence speaks,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Around her lives, and lends her all his arms.</span><br /> +</p><p> +Love is in every glance—Love taught her song;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And if she weep, or scorn contract her brow,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Still Love departs not from her, but is seen</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Even in her lovely anger and her tears.</span><br /> +</p><p> +When, in the mazy dance she glides along<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Still Love is near to poize each graceful step:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So breathes the zephyr o'er the yielding flower.</span><br /> +</p><p> +Love in her brow is throned, plays in her hair,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Darts from her eye and glows upon her lip.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But, oh! he never yet approached her heart.</span></p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_J_10" id="Footnote_J_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor_J_10"><span class="label">[J]</span></a> Poor Schadow died yesterday. He caught cold the other evening at the Duke +of Bracciano's uncomfortable, ostentatious palace, where we heard him complaining +of the cold of the Mosaic floors: three days afterwards he was no more. He is +universally regretted.—<i>Author's note.</i></p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_K_11" id="Footnote_K_11"></a><a href="#FNanchor_K_11"><span class="label">[K]</span></a> A chasm occurs here of about twenty pages, which in the original MS. are torn +out. Nearly the whole of what was written at Naples has suffered mutilation, or +has been purposely effaced; so that in many parts only a detached sentence, or a +few words, are legible in the course of several pages.—<span class="smcap">Editor</span>.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_L_12" id="Footnote_L_12"></a><a href="#FNanchor_L_12"><span class="label">[L]</span></a> Was the letter addressed 'Alla Sua Excellenza <i>Seromfridevi</i>,' which caused +so much perplexity at the Post Office and British Museum, and exercised the acumen +of a minister of state, from Salvador to his illustrious correspondent?</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_M_13" id="Footnote_M_13"></a><a href="#FNanchor_M_13"><span class="label">[M]</span></a> Quid times? &c.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_N_14" id="Footnote_N_14"></a><a href="#FNanchor_N_14"><span class="label">[N]</span></a> Wordsworth.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_O_15" id="Footnote_O_15"></a><a href="#FNanchor_O_15"><span class="label">[O]</span></a> Beyond Fondi I remarked among the wild myrtle-covered hills, a wreath of +white smoke rise as if from under ground, and I asked the postilion what it meant? +He replied with an expressive gesture, "Signora,—i briganti!" I thought this +was a mere trick to alarm us; but it was truth: within twenty hours after we had +passed the spot, a carriage was attacked; and a desperate struggle took place between +the banditti and the sentinels, who are placed at regular distances along the +road, and within hearing of each other. Several men were killed, but the robbers +at length were obliged to fly.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_P_16" id="Footnote_P_16"></a><a href="#FNanchor_P_16"><span class="label">[P]</span></a> It is understood that this beautiful group has since been executed in marble for +Sir George Beaumont.—<span class="smcap">Editor.</span></p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_Q_17" id="Footnote_Q_17"></a><a href="#FNanchor_Q_17"><span class="label">[Q]</span></a> Written on an old pedestal in the gardens of the Villa Pamfili, yesterday +(March 29th).</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_R_18" id="Footnote_R_18"></a><a href="#FNanchor_R_18"><span class="label">[R]</span></a> See the admirable and eloquent "Essays on Petrarch, by Ugo Foscolo," which +have appeared since this Diary was written—<span class="smcap">Editor.</span></p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_S_19" id="Footnote_S_19"></a><a href="#FNanchor_S_19"><span class="label">[S]</span></a> Corilla (whose real name was Maddaleno Morelli) often accompanied herself +on the violin; not holding it against her shoulder, but resting it in her lap. She +was reckoned a fine performer on this instrument; and for her distinguished talents +was crowned in the Capitol in 1779.—<span class="smcap">Ed.</span></p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_T_20" id="Footnote_T_20"></a><a href="#FNanchor_T_20"><span class="label">[T]</span></a> +</p> +<p> +Othello—Thou mak'st me call what I intend to do<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4.5em;">A murder,—which I thought a sacrifice.—</span></p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_U_21" id="Footnote_U_21"></a><a href="#FNanchor_U_21"><span class="label">[U]</span></a> Sestini died of a brain fever at Paris in November, 1822.—<span class="smcap">Ed.</span></p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_V_22" id="Footnote_V_22"></a><a href="#FNanchor_V_22"><span class="label">[V]</span></a> The allusion is to La Francia. When Raffaelle sent his famous St. Cecilia to +Bologna, it was intrusted to the care of La Francia, who was his particular friend, +to be unpacked and hung up. La Francia was old, and had for many years held a +high rank in his profession; no sooner had he cast his eyes on the St. Cecilia, than +struck with despair at seeing his highest efforts so immeasurably outdone, he was +seized with a deep melancholy, and died shortly after.—<span class="smcap">Ed</span>.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_W_23" id="Footnote_W_23"></a><a href="#FNanchor_W_23"><span class="label">[W]</span></a> Forsyth complains of some celebrated Madonnas being <i>unimpassioned</i>: with +submission to Forsyth's taste and acumen—<i>ought</i> they to be <i>impassioned</i>?</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_X_24" id="Footnote_X_24"></a><a href="#FNanchor_X_24"><span class="label">[X]</span></a> Dr. Holland once told me, that when travelling in Iceland, he had heard one of +Mozart's melodies played and sung by an Icelandic girl, and that some months +afterwards he heard the very same air sung to the guitar by a Greek lady at Salonica. +Yet the son of that immortal genius, who has dispensed delight from one +extremity of Europe to the other, and from his urn still rules the entranced senses +of millions—Charles Mozart, is a poor music master at Milan! this should not be.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_Y_25" id="Footnote_Y_25"></a><a href="#FNanchor_Y_25"><span class="label">[Y]</span></a> What Beccaria said in his day is most true of ours, "on paie les musiciens pour +émouvoir, on paie les danseurs de corde pour étonner, et la plus grande partie des +musiciens veulent faire les danseurs de corde."</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_Z_26" id="Footnote_Z_26"></a><a href="#FNanchor_Z_26"><span class="label">[Z]</span></a> +</p> +<p> +"With dagger's hilt upon the gate,<br /> +Who knocks so loud and knocks so late?"—<span class="smcap">Scott.</span></p></div> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 33%;" /> + + +<p class="center">TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES</p> + +<p>Some minor punctuation, spelling inconsistencies, and typos have been +changed from the original publication to reflect the authors' intent:</p> + +<p> +P. 7 oclock—<a href="#oclock">o'clock</a> (Saturday Night, 11 o'clock)<br /> +P. 23 dissapointed—<a href="#disappointed">disappointed</a> (edifices in general disappointed me)<br /> +P. 25 on—<a href="#or">or</a> (martyrdom, or rather assassination)<br /> +P. 28 reman—<a href="#remain">remain</a> (by his birth should remain unchanged)<br /> +P. 30 pehaps—<a href="#perhaps">perhaps</a> (perhaps after all)<br /> +P. 33 Cavigliajo—<a href="#Covigliajo33">Covigliajo</a> (Covigliajo, an uncouth dreary)<br /> +P. 44 maitresse—<a href="#maitresse44">maîtresse</a> (fait de maîtresse)<br /> +P. 50 Madonas—<a href="#Madonnas">Madonnas</a> (Raffaelle's Madonnas.)<br /> +P. 51 Appenines—<a href="#Apennines">Apennines</a> (Apennines with light clouds)<br /> +P. 52 creatons—<a href="#creations">creations</a> (fancy's fairest creations)<br/> +P. 56 sungly—<a href="#snugly">snugly</a> (a drawing-room snugly carpeted)<br /> +P. 57 appeartance—<a href="#appearance">appearance</a> (the general appearance)<br /> +P. 57 rathers—<a href="#rather">rather</a> (rather grows upon me)<br /> +P. 59 Appenines—<a href="#Apennines59">Apennines</a> (Apennines, rose just over Tivoli,)<br /> +P. 60 Russel—<a href="#Russell">Russell</a> (Lady Louisa Russell)<br /> +P. 65 Changed " to <a href="#Armis">'</a> (nested quotes) ('Armis vitrumque canter,')<br /> +P. 66 chef d'œuvre—<a href="#chef66">chef-d'œuvre</a> (hyphenated for consistency)<br /> +P. 77 San Gioralmo—San <a href="#Girolamo">Girolamo</a> (San Girolamo della Carità)<br /> +P. 79 senerade—<a href="#serenade">serenade</a> (serenade was evidently)<br /> +P. 80 comtemplate—<a href="#contemplate">contemplate</a> (contemplate the coliseum)<br /> +P. 81 valls—<a href="#walls">walls</a> (walls, and the stream)<br /> +P. 90 enthusiam—<a href="#enthusiasm">enthusiasm</a> (to whom enthusiasm is only another name)<br /> +P. 118 Wet—<a href="#We">We</a> (We met many begging friars)<br /> +P. 120 acessible—<a href="#accessible">accessible</a> (pleasant, accessible, and very private)<br /> +P. 126 thought—<a href="#though126">though</a> (the afternoon, though not brilliant, was)<br /> +P. 126 amosphere—<a href="#atmosphere">atmosphere</a> (the atmosphere was perfectly)<br /> +P. 127 Appennines—<a href="#Apennines127">Apennines</a> (Alban Hills, and the Apennines)<br /> +P. 152 in—<a href="#it152">it</a> (it affects the mind)<br /> +P. 155 Added closing quotes ("ploughed by the <a href="#sunbeams">sunbeams</a>;").<br /> +P. 157 Removed unnecessary opening quotes (<a href="#The157">The</a> little old man).<br /> +</p> + + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Diary of an Ennuyée, by Anna Brownell Jameson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DIARY OF AN ENNUYÉE *** + +***** This file should be named 18049-h.htm or 18049-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/8/0/4/18049/ + +Produced by Carlo Traverso, Diane Monico, and the Project +Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net. 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