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<p>&nbsp;</p>

<div class="figcenter"><img width="100%" src="images/ildefonso.jpg" alt=
"ildefonso" /></div>

<h1>SKETCHES AND STUDIES</h1>

<h1>IN ITALY AND GREECE</h1>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<h3>BY JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS</h3>

<h5>AUTHOR OF "RENAISSANCE IN ITALY," "STUDIES OF THE GREEK POETS,"
ETC.</h5>

<h4>THIRD SERIES</h4>

<h4>WITH A FRONTISPIECE</h4>

<h4>LONDON</h4>

<h4>JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.</h4>

<h4>1910</h4>

<table summary="Edition" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="2" border="0"
style="width: 80%;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td class="cell_lt">
<div class="smcap">First Edition (Smith, Elder &amp; Co.)</div>
</td>
<td class="cell_mid"><i>December</i> 1898</td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td class="cell_lt"><i>Reprinted</i></td>
<td class="cell_mid"><i>December</i> 1907</td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td class="cell_lt"><i>Reprinted</i></td>
<td class="cell_mid"><i>October</i> 1910</td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td class="cell_lt">
<div class="smcap">Taken Over by John Murray</div>
</td>
<td class="cell_mid"><i>January</i> 1917</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<div class="center"><i>Printed in Great Britain by</i></div>

<div class="center">
<div class="smcap">Spottiswoode, Ballantyne &amp; Co. Ltd.</div>
</div>

<div class="center"><i>London, Colchester &amp; Eton</i></div>

<h4><a href="index.html">INDEX</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; <a href=
"i.html">Volume I.</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; <a href="ii.html">Volume
II.</a></h4>

<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<h3>CONTENTS</h3>

<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<ul class="TOC">
<li><span class="tocright">PAGE</span></li>
</ul>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<ul class="TOC">
<li>
<div class="smcap">Folgore da San Gemignano<span class=
"tocright"><a href="#FOLGORE">1</a></span></div>
</li>
</ul>

<ul class="TOC">
<li>
<div class="smcap">Thoughts in Italy about Christmas<span class=
"tocright"><a href="#CHRISTMAS">21</a></span></div>
</li>
</ul>

<ul class="TOC">
<li>
<div class="smcap">Siena<span class="tocright"><a href=
"#SIENA">41</a></span></div>
</li>
</ul>

<ul class="TOC">
<li>
<div class="smcap">Monte Oliveto<span class="tocright"><a href=
"#OLIVETO">66</a></span></div>
</li>
</ul>

<ul class="TOC">
<li>
<div class="smcap">Montepulciano<span class="tocright"><a href=
"#MONTEPULCIANO">87</a></span></div>
</li>
</ul>

<ul class="TOC">
<li>
<div class="smcap">Perugia<span class="tocright"><a href=
"#PERUGIA">111</a></span></div>
</li>
</ul>

<ul class="TOC">
<li>
<div class="smcap">Orvieto<span class="tocright"><a href=
"#ORVIETO">137</a></span></div>
</li>
</ul>

<ul class="TOC">
<li>
<div class="smcap">Lucretius<span class="tocright"><a href=
"#LUCRETIUS">155</a></span></div>
</li>
</ul>

<ul class="TOC">
<li>
<div class="smcap">Antinous<span class="tocright"><a href=
"#ANTINOUS">184</a></span></div>
</li>
</ul>

<ul class="TOC">
<li>
<div class="smcap">Spring Wanderings<span class="tocright"><a href=
"#WANDERINGS">184</a></span></div>
</li>
</ul>

<ul class="TOC">
<li>
<div class="smcap">Amalfi, P&aelig;stum, Capri<span class=
"tocright"><a href="#AMALFI">250</a></span></div>
</li>
</ul>

<ul class="TOC">
<li>
<div class="smcap">Etna<span class="tocright"><a href=
"#ETNA">279</a></span></div>
</li>
</ul>

<ul class="TOC">
<li>
<div class="smcap">Palermo<span class="tocright"><a href=
"#PALERMO">290</a></span></div>
</li>
</ul>

<ul class="TOC">
<li>
<div class="smcap">Syracuse and Girgenti<span class="tocright"><a
href="#SYRACUSE">319</a></span></div>
</li>
</ul>

<ul class="TOC">
<li>
<div class="smcap">Athens<span class="tocright"><a href=
"#ATHENS">339</a></span></div>
</li>
</ul>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<ul class="TOC">
<li>INDEX<span class="tocright"><a href=
"#INDEX">365</a></span></li>
</ul>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<table summary="Ildefonso Group" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="2"
border="0" style="width: 90%;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td class="cell_lt">
<div class="smcap">The Ildefonso Group</div>
</td>
<td class="cell_rg"><a href=
"images/ildefonso.jpg"><i>Frontispiece</i></a></td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>

<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg001" id=
"pg001">1</a></span></p>

<h2>SKETCHES AND STUDIES</h2>

<h5>IN</h5>

<h2>ITALY AND GREECE</h2>

<hr style='width: 45%;' />
<h3><a name="FOLGORE" id="FOLGORE" /><i>FOLGORE DA SAN
GEMIGNANO</i></h3>

<p>Students of Mr. Dante Gabriel Rossetti's translations from the
early Italian poets (<i>Dante and his Circle</i>. Ellis &amp;
White, 1874) will not fail to have noticed the striking figure made
among those jejune imitators of Proven&ccedil;al mannerism by two
rhymesters, Cecco Angiolieri and Folgore da San Gemignano. Both
belong to the school of Siena, and both detach themselves from the
metaphysical fashion of their epoch by clearness of intention and
directness of style. The sonnets of both are remarkable for what in
the critical jargon of to-day might be termed realism. Cecco is
even savage and brutal. He anticipates Villon from afar, and is
happily described by Mr. Rossetti as the prodigal, or 'scamp' of
the Dantesque circle. The case is different with Folgore. There is
no poet who breathes a fresher air of gentleness. He writes in
images, dealing but little with ideas. Every line presents a
picture, and each picture has the charm of a miniature fancifully
drawn and brightly coloured on a missal-margin. Cecco and Folgore
alike have abandoned the <a name="pg002" id="pg002"></a><span
class="pagenum">2</span> medi&aelig;val mysticism which sounds
unreal on almost all Italian lips but Dante's. True Italians, they
are content to live for life's sake, and to take the world as it
presents itself to natural senses. But Cecco is perverse and
impious. His love has nothing delicate; his hatred is a morbid
passion. At his worst or best (for his best writing is his worst
feeling) we find him all but rabid. If Caligula, for instance, had
written poetry, he might have piqued himself upon the following
sonnet; only we must do Cecco the justice of remembering that his
rage is more than half ironical and humorous:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i2">An I were fire, I would burn up the world;</div>

<div class="i5">An I were wind, with tempest I'd it break;</div>

<div class="i5">An I were sea, I'd drown it in a lake;</div>

<div class="i5">An I were God, to hell I'd have it hurled;</div>

<div class="i2">An I were Pope, I'd see disaster whirled</div>

<div class="i5">O'er Christendom, deep joy thereof to take;</div>

<div class="i5">An I were Emperor, I'd quickly make</div>

<div class="i5">All heads of all folk from their necks be
twirled;</div>

<div class="i2">An I were death, I'd to my father go;</div>

<div class="i5">An I were life, forthwith from him I'd fly;</div>

<div class="i5">And with my mother I'd deal even so;</div>

<div class="i2">An I were Cecco, as I am but I,</div>

<div class="i5">Young girls and pretty for myself I'd hold,</div>

<div class="i5">But let my neighbours take the plain and old.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>Of all this there is no trace in Folgore. The worst a moralist
could say of him is that he sought out for himself a life of pure
enjoyment. The famous Sonnets on the Months give particular
directions for pastime in a round of pleasure suited to each
season. The Sonnets on the Days are conceived in a like hedonistic
spirit. But these series are specially addressed to members of the
Glad Brigades and Spending Companies, which were common in the
great mercantile cities of medi&aelig;val Italy. Their tone is
doubtless due to the occasion of their composition, as compliments
to Messer Nichol&ograve; di Nisi and Messer Guerra Cavicciuoli.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg003" id="pg003">3</a></span>
The mention of these names reminds me that a word need be said
about the date of Folgore. Mr. Rossetti does not dispute the
commonly assigned date of 1260, and takes for granted that the
Messer Nicol&ograve; of the Sonnets on the Months was the Sienese
gentleman referred to by Dante in a certain passage of the
'Inferno':<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1" /><a href=
"#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a>&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i2">And to the Poet said I: 'Now was ever</div>

<div class="i5">So vain a people as the Sienese?</div>

<div class="i5">Not for a certainty the French by far.'</div>

<div class="i2">Whereat the other leper, who had heard me,</div>

<div class="i5">Replied unto my speech: 'Taking out Stricca,</div>

<div class="i5">Who knew the art of moderate expenses,</div>

<div class="i2">And Nicol&ograve;, who the luxurious use</div>

<div class="i5">Of cloves discovered earliest of all</div>

<div class="i5">Within that garden where such seed takes
root.</div>

<div class="i2">And taking out the band, among whom
squandered</div>

<div class="i5">Caccia d' Ascian his vineyards and vast
woods,</div>

<div class="i5">And where his wit the Abbagliato proffered.'</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>Now Folgore refers in his political sonnets to events of the
years 1314 and 1315; and the correct reading of a line in his last
sonnet on the Months gives the name of Nichol&ograve; di Nisi to
the leader of Folgore's 'blithe and lordly Fellowship.' The first
of these facts leads us to the conclusion that Folgore flourished
in the first quarter of the fourteenth, instead of in the third
quarter of the thirteenth century. The second prevents our
identifying Nichol&ograve; di Nisi with the Niccol&ograve; de'
Salimbeni, who is thought to have been the founder of the
Fellowship of the Carnation. Furthermore, documents have recently
been brought to light which mention at San Gemignano, in the years
1305 and 1306, a certain Folgore. There is no sufficient reason to
identify this Folgore with the poet; but the name, to say the
least, is so peculiar that its occurrence in the records of so
small a town as San Gemignano gives some confirmation to the
hypothesis of the <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg004" id=
"pg004">4</a></span> poet's later date. Taking these several
considerations together, I think we must abandon the old view that
Folgore was one of the earliest Tuscan poets, a view which is,
moreover, contradicted by his style. Those critics, at any rate,
who still believe him to have been a predecessor of Dante's, are
forced to reject as spurious the political sonnets referring to
Monte Catini and the plunder of Lucca by Uguccione della Faggiuola.
Yet these sonnets rest on the same manuscript authority as the
Months and Days, and are distinguished by the same qualities.<a
name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2" /><a href=
"#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a>
<i>Inferno</i>, xxix. 121.&mdash;<i>Longfellow</i>.</p>
</div>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> The
above points are fully discussed by Signor Giulio Navone, in his
recent edition of <i>Le Rime di Folgore da San Gemignano e di Cene
da la Chitarra d' Arezzo</i>. Bologna: Romagnoli, 1880. I may
further mention that in the sonnet on the Pisans, translated on p.
18, which belongs to the political series, Folgore uses his own
name.</p>
</div>

<p>Whatever may be the date of Folgore, whether we assign his
period to the middle of the thirteenth or the beginning of the
fourteenth century, there is no doubt but that he presents us with
a very lively picture of Italian manners, drawn from the point of
view of the high bourgeoisie. It is on this account that I have
thought it worth while to translate five of his Sonnets on
Knighthood, which form the fragment that remains to us from a
series of seventeen. Few poems better illustrate the temper of
Italian aristocracy when the civil wars of two centuries had forced
the nobles to enroll themselves among the burghers, and when what
little chivalry had taken root in Italy was fast decaying in a
gorgeous over-bloom of luxury. The institutions of feudal
knighthood had lost their sterner meaning for our poet. He uses
them for the suggestion of delicate allegories fancifully painted.
Their mysterious significance is turned to gaiety, their piety to
amorous delight, their grimness to refined enjoyment. Still these
changes are effected with perfect good taste and in perfect good
faith. Something of the perfume of true <span class="pagenum"><a
name="pg005" id="pg005">5</a></span> chivalry still lingered in a
society which was fast becoming mercantile and diplomatic. And this
perfume is exhaled by the petals of Folgore's song-blossom. He has
no conception that to readers of Mort Arthur, or to Founders of the
Garter, to Sir Miles Stapleton, Sir Richard Fitz-Simon, or Sir
James Audley, his ideal knight would have seemed but little better
than a scented civet-cat. Such knights as his were all that Italy
possessed, and the poet-painter was justly proud of them, since
they served for finished pictures of the beautiful in life.</p>

<p>The Italians were not a feudal race. During the successive
reigns of Lombard, Frankish, and German masters, they had passively
accepted, stubbornly resisted feudalism, remaining true to the
conviction that they themselves were Roman. In Roman memories they
sought the traditions which give consistency to national
consciousness. And when the Italian communes triumphed finally over
Empire, counts, bishops, and rural aristocracy; then Roman law was
speedily substituted for the 'asinine code' of the barbarians, and
Roman civility gave its tone to social customs in the place of
Teutonic chivalry. Yet just as the Italians borrowed, modified, and
misconceived Gothic architecture, so they took a feudal tincture
from the nations of the North with whom they came in contact. Their
noble families, those especially who followed the Imperial party,
sought the honour of knighthood; and even the free cities arrogated
to themselves the right of conferring this distinction by diploma
on their burghers. The chivalry thus formed in Italy was a
decorative institution. It might be compared to the ornamental
frontispiece which masks the structural poverty of such Gothic
buildings as the Cathedral of Orvieto.</p>

<p>On the descent of the German Emperor into Lombardy, the great
vassals who acknowledged him, made knighthood, <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg006" id="pg006">6</a></span> among titles of
more solid import, the price of their allegiance.<a name=
"FNanchor_1_3" id="FNanchor_1_3" /><a href="#Footnote_1_3"
class="fnanchor">[1]</a> Thus the chronicle of the Cortusi for the
year 1354 tells us that when Charles IV. 'was advancing through the
March, and had crossed the Oglio, and was at the borders of
Cremona, in his camp upon the snow, he, sitting upon his horse, did
knight the doughty and noble man, Francesco da Carrara, who had
constantly attended him with a great train, and smiting him upon
the neck with his palm, said: "Be thou a good knight, and loyal to
the Empire." Thereupon the noble German peers dismounted, and
forthwith buckled on Francesco's spurs. To them the Lord Francesco
gave chargers and horses of the best he had.' Immediately
afterwards Francesco dubbed several of his own retainers knights.
And this was the customary fashion of these Lombard lords. For we
read how in the year 1328 Can Grande della Scala, after the capture
of Padua, 'returned to Verona, and for the further celebration of
his victory upon the last day of October held a court, and made
thirty-eight knights with his own hand of the divers districts of
Lombardy.' And in 1294 Azzo d'Este 'was knighted by Gerardo da
Camino, who then was Lord of Treviso, upon the piazza of Ferrara,
before the gate of the Bishop's palace. And on the same day at the
same hour the said Lord Marquis Azzo made fifty-two knights with
his own hand, namely, the Lord Francesco, his brother, and others
of Ferrara, Modena, Bologna, Florence, Padua, and Lombardy; and on
this occasion was a great court held in Ferrara.' Another
chronicle, referring to the same event, says that the whole
expenses of the ceremony, including the rich dresses of the new
knights, were at the charge of the Marquis. It was customary, when
a noble house had risen to great wealth and <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg007" id="pg007">7</a></span> had abundance of
fighting men, to increase its prestige and spread abroad its glory
by a wholesale creation of knights. Thus the Chronicle of Rimini
records a high court held by Pandolfo Malatesta in the May of 1324,
when he and his two sons, with two of his near relatives and
certain strangers from Florence, Bologna, and Perugia, received
this honour. At Siena, in like manner, in the year 1284, 'thirteen
of the house of Salimbeni were knighted with great pomp.'</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_3" id="Footnote_1_3" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_3"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> The
passages used in the text are chiefly drawn from Muratori's
fifty-third Dissertation.</p>
</div>

<p>It was not on the battlefield that the Italians sought this
honour. They regarded knighthood as a part of their signorial
parade. Therefore Republics, in whom perhaps, according to strict
feudal notions, there was no fount of honour, presumed to appoint
procurators for the special purpose of making knights. Florence,
Siena, and Arezzo, after this fashion gave the golden spurs to men
who were enrolled in the arts of trade or commerce. The usage was
severely criticised by Germans who visited Italy in the Imperial
train. Otto Frisingensis, writing the deeds of Frederick
Barbarossa, speaks with bitterness thereof: 'To the end that they
may not lack means of subduing their neighbours, they think it no
shame to gird as knights young men of low birth, or even
handicraftsmen in despised mechanic arts, the which folk other
nations banish like the plague from honourable and liberal
pursuits.' Such knights, amid the chivalry of Europe, were not held
in much esteem; nor is it easy to see what the cities, which had
formally excluded nobles from their government, thought to gain by
aping institutions which had their true value only in a feudal
society. We must suppose that the Italians were not firmly set
enough in their own type to resist an enthusiasm which inflamed all
Christendom. At the same time they were too Italian to comprehend
the spirit of the thing they borrowed. The knights thus made
already contained within themselves the germ of those Condottieri
<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg008" id="pg008">8</a></span>who
reduced the service of arms to a commercial speculation. But they
lent splendour to the Commonwealth, as may be seen in the grave
line of mounted warriors, steel-clad, with open visors, who guard
the commune of Siena in Ambrogio Lorenzetti's fresco. Giovanni
Villani, in a passage of his Chronicle which deals with the fair
state of Florence just before the outbreak of the Black and White
parties, says the city at that epoch numbered 'three hundred
Cavalieri di Corredo, with many clubs of knights and squires, who
morning and evening went to meat with many men of the court, and
gave away on high festivals many robes of vair.' It is clear that
these citizen knights were leaders of society, and did their duty
to the commonwealth by adding to its joyous cheer. Upon the
battlefields of the civil wars, moreover, they sustained at their
expense the charges of the cavalry.</p>

<p>Siena was a city much given to parade and devoted to the
Imperial cause, in which the institution of chivalry flourished.
Not only did the burghers take knighthood from their procurators,
but the more influential sought it by a special dispensation from
the Emperor. Thus we hear how Nino Tolomei obtained a
C&aelig;sarean diploma of knighthood for his son Giovanni, and
published it with great pomp to the people in his palace. This
Giovanni, when he afterwards entered religion, took the name of
Bernard, and founded the Order of Monte Oliveto.</p>

<p>Owing to the special conditions of Italian chivalry, it followed
that the new knight, having won his spurs by no feat of arms upon
the battlefield, was bounden to display peculiar magnificence in
the ceremonies of his investiture. His honour was held to be less
the reward of courage than of liberality. And this feeling is
strongly expressed in a curious passage of Matteo Villani's
Chronicle. 'When the Emperor Charles had received the crown in
Rome, as we have said, he <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg009" id=
"pg009">9</a></span>turned towards Siena, and on the 19th day of
April arrived at that city; and before he entered the same, there
met him people of the commonwealth with great festivity upon the
hour of vespers; in the which reception eight burghers, given to
display but miserly, to the end they might avoid the charges due to
knighthood, did cause themselves then and there to be made knights
by him. And no sooner had he passed the gates than many ran to meet
him without order in their going or provision for the ceremony, and
he, being aware of the vain and light impulse of that folk,
enjoined upon the Patriarch to knight them in his name. The
Patriarch could not withstay from knighting as many as offered
themselves; and seeing the thing so cheap, very many took the
honour, who before that hour had never thought of being knighted,
nor had made provision of what is required from him who seeketh
knighthood, but with light impulse did cause themselves to be borne
upon the arms of those who were around the Patriarch; and when they
were in the path before him, these raised such an one on high, and
took his customary cap off, and after he had had the cheek-blow
which is used in knighting, put a gold-fringed cap upon his head,
and drew him from the press, and so he was a knight. And after this
wise were made four-and-thirty on that evening, of the noble and
lesser folk. And when the Emperor had been attended to his lodging,
night fell, and all returned home; and the new knights without
preparation or expense celebrated their reception into chivalry
with their families forthwith. He who reflects with a mind not
subject to base avarice upon the coming of a new-crowned Emperor
into so famous a city, and bethinks him how so many noble and rich
burghers were promoted to the honour of knighthood in their native
land, men too by nature fond of pomp, without having made any
solemn festival in common or in private to the fame of chivalry,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg010" id="pg010">10</a></span>may
judge this people little worthy of the distinction they
received.'</p>

<p>This passage is interesting partly as an instance of Florentine
spite against Siena, partly as showing that in Italy great
munificence was expected from the carpet-knights who had not won
their spurs with toil, and partly as proving how the German
Emperors, on their parade expeditions through Italy, debased the
institutions they were bound to hold in respect. Enfeebled by the
extirpation of the last great German house which really reigned in
Italy, the Empire was now no better than a cause of corruption and
demoralisation to Italian society. The conduct of a man like
Charles disgusted even the most fervent Ghibellines; and we find
Fazio degli Uberti flinging scorn upon his avarice and baseness in
such lines as these:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i4">Sappi ch' i' son Italia che ti parlo,</div>

<div class="i4">Di Lusimburgo <i>ignominioso Carlo</i> ...</div>

<div class="i4">Veggendo te aver tese tue arti</div>

<div class="i4"><i>A t&oacute;r danari e gir con essi a casa</i>
...</div>

<div class="i4">Tu dunque, Giove, perche 'l Santo uccello</div>

<div class="i4">Da questo Carlo quarto</div>

<div class="i4">Imperador non togli e dalle mani</div>

<div class="i4"><i>Degli altri, lurchi moderni Germani</i></div>

<div class="i4"><i>Che d' aquila un allocco n' hanno
fatto</i>?</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>From a passage in a Sienese chronicle we learn what ceremonies
of bravery were usual in that city when the new knights understood
their duty. It was the year 1326. Messer Francesco Bandinelli was
about to be knighted on the morning of Christmas Day. The friends
of his house sent peacocks and pheasants by the dozen, and huge
pies of marchpane, and game in quantities. Wine, meat, and bread
were distributed to the Franciscan and other convents, and a fair
and noble court was opened to all comers. Messer Sozzo, father of
the novice, went, attended by his guests, to <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg011" id="pg011">11</a></span>hear high mass in
the cathedral; and there upon the marble pulpit, which the Pisans
carved, the ceremony was completed. Tommaso di Nello bore his sword
and cap and spurs before him upon horseback. Messer Sozzo girded
the sword upon the loins of Messer Francesco, his son aforesaid.
Messer Pietro Ridolfi, of Rome, who was the first vicar that came
to Siena, and the Duke of Calabria buckled on his right spur. The
Captain of the People buckled on his left. The Count Simone da
Battifolle then undid his sword and placed it in the hands of
Messer Giovanni di Messer Bartolo de' Fibenzi da Rodi, who handed
it to Messer Sozzo, the which sword had previously been girded by
the father on his son. After this follows a list of the illustrious
guests, and an inventory of the presents made to them by Messer
Francesco. We find among these 'a robe of silken cloth and gold,
skirt, and fur, and cap lined with vair, with a silken cord.' The
description of the many costly dresses is minute; but I find no
mention of armour. The singers received golden florins, and the
players upon instruments 'good store of money.' A certain Salamone
was presented with the clothes which the novice doffed before he
took the ceremonial bath. The whole catalogue concludes with Messer
Francesco's furniture and outfit. This, besides a large wardrobe of
rich clothes and furs, contains armour and the trappings for
charger and palfrey. The <i>Corte Bandita</i>, or open house held
upon this occasion, lasted for eight days, and the charges on the
Bandinelli estates must have been considerable.</p>

<p>Knights so made were called in Italy <i>Cavalieri Addobbati</i>,
or <i>di Corredo</i>, probably because the expense of costly
furniture was borne by them&mdash;<i>addobbo</i> having become a
name for decorative trappings, and <i>Corredo</i> for equipment.
The latter is still in use for a bride's trousseau. The former has
the same Teutonic root as our verb 'to dub.' But the Italians <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg012" id="pg012">12</a></span>recognised
three other kinds of knights, the <i>Cavalieri Bagati</i>,
<i>Cavalieri di Scudo</i>, and <i>Cavalieri d'Arme</i>. Of the four
sorts Sacchetti writes in one of his novels:&mdash;'Knights of the
Bath are made with the greatest ceremonies, and it behoves them to
be bathed and washed of all impurity. Knights of Equipment are
those who take the order with a mantle of dark green and the gilded
garland. Knights of the Shield are such as are made knights by
commonwealths or princes, or go to investiture armed, and with the
casque upon their head. Knights of Arms are those who in the
opening of a battle, or upon a foughten field, are dubbed knights.'
These distinctions, however, though concordant with feudal
chivalry, were not scrupulously maintained in Italy. Messer
Francesco Bandinelli, for example, was certainly a <i>Cavaliere di
Corredo</i>. Yet he took the bath, as we have seen. Of a truth, the
Italians selected those picturesque elements of chivalry which lent
themselves to pageant and parade. The sterner intention of the
institution, and the symbolic meaning of its various ceremonies,
were neglected by them.</p>

<p>In the foregoing passages, which serve as a lengthy preamble to
Folgore's five sonnets, I have endeavoured to draw illustrations
from the history of Siena, because Folgore represents Sienese
society at the height of medi&aelig;val culture. In the first of
the series he describes the preparation made by the aspirant after
knighthood. The noble youth is so bent on doing honour to the order
of chivalry, that he raises money by mortgage to furnish forth the
banquets and the presents due upon the occasion of his institution.
He has made provision also of equipment for himself and all his
train. It will be noticed that Folgore dwells only on the fair and
joyous aspect of the ceremony. The religious enthusiasm of
knighthood has disappeared, and already, in the first decade of the
fourteenth century, we find the spirit <span class="pagenum"><a
name="pg013" id="pg013">13</a></span>of Jehan de Saintr&egrave;
prevalent in Italy. The word <i>donzello</i>, derived from the
Latin <i>domicellus</i>, I have translated <i>squire</i>, because
the donzel was a youth of gentle birth awaiting knighthood.</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i1">This morn a young squire shall be made a
knight;</div>

<div class="i4">hereof he fain would be right worthy found,</div>

<div class="i4">And therefore pledgeth lands and castles
round</div>

<div class="i4">To furnish all that fits a man of might.</div>

<div class="i1">Meat, bread and wine he gives to many a
wight;</div>

<div class="i4">Capons and pheasants on his board abound,</div>

<div class="i4">Where serving men and pages march around;</div>

<div class="i4">Choice chambers, torches, and wax candle
light.</div>

<div class="i1">Barbed steeds, a multitude, are in his
thought,</div>

<div class="i4">Mailed men at arms and noble company,</div>

<div class="i4">Spears, pennants, housing cloths, bells richly
wrought.</div>

<div class="i1">Musicians following with great barony</div>

<div class="i4">And jesters through the land his state have
brought,</div>

<div class="i4">With dames and damsels whereso rideth he.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>The subject having thus been introduced, Folgore treats the
ceremonies of investiture by an allegorical method, which is quite
consistent with his own preference of images to ideas. Each of the
four following sonnets presents a picture to the mind, admirably
fitted for artistic handling. We may imagine them to ourselves
wrought in arras for a sumptuous chamber. The first treats of the
bath, in which, as we have seen already from Sacchetti's note, the
aspirant after knighthood puts aside all vice, and consecrates
himself anew. Prodezza, or Prowess, must behold him nude from head
to foot, in order to assure herself that the neophyte bears no
blemish; and this inspection is an allegory of internal
wholeness.</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i1">Lo Prowess, who despoileth him straightway,</div>

<div class="i4">And saith: 'Friend, now beseems it thee to
strip;</div>

<div class="i4">For I will see men naked, thigh and hip,</div>

<div class="i4">And thou my will must know and eke obey;</div>

<div class="i1"><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg014" id=
"pg014">14</a></span>And leave what was thy wont until this
day,</div>

<div class="i4">And for new toil, new sweat, thy strength
equip;</div>

<div class="i4">This do, and thou shalt join my fellowship,</div>

<div class="i4">If of fair deeds thou tire not nor cry nay.'</div>

<div class="i1">And when she sees his comely body bare,</div>

<div class="i4">Forthwith within her arms she him doth take,</div>

<div class="i4">And saith: 'These limbs thou yieldest to my
prayer;</div>

<div class="i1">I do accept thee, and this gift thee make,</div>

<div class="i4">So that thy deeds may shine for ever fair;</div>

<div class="i4">My lips shall never more thy praise forsake.'</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>After courage, the next virtue of the knightly character is
gentleness or modesty, called by the Italians humility. It is this
quality which makes a strong man pleasing to the world, and wins
him favour. Folgore's sonnet enables us to understand the motto of
the great Borromeo family&mdash;<i>Humilitas</i>, in Gothic letters
underneath the coronet upon their princely palace fronts.</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i1">Humility to him doth gently go,</div>

<div class="i4">And saith: 'I would in no wise weary thee;</div>

<div class="i4">Yet must I cleanse and wash thee thoroughly,</div>

<div class="i4">And I will make thee whiter than the snow.</div>

<div class="i1">Hear what I tell thee in few words, for so</div>

<div class="i4">Fain am I of thy heart to hold the key;</div>

<div class="i4">Now must thou sail henceforward after me;</div>

<div class="i4">And I will guide thee as myself do go.</div>

<div class="i1">But one thing would I have thee straightway
leave;</div>

<div class="i4">Well knowest thou mine enemy is pride;</div>

<div class="i4">Let her no more unto thy spirit cleave:</div>

<div class="i1">So leal a friend with thee will I abide</div>

<div class="i4">That favour from all folk thou shalt receive;</div>

<div class="i4">This grace hath he who keepeth on my side.'</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>The novice has now bathed, approved himself to the searching
eyes of Prowess, and been accepted by Humility. After the bath, it
was customary for him to spend a night in vigil; and this among the
Teutons should have taken place in church, alone before the altar.
But the Italian poet, after his custom, <span class="pagenum"><a
name="pg015" id="pg015">15</a></span>gives a suave turn to the
severe discipline. His donzel passes the night in bed, attended by
Discretion, or the virtue of reflection. She provides fair
entertainment for the hours of vigil, and leaves him at the morning
with good counsel. It is not for nothing that he seeks knighthood,
and it behoves him to be careful of his goings. The last three
lines of the sonnet are the gravest of the series, showing that
something of true chivalrous feeling survived even among the
Cavalieri di Corredo of Tuscany.</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i1">Then did Discretion to the squire draw near,</div>

<div class="i4">And drieth him with a fair cloth and clean,</div>

<div class="i4">And straightway putteth him the sheets
between,</div>

<div class="i4">Silk, linen, counterpane, and minevere.</div>

<div class="i1">Think now of this! Until the day was clear,</div>

<div class="i4">With songs and music and delight the queen,</div>

<div class="i4">And with new knights, fair fellows
well-beseen,</div>

<div class="i4">To make him perfect, gave him goodly cheer.</div>

<div class="i1">Then saith she: 'Rise forthwith, for now 'tis
due,</div>

<div class="i4">Thou shouldst be born into the world again;</div>

<div class="i4">Keep well the order thou dost take in view.'</div>

<div class="i1">Unfathomable thoughts with him remain</div>

<div class="i4">Of that great bond he may no more eschew,</div>

<div class="i4">Nor can he say, 'I'll hide me from this
chain.'</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>The vigil is over. The mind of the novice is prepared for his
new duties. The morning of his reception into chivalry has arrived.
It is therefore fitting that grave thoughts should be abandoned;
and seeing that not only prowess, humility, and discretion are the
virtues of a knight, but that he should also be blithe and
debonair, Gladness comes to raise him from his bed and equip him
for the ceremony of institution.</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i1">Comes Blithesomeness with mirth and
merriment,</div>

<div class="i4">All decked in flowers she seemeth a
rose-tree;</div>

<div class="i4">Of linen, silk, cloth, fur, now beareth she</div>

<div class="i4"><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg016" id=
"pg016">16</a></span>the new knight a rich habiliment;</div>

<div class="i1">Head-gear and cap and garland
flower-besprent,</div>

<div class="i4">So brave they were May-bloom he seemed to be;</div>

<div class="i4">With such a rout, so many and such glee,</div>

<div class="i4">That the floor shook. Then to her work she
went;</div>

<div class="i1">And stood him on his feet in hose and shoon;</div>

<div class="i4">And purse and gilded girdle 'neath the fur</div>

<div class="i4">That drapes his goodly limbs, she buckles on;</div>

<div class="i1">Then bids the singers and sweet music stir,</div>

<div class="i4">And showeth him to ladies for a boon</div>

<div class="i4">And all who in that following went with her.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>At this point the poem is abruptly broken. The manuscript from
which these sonnets are taken states they are a fragment. Had the
remaining twelve been preserved to us, we should probably have
possessed a series of pictures in which the procession to church
would have been portrayed, the investiture with the sword, the
accolade, the buckling on of the spurs, and the concluding sports
and banquets. It is very much to be regretted that so interesting,
so beautiful, and so unique a monument of Italian chivalry survives
thus mutilated. But students of art have to arm themselves
continually with patience, repressing the sad thoughts engendered
in them by the spectacle of time's unconscious injuries.</p>

<p>It is certain that Folgore would have written at least one
sonnet on the quality of courtesy, which in that age, as we have
learned from Matteo Villani, identified itself in the Italian mind
with liberality. This identification marks a certain degradation of
the chivalrous ideal, which is characteristic of Italian manners.
One of Folgore's miscellaneous sonnets shows how sorely he felt the
disappearance of this quality from the midst of a society bent
daily more and more upon material aims. It reminds us of the
lamentable outcries uttered by the later poets of the fourteenth
century, Sacchetti, Boccaccio, Uberti, and others of less fame,
over the decline of their age.</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i1"><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg017" id=
"pg017">17</a></span>Courtesy! Courtesy! Courtesy! I call:</div>

<div class="i4">But from no quarter comes there a reply.</div>

<div class="i4">And whoso needs her, ill must us befall.</div>

<div class="i1">Greed with his hook hath ta'en men one and
all,</div>

<div class="i4">And murdered every grace that dumb doth lie:</div>

<div class="i4">Whence, if I grieve, I know the reason why;</div>

<div class="i4">From you, great men, to God I make my call:</div>

<div class="i1">For you my mother Courtesy have cast</div>

<div class="i4">So low beneath your feet she there must
bleed;</div>

<div class="i4">Your gold remains, but you're not made to
last:</div>

<div class="i1">Of Eve and Adam we are all the seed:</div>

<div class="i4">Able to give and spend, you hold wealth fast:</div>

<div class="i4">Ill is the nature that rears such a breed!</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>Folgore was not only a poet of occasion and compliment, but a
political writer, who fully entertained the bitter feeling of the
Guelphs against their Ghibelline opponents.</p>

<p>Two of his sonnets addressed to the Guelphs have been translated
by Mr. Rossetti. In order to complete the list I have made free
versions of two others in which he criticised the weakness of his
own friends. The first is addressed, in the insolent impiety of
rage, to God:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i1">I praise thee not, O God, nor give thee
glory,</div>

<div class="i4">Nor yield thee any thanks, nor bow the knee,</div>

<div class="i4">Nor pay thee service; for this irketh me</div>

<div class="i4">More than the souls to stand in purgatory;</div>

<div class="i1">Since thou hast made us Guelphs a jest and
story</div>

<div class="i4">Unto the Ghibellines for all to see:</div>

<div class="i4">And if Uguccion claimed tax of thee,</div>

<div class="i4">Thou'dst pay it without interrogatory.</div>

<div class="i1">Ah, well I wot they know thee! and have
stolen</div>

<div class="i4">St. Martin from thee, Altopascio,</div>

<div class="i4">St. Michael, and the treasure thou hast lost;</div>

<div class="i1">And thou that rotten rabble so hast swollen</div>

<div class="i4">That pride now counts for tribute; even so</div>

<div class="i4">Thou'st made their heart stone-hard to thine own
cost.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg018" id=
"pg018">18</a></span>About the meaning of some lines in this sonnet
I am not clear. But the feeling and the general drift of it are
manifest. The second is a satire on the feebleness and effeminacy
of the Pisans.</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i1">Ye are more silky-sleek than ermines are,</div>

<div class="i4">Ye Pisan counts, knights, damozels, and
squires,</div>

<div class="i4">Who think by combing out your hair like wires</div>

<div class="i4">To drive the men of Florence from their car.</div>

<div class="i1">Ye make the Ghibellines free near and far,</div>

<div class="i4">Here, there, in cities, castles, huts, and
byres,</div>

<div class="i4">Seeing how gallant in your brave attires,</div>

<div class="i4">How bold you look, true paladins of war.</div>

<div class="i1">Stout-hearted are ye as a hare in chase,</div>

<div class="i4">To meet the sails of Genoa on the sea;</div>

<div class="i4">And men of Lucca never saw your face.</div>

<div class="i1">Dogs with a bone for courtesy are ye:</div>

<div class="i4">Could Folgore but gain a special grace,</div>

<div class="i4">He'd have you banded 'gainst all men that be.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>Among the sonnets not translated by Mr. Rossetti two by Folgore
remain, which may be classified with the not least considerable
contributions to Italian gnomic poetry in an age when literature
easily assumed a didactic tone. The first has for its subject the
importance of discernment and discrimination. It is written on the
wisdom of what the ancient Greeks called
&Kappa;&alpha;&iota;&rho;&#972;&sigmaf;, or the right occasion in
all human conduct.</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i1">Dear friend, not every herb puts forth a
flower;</div>

<div class="i4">Nor every flower that blossoms fruit doth
bear;</div>

<div class="i4">Nor hath each spoken word a virtue rare;</div>

<div class="i4">Nor every stone in earth its healing power:</div>

<div class="i1">This thing is good when mellow, that when
sour;</div>

<div class="i4">One seems to grieve, within doth rest from
care;</div>

<div class="i4">Not every torch is brave that flaunts in air;</div>

<div class="i4">There is what dead doth seem, yet flame doth
shower.</div>

<div class="i1">Wherefore it ill behoveth a wise man</div>

<div class="i4">His truss of every grass that grows to bind,</div>

<div class="i4">Or pile his back with every stone he can,</div>

<div class="i1"><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg019" id=
"pg019">19</a></span>Or counsel from each word to seek to
find,</div>

<div class="i4">Or take his walks abroad with Dick and Dan:</div>

<div class="i4">Not without cause I'm moved to speak my mind.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>The second condemns those men of light impulse who, as Dante put
it, discoursing on the same theme, 'subject reason to
inclination.'<a name="FNanchor_1_4" id="FNanchor_1_4" /><a href=
"#Footnote_1_4" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i1">What time desire hath o'er the soul such sway</div>

<div class="i4">That reason finds nor place nor puissance
here,</div>

<div class="i4">Men oft do laugh at what should claim a tear,</div>

<div class="i4">And over grievous dole are seeming gay.</div>

<div class="i1">He sure would travel far from sense astray</div>

<div class="i4">Who should take frigid ice for fire; and near</div>

<div class="i4">Unto this plight are those who make glad
cheer</div>

<div class="i4">For what should rather cause their soul
dismay.</div>

<div class="i1">But more at heart might he feel heavy pain</div>

<div class="i4">Who made his reason subject to mere will,</div>

<div class="i4">And followed wandering impulse without rein;</div>

<div class="i1">Seeing no lordship is so rich as still</div>

<div class="i4">One's upright self unswerving to sustain,</div>

<div class="i4">To follow worth, to flee things vain and ill.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>The sonnets translated by me in this essay, taken together with
those already published by Mr. Rossetti, put the English reader in
possession of all that passes for the work of Folgore da San
Gemignano.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_4" id="Footnote_1_4" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_4"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> The line
in Dante runs:</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i1">'Che la ragion sommettono al talento.'</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>In Folgore's sonnet we read:</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i1">'Chi sommette rason a volontade.'</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>On the supposition that Folgore wrote in the second decade of
the fourteenth century, it is not impossible that he may have had
knowledge of this line from the fifth canto of the
<i>Inferno</i>.</p>
</div>

<p>Since these words were written, England has lost the
poet-painter, to complete whose work upon the sonnet-writer of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg020" id=
"pg020">20</a></span>medi&aelig;val Siena I attempted the
translations in this essay. One who has trodden the same path as
Rossetti, at however a noticeable interval, and has attempted to
present in English verse the works of great Italian singers, doing
inadequately for Michelangelo and Campanella what he did supremely
well for Dante, may here perhaps be allowed to lay the tribute of
reverent recognition at his tomb.</p>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg021" id=
"pg021">21</a></span></p>

<h3><a name="CHRISTMAS" id="CHRISTMAS" /><i>THOUGHTS IN ITALY ABOUT
CHRISTMAS</i></h3>

<p>What is the meaning of our English Christmas? What makes it seem
so truly Northern, national, and homely, that we do not like to
keep the feast upon a foreign shore? These questions grew upon me
as I stood one Advent afternoon beneath the Dome of Florence. A
priest was thundering from the pulpit against French scepticism,
and exalting the miracle of the Incarnation. Through the whole dim
church blazed altar candles. Crowds of men and women knelt or sat
about the transepts, murmuring their prayers of preparation for the
festival. At the door were pedlars selling little books, in which
were printed the offices for Christmas-tide, with stories of S.
Felix and S. Catherine, whose devotion to the infant Christ had
wrought them weal, and promises of the remission of four
purgatorial centuries to those who zealously observed the service
of the Church at this most holy time. I knew that the people of
Florence were preparing for Christmas in their own way. But it was
not our way. It happened that outside the church the climate seemed
as wintry as our own&mdash;snowstorms and ice, and wind and
chilling fog, suggesting Northern cold. But as the palaces of
Florence lacked our comfortable firesides, and the greetings of
friends lacked our hearty handshakes and loud good wishes, so there
seemed to be a want of the home feeling in those Christmas services
and customs. Again I asked myself, 'What do we mean by
Christmas?'</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg022" id=
"pg022">22</a></span>The same thought pursued me as I drove to
Rome: by Siena, still and brown, uplifted, mid her russet hills and
wilderness of rolling plain; by Chiusi, with its sepulchral city of
a dead and unknown people; through the chestnut forests of the
Apennines; by Orvieto's rock, Viterbo's fountains, and the
oak-grown solitudes of the Ciminian heights, from which one looks
across the broad lake of Bolsena and the Roman plain. Brilliant
sunlight, like that of a day in late September, shone upon the
landscape, and I thought&mdash;Can this be Christmas? Are they
bringing mistletoe and holly on the country carts into the towns in
far-off England? Is it clear and frosty there, with the tramp of
heels upon the flag, or snowing silently, or foggy with a round red
sun and cries of warning at the corners of the streets?</p>

<p>I reached Rome on Christmas Eve, in time to hear midnight
services in the Sistine Chapel and S. John Lateran, to breathe the
dust of decayed shrines, to wonder at doting cardinals begrimed
with snuff, and to resent the open-mouthed bad taste of my
countrymen who made a mockery of these palsy-stricken ceremonies.
Nine cardinals going to sleep, nine train-bearers talking scandal,
twenty huge, handsome Switzers in the dress devised by
Michelangelo, some ushers, a choir caged off by gilded railings,
the insolence and eagerness of polyglot tourists, plenty of wax
candles dripping on people's heads, and a continual nasal drone
proceeding from the gilded cage, out of which were caught at
intervals these words, and these only,&mdash;'S&aelig;cula
s&aelig;culorum, amen.' Such was the celebrated Sistine service.
The chapel blazed with light, and very strange did Michelangelo's
Last Judgment, his Sibyls, and his Prophets, appear upon the roof
and wall above this motley and unmeaning crowd.</p>

<p>Next morning I put on my dress-clothes and white tie, and
repaired, with groups of Englishmen similarly attired, and of
Englishwomen in black crape&mdash;the regulation costume &mdash;to
<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg023" id="pg023">23</a></span>S.
Peter's. It was a glorious and cloudless morning; sunbeams streamed
in columns from the southern windows, falling on the vast space
full of soldiers and a mingled mass of every kind of people. Up the
nave stood double files of the Pontifical guard. Monks and nuns
mixed with the Swiss cuirassiers and halberds. Contadini crowded
round the sacred images, and especially round the toe of S. Peter.
I saw many mothers lift their swaddled babies up to kiss it. Valets
of cardinals, with the invariable red umbrellas, hung about side
chapels and sacristies. Purple-mantled monsignori, like emperor
butterflies, floated down the aisles from sunlight into shadow.
Movement, colour, and the stir of expectation, made the church
alive. We showed our dress-clothes to the guard, were admitted
within their ranks, and solemnly walked up toward the dome. There
under its broad canopy stood the altar, glittering with gold and
candles. The choir was carpeted and hung with scarlet. Two
magnificent thrones rose ready for the Pope: guards of honour,
soldiers, attach&eacute;s, and the &eacute;lite of the residents
and visitors in Rome, were scattered in groups picturesquely varied
by ecclesiastics of all orders and degrees. At ten a stirring took
place near the great west door. It opened, and we saw the
procession of the Pope and his cardinals. Before him marched the
singers and the blowers of the silver trumpets, making the most
liquid melody. Then came his Cap of Maintenance, and three tiaras;
then a company of mitred priests; next the cardinals in scarlet;
and last, aloft beneath a canopy, upon the shoulders of men, and
flanked by the mystic fans, advanced the Pope himself, swaying to
and fro like a Lama, or an Aztec king. Still the trumpets blew most
silverly, and still the people knelt; and as he came, we knelt and
had his blessing. Then he took his state and received homage. After
this the choir began to sing a mass of Palestrina's, and the <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg024" id="pg024">24</a></span>deacons
robed the Pope. Marvellous putting on and taking off of robes and
tiaras and mitres ensued, during which there was much bowing and
praying and burning of incense. At last, when he had reached the
highest stage of sacrificial sanctity, he proceeded to the altar,
waited on by cardinals and bishops. Having censed it carefully, he
took a higher throne and divested himself of part of his robes.
Then the mass went on in earnest, till the moment of consecration,
when it paused, the Pope descended from his throne, passed down the
choir, and reached the altar. Every one knelt; the shrill bell
tinkled; the silver trumpets blew; the air became sick and heavy
with incense, so that sun and candle light swooned in an atmosphere
of odorous cloud-wreaths. The whole church trembled, hearing the
strange subtle music vibrate in the dome, and seeing the Pope with
his own hands lift Christ's body from the altar and present it to
the people. An old parish priest, pilgrim from some valley of the
Apennines, who knelt beside me, cried and quivered with excess of
adoration. The great tombs around, the sculptured saints and
angels, the dome, the volumes of light and incense and unfamiliar
melody, the hierarchy ministrant, the white and central figure of
the Pope, the multitude&mdash;made up an overpowering scene. What
followed was comparatively tedious. My mind again went back to
England, and I thought of Christmas services beginning in all
village churches and all cathedrals throughout the land&mdash;their
old familiar hymn, their anthem of Handel, their trite and sleepy
sermons. How different the two feasts are&mdash;Christmas in Rome,
Christmas in England&mdash;Italy and the North&mdash;the spirit of
Latin and the spirit of Teutonic Christianity.</p>

<p>What, then, constitutes the essence of our Christmas as
different from that of more Southern nations? In their origin they
are the same. The stable of Bethlehem, the <span class="pagenum"><a
name="pg025" id="pg025">25</a></span>star-led kings, the shepherds,
and the angels&mdash;all the beautiful story, in fact, which S.
Luke alone of the Evangelists has preserved for us&mdash;are what
the whole Christian world owes to the religious feeling of the
Hebrews. The first and second chapters of S. Luke are most
important in the history of Christian mythology and art. They are
far from containing the whole of what we mean by Christmas; but the
religious poetry which gathers round that season must be sought
upon their pages. Angels, ever since the Exodus, played a first
part in the visions of the Hebrew prophets and in the lives of
their heroes. We know not what reminiscences of old Egyptian genii,
what strange shadows of the winged beasts of Persia, flitted
through their dreams. In the desert, or under the boundless sky of
Babylon, these shapes became no less distinct than the precise
outlines of Oriental scenery. They incarnated the vivid thoughts
and intense longings of the prophets, who gradually came to give
them human forms and titles. We hear of them by name, as servants
and attendants upon God, as guardians of nations, and patrons of
great men. To the Hebrew mind the whole unseen world was full of
spirits, active, strong, and swift of flight, of various aspect,
and with power of speech. It is hard to imagine what the first
Jewish disciples and the early Greek and Roman converts thought of
these great beings. To us, the hierarchies of Dionysius, the
services of the Church, the poetry of Dante and Milton, and the
forms of art, have made them quite familiar. Northern nations have
appropriated the Angels, and invested them with attributes alien to
their Oriental origin. They fly through our pine-forests, and the
gloom of cloud or storm; they ride upon our clanging bells, and
gather in swift squadrons among the arches of Gothic cathedrals; we
see them making light in the cavernous depth of woods, where sun or
moon beams rarely pierce, and ministering <span class="pagenum"><a
name="pg026" id="pg026">26</a></span>to the wounded or the weary;
they bear aloft the censers of the mass; they sing in the anthems
of choristers, and live in strains of poetry and music; our
churches bear their names; we call our children by their titles; we
love them as our guardians, and the whole unseen world is made a
home to us by their imagined presence. All these things are the
growth of time and the work of races whose myth-making imagination
is more artistic than that of the Hebrews. Yet this rich legacy of
romance is bound up in the second chapter of S. Luke; and it is to
him we must give thanks when at Christmas-tide we read of the
shepherds and the angels in English words more beautiful than his
own Greek.</p>

<p>The angels in the stable of Bethlehem, the kings who came from
the far East, and the adoring shepherds, are the gift of Hebrew
legend and of the Greek physician Luke to Christmas. How these
strange and splendid incidents affect modern fancy remains for us
to examine; at present we must ask, What did the Romans give to
Christmas? The customs of the Christian religion, like everything
that belongs to the modern world, have nothing pure and simple in
their nature. They are the growth of long ages, and of widely
different systems, parts of which have been fused into one living
whole. In this respect they resemble our language, our blood, our
literature, and our modes of thought and feeling. We find
Christianity in one sense wholly original; in another sense
composed of old materials; in both senses universal and
cosmopolitan. The Roman element in Christmas is a remarkable
instance of this acquisitive power of Christianity. The celebration
of the festival takes place at the same time as that of the Pagan
Saturnalia; and from the old customs of that holiday, Christmas
absorbed much that was consistent with the spirit of the new
religion. During the Saturnalia the world enjoyed, in thought at
least, a perfect freedom. Men who had gone to bed as <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg027" id="pg027">27</a></span>slaves, rose
their own masters. From the <i>ergastula</i> and dismal sunless
cages they went forth to ramble in the streets and fields. Liberty
of speech was given them, and they might satirise those vices of
their lords to which, on other days, they had to minister. Rome on
this day, by a strange negation of logic, which we might almost
call a prompting of blind conscience, negatived the philosophic
dictum that barbarians were by law of nature slaves, and
acknowledged the higher principle of equality. The Saturnalia stood
out from the whole year as a protest in favour of universal
brotherhood, and the right that all men share alike to enjoy life
after their own fashion, within the bounds that nature has assigned
them. We do not know how far the Stoic school, which was so strong
in Rome, and had so many points of contact with the Christians, may
have connected its own theories of equality with this old custom of
the Saturnalia. But it is possible that the fellowship of human
beings, and the temporary abandonment of class prerogatives, became
a part of Christmas through the habit of the Saturnalia. We are
perhaps practising a Roman virtue to this day when at
Christmas-time our hand is liberal, and we think it wrong that the
poorest wretch should fail to feel the pleasure of the day.</p>

<p>Of course Christianity inspired the freedom of the Saturnalia
with a higher meaning. The mystery of the Incarnation, or the
deification of human nature, put an end to slavery through all the
year, as well as on this single day. What had been a kind of
aimless licence became the most ennobling principle by which men
are exalted to a state of self-respect and mutual reverence. Still
in the Saturnalia was found, ready-made, an easy symbol of
unselfish enjoyment. It is, however, dangerous to push speculations
of this kind to the very verge of possibility.</p>

<p>The early Roman Christians probably kept Christmas with <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg028" id="pg028">28</a></span>no special
ceremonies. Christ was as yet too close to them. He had not become
the glorious creature of their fancy, but was partly an historic
being, partly confused in their imagination with reminiscences of
Pagan deities. As the Good Shepherd, and as Orpheus, we find him
painted in the Catacombs; and those who thought of him as God,
loved to dwell upon his risen greatness more than on the idyll of
his birth. To them his entry upon earth seemed less a subject of
rejoicing than his opening of the heavens; they suffered, and
looked forward to a future happiness; they would not seem to make
this world permanent by sharing its gladness with the Heathens.
Theirs, in truth, was a religion of hope and patience, not of
triumphant recollection or of present joyfulness.</p>

<p>The Northern converts of the early Church added more to the
peculiar character of our Christmas. Who can tell what Pagan rites
were half sanctified by their association with that season, or how
much of our cheerfulness belonged to Heathen orgies and the
banquets of grim warlike gods? Certainly nothing strikes one more
in reading Scandinavian poetry, than the strange mixture of Pagan
and Christian sentiments which it presents. For though the
missionaries of the Church did all they could to wean away the
minds of men from their old superstitions; yet, wiser than their
modern followers, they saw that some things might remain untouched,
and that even the great outlines of the Christian faith might be
adapted to the habits of the people whom they studied to convert.
Thus, on the one hand, they destroyed the old temples one by one,
and called the idols by the name of devils, and strove to
obliterate the songs which sang great deeds of bloody gods and
heroes; while, on the other, they taught the Northern sea-kings
that Jesus was a Prince surrounded by twelve dukes, who conquered
all the world. <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg029" id=
"pg029">29</a></span>Besides, they left the days of the week to
their old patrons. It is certain that the imagination of the people
preserved more of heathendom than even such missionaries could
approve; mixing up the deeds of the Christian saints with old
heroic legends; seeing Balder's beauty in Christ and the strength
of Thor in Samson; attributing magic to S. John; swearing, as of
old, bloody oaths in God's name, over the gilded boar's-head;
burning the yule-log, and cutting sacred boughs to grace their
new-built churches.</p>

<p>The songs of choirs and sound of holy bells, and superstitious
reverence for the mass, began to tell upon the people; and soon the
echo of their old religion only swelled upon the ear at intervals,
attaching itself to times of more than usual sanctity. Christmas
was one of these times, and the old faith threw around its
celebration a fantastic light. Many customs of the genial Pagan
life remained; they seemed harmless when the sense of joy was
Christian. The Druid's mistletoe graced the church porches of
England and of France, and no blood lingered on its berries.
Christmas thus became a time of extraordinary mystery. The people
loved it as connecting their old life with the new religion,
perhaps unconsciously, though every one might feel that Christmas
was no common Christian feast. On its eve strange wonders happened:
the thorn that sprang at Glastonbury from the sacred crown which
Joseph brought with him from Palestine, when Avalon was still an
island, blossomed on that day. The Cornish miners seemed to hear
the sound of singing men arise from submerged churches by the
shore, and others said that bells, beneath the ground where
villages had been, chimed yearly on that eve. No evil thing had
power, as Marcellus in 'Hamlet' tells us, and the bird of dawning
crowed the whole night through. One might multiply folklore about
the sanctity of Christmas, but enough has been said <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg030" id="pg030">30</a></span>to show that
round it lingered long the legendary spirit of old Paganism. It is
not to Jews, or Greeks, or Romans only that we owe our ancient
Christmas fancies, but also to those half-heathen ancestors who
lovingly looked back to Odin's days, and held the old while they
embraced the new.</p>

<p>Let us imagine Christmas Day in a medi&aelig;val town of
Northern England. The cathedral is only partly finished. Its nave
and transepts are the work of Norman architects, but the choir has
been destroyed in order to be rebuilt by more graceful designers
and more skilful hands. The old city is full of craftsmen,
assembled to complete the church. Some have come as a religious
duty, to work off their tale of sins by bodily labour. Some are
animated by a love of art&mdash;simple men, who might have rivalled
with the Greeks in ages of more cultivation. Others, again, are
well-known carvers, brought for hire from distant towns and
countries beyond the sea. But to-day, and for some days past, the
sound of hammer and chisel has been silent in the choir. Monks have
bustled about the nave, dressing it up with holly-boughs and bushes
of yew, and preparing a stage for the sacred play they are going to
exhibit on the feast day. Christmas is not like Corpus Christi, and
now the market-place stands inches deep in snow, so that the
Miracles must be enacted beneath a roof instead of in the open air.
And what place so appropriate as the cathedral, where poor people
may have warmth and shelter while they see the show? Besides, the
gloomy old church, with its windows darkened by the falling snow,
lends itself to candlelight effects that will enhance the splendour
of the scene. Everything is ready. The incense of morning mass yet
lingers round the altar. The voice of the friar who told the people
from the pulpit the story of Christ's birth, has hardly ceased to
echo. Time has just been given for a mid-day dinner, and for the
shepherds and <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg031" id=
"pg031">31</a></span> farm lads to troop in from the country-side.
The monks are ready at the wooden stage to draw its curtain, and
all the nave is full of eager faces. There you may see the smith
and carpenter, the butcher's wife, the country priest, and the grey
cowled friar. Scores of workmen, whose home the cathedral for the
time is made, are also here, and you may know the artists by their
thoughtful foreheads and keen eyes. That young monk carved Madonna
and her Son above the southern porch. Beside him stands the master
mason, whose strong arms have hewn gigantic images of prophets and
apostles for the pinnacles outside the choir; and the little man
with cunning eyes between the two is he who cuts such quaint
hobgoblins for the gargoyles. He has a vein of satire in him, and
his humour overflows into the stone. Many and many a grim beast and
hideous head has he hidden among vine-leaves and trellis-work upon
the porches. Those who know him well are loth to anger him, for
fear their sons and sons' sons should laugh at them for ever
caricatured in solid stone.</p>

<p>Hark! there sounds the bell. The curtain is drawn, and the
candles blaze brightly round the wooden stage. What is this first
scene? We have God in Heaven, dressed like a Pope with triple
crown, and attended by his court of angels. They sing and toss up
censers till he lifts his hand and speaks. In a long Latin speech
he unfolds the order of creation and his will concerning man. At
the end of it up leaps an ugly buffoon, in goatskin, with rams'
horns upon his head. Some children begin to cry; but the older
people laugh, for this is the Devil, the clown and comic character,
who talks their common tongue, and has no reverence before the very
throne of Heaven. He asks leave to plague men, and receives it;
then, with many a curious caper, he goes down to Hell, beneath the
stage. The angels sing and toss their censers as before, and the
first scene closes to a sound of <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg032" id="pg032">32</a></span> organs. The next is more
conventional, in spite of some grotesque incidents. It represents
the Fall; the monks hurry over it quickly, as a tedious but
necessary prelude to the birth of Christ. That is the true
Christmas part of the ceremony, and it is understood that the best
actors and most beautiful dresses are to be reserved for it. The
builders of the choir in particular are interested in the coming
scenes, since one of their number has been chosen, for his handsome
face and tenor voice, to sing the angel's part. He is a young
fellow of nineteen, but his beard is not yet grown, and long hair
hangs down upon his shoulders. A chorister of the cathedral, his
younger brother, will act the Virgin Mary. At last the curtain is
drawn.</p>

<p>We see a cottage-room, dimly lighted by a lamp, and Mary
spinning near her bedside. She sings a country air, and goes on
working, till a rustling noise is heard, more light is thrown upon
the stage, and a glorious creature, in white raiment, with broad
golden wings, appears. He bears a lily, and cries,&mdash;'Ave
Maria, Gratia Plena!' She does not answer, but stands confused,
with down-dropped eyes and timid mien. Gabriel rises from the
ground and comforts her, and sings aloud his message of glad
tidings. Then Mary gathers courage, and, kneeling in her turn,
thanks God; and when the angel and his radiance disappears, she
sings the song of the Magnificat clearly and simply, in the
darkened room. Very soft and silver sounds this hymn through the
great church. The women kneel, and children are hushed as by a
lullaby. But some of the hinds and 'prentice lads begin to think it
rather dull. They are not sorry when the next scene opens with a
sheepfold and a little camp-fire. Unmistakable bleatings issue from
the fold, and five or six common fellows are sitting round the
blazing wood. One might fancy they had stepped straight from the
church floor to the stage, so natural <span class="pagenum"><a
name="pg033" id="pg033">33</a></span> do they look. Besides, they
call themselves by common names&mdash;Colin, and Tom Lie-a-bed, and
nimble Dick. Many a round laugh wakes echoes in the church when
these shepherds stand up, and hold debate about a stolen sheep. Tom
Lie-a-bed has nothing to remark but that he is very sleepy, and
does not want to go in search of it to-night; Colin cuts jokes, and
throws out shrewd suspicions that Dick knows something of the
matter; but Dick is sly, and keeps them off the scent, although a
few of his asides reveal to the audience that he is the real thief.
While they are thus talking, silence falls upon the shepherds. Soft
music from the church organ breathes, and they appear to fall
asleep.</p>

<p>The stage is now quite dark, and for a few moments the aisles
echo only to the dying melody. When, behold, a ray of light is
seen, and splendour grows around the stage from hidden candles, and
in the glory Gabriel appears upon a higher platform made to look
like clouds. The shepherds wake in confusion, striving to shelter
their eyes from this unwonted brilliancy. But Gabriel waves his
lily, spreads his great gold wings, and bids good cheer with
clarion voice. The shepherds fall to worship, and suddenly round
Gabriel there gathers a choir of angels, and a song of 'Gloria in
Excelsis' to the sound of a deep organ is heard far off. From
distant aisles it swells, and seems to come from heaven. Through a
long resonant fugue the glory flies, and as it ceases with complex
conclusion, the lights die out, the angels disappear, and Gabriel
fades into the darkness. Still the shepherds kneel, rustically
chanting a carol half in Latin, half in English, which begins 'In
dulci Jubilo.' The people know it well, and when the chorus rises
with 'Ubi sunt gaudia?' its wild melody is caught by voices up and
down the nave. This scene makes deep impression upon many hearts;
for the beauty of Gabriel is rare, and few who see him in his
angel's dress <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg034" id=
"pg034">34</a></span> would know him for the lad who daily carves
his lilies and broad water-flags about the pillars of the choir. To
that simple audience he interprets Heaven, and little children will
see him in their dreams. Dark winter nights and awful forests will
be trodden by his feet, made musical by his melodious voice, and
parted by the rustling of his wings. The youth himself may return
to-morrow to the workman's blouse and chisel, but his memory lives
in many minds and may form a part of Christmas for the fancy of men
as yet unborn.</p>

<p>The next drawing of the curtain shows us the stable of Bethlehem
crowned by its star. There kneels Mary, and Joseph leans upon his
staff. The ox and ass are close at hand, and Jesus lies in jewelled
robes on straw within the manger. To right and left bow the
shepherds, worshipping in dumb show, while voices from behind chant
a solemn hymn. In the midst of the melody is heard a flourish of
trumpets, and heralds step upon the stage, followed by the three
crowned kings. They have come from the far East, led by the star.
The song ceases, while drums and fifes and trumpets play a stately
march. The kings pass by, and do obeisance one by one. Each gives
some costly gift; each doffs his crown and leaves it at the
Saviour's feet. Then they retire to a distance and worship in
silence like the shepherds. Again the angel's song is heard, and
while it dies away the curtain closes, and the lights are put
out.</p>

<p>The play is over, and evening has come. The people must go from
the warm church into the frozen snow, and crunch their homeward way
beneath the moon. But in their minds they carry a sense of light
and music and unearthly loveliness. Not a scene of this day's
pageant will be lost. It grows within them and creates the poetry
of Christmas. Nor must we forget the sculptors who listen to the
play. We spoke of them minutely, because these mysteries sank deep
into their <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg035" id=
"pg035">35</a></span> souls and found a way into their carvings on
the cathedral walls. The monk who made Madonna by the southern
porch, will remember Gabriel, and place him bending low in lordly
salutation by her side. The painted glass of the chapter-house will
glow with fiery choirs of angels learned by heart that night. And
who does not know the mocking devils and quaint satyrs that the
humorous sculptor will carve among his fruits and flowers? Some of
the misereres of the stalls still bear portraits of the shepherd
thief, and of the ox and ass who blinked so blindly when the kings,
by torchlight, brought their dazzling gifts. Truly these old
miracle-plays, and the carved work of cunning hands that they
inspired, are worth to us more than all the delicate creations of
Italian pencils. Our homely Northern churches still retain, for the
child who reads their bosses and their sculptured fronts, more
Christmas poetry than we can find in Fra Angelico's devoutness or
the liveliness of Giotto. Not that Southern artists have done
nothing for our Christmas. Cimabue's gigantic angels at Assisi, and
the radiant seraphs of Raphael or of Signorelli, were seen by
Milton in his Italian journey. He gazed in Romish churches on
graceful Nativities, into which Angelico and Credi threw their
simple souls. How much they tinged his fancy we cannot say. But
what we know of heavenly hierarchies we later men have learned from
Milton; and what he saw he spoke, and what he spoke in sounding
verse lives for us now and sways our reason, and controls our
fancy, and makes fine art of high theology.</p>

<p>Thus have I attempted rudely to recall a scene of medi&aelig;val
Christmas. To understand the domestic habits of that age is not so
easy, though one can fancy how the barons in their halls held
Christmas, with the boar's head and the jester and the great
yule-log. On the da&iuml;s sat lord and lady, waited on by knight
and squire and page; but down the long <span class="pagenum"><a
name="pg036" id="pg036">36</a></span> hall feasted yeomen and hinds
and men-at-arms. Little remains to us of those days, and we have
outworn their jollity. It is really from the Elizabethan poets that
our sense of old-fashioned festivity arises. They lived at the end
of one age and the beginning of another. Though born to inaugurate
the new era, they belonged by right of association and sympathy to
the period that was fleeting fast away. This enabled them to
represent the poetry of past and present. Old customs and old
states of feeling, when they are about to perish, pass into the
realm of art. For art is like a flower, which consummates the plant
and ends its growth, while it translates its nature into
loveliness. Thus Dante and Lorenzetti and Orcagna enshrined
medi&aelig;val theology in works of imperishable beauty, and
Shakspere and his fellows made immortal the life and manners that
were decaying in their own time. Men do not reflect upon their mode
of living till they are passing from one state to another, and the
consciousness of art implies a beginning of new things. Let one who
wishes to appreciate the ideal of an English Christmas read
Shakspere's song, 'When icicles hang by the wall;' and if he knows
some old grey grange, far from the high-road, among pastures, with
a river flowing near, and cawing rooks in elm-trees by the
garden-wall, let him place Dick and Joan and Marian there.</p>

<p>We have heard so much of pensioners, and barons of beef, and
yule-logs, and bay, and rosemary, and holly boughs cut upon the
hillside, and crab-apples bobbing in the wassail bowl, and masques
and mummers, and dancers on the rushes, that we need not here
describe a Christmas Eve in olden times. Indeed, this last half of
the nineteenth century is weary of the worn-out theme. But one
characteristic of the age of Elizabeth may be mentioned: that is
its love of music. Fugued melodies, sung by voices without
instruments, were <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg037" id=
"pg037">37</a></span> much in vogue. We call them madrigals, and
their half-merry, half-melancholy music yet recalls the time when
England had her gift of art, when she needed not to borrow of
Marenzio and Palestrina, when her Wilbyes and her Morlands and her
Dowlands won the praise of Shakspere and the court. We hear the
echo of those songs; and in some towns at Christmas or the New Year
old madrigals still sound in praise of Oriana and of Phyllis and
the country life. What are called 'waits' are but a poor travesty
of those well-sung Elizabethan carols. We turn in our beds half
pitying, half angered by harsh voices that quaver senseless ditties
in the fog, or by tuneless fiddles playing popular airs without
propriety or interest.</p>

<p>It is a strange mixture of picturesquely blended elements which
the Elizabethan age presents. We see it afar off like the meeting
of a hundred streams that grow into a river. We are sailing on the
flood long after it has shrunk into a single tide, and the banks
are dull and tame, and the all-absorbing ocean is before us. Yet
sometimes we hear a murmur of the distant fountains, and Christmas
is a day on which for some the many waters of the age of great
Elizabeth sound clearest.</p>

<p>The age which followed was not poetical. The Puritans restrained
festivity and art, and hated music. Yet from this period stands out
the hymn of Milton, written when he was a youth, but bearing
promise of his later muse. At one time, as we read it, we seem to
be looking on a picture by some old Italian artist. But no picture
can give Milton's music or make the 'base of heaven's deep organ
blow.' Here he touches new associations, and reveals the realm of
poetry which it remains for later times to traverse. Milton felt
the true sentiment of Northern Christmas when he opened his poem
with the 'winter wild,' in defiance of historical probability <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg038" id="pg038">38</a></span> and what
the French call local colouring. Nothing shows how wholly we people
of the North have appropriated Christmas, and made it a creature of
our own imagination, more than this dwelling on winds and snows and
bitter frosts, so alien from the fragrant nights of Palestine. But
Milton's hymn is like a symphony, embracing many thoughts and
periods of varying melody. The music of the seraphim brings to his
mind the age of gold, and that suggests the judgment and the
redemption of the world. Satan's kingdom fails, the false gods go
forth, Apollo leaves his rocky throne, and all the dim Phoenician
and Egyptian deities, with those that classic fancy fabled, troop
away like ghosts into the darkness. What a swell of stormy sound is
in those lines! It recalls the very voice of Pan, which went abroad
upon the waters when Christ died, and all the utterances of God on
earth, feigned in Delphian shrines, or truly spoken on the sacred
hills, were mute for ever.</p>

<p>After Milton came the age which, of all others, is the prosiest
in our history. We cannot find much novelty of interest added to
Christmas at this time. But there is one piece of poetry that
somehow or another seems to belong to the reign of Anne and of the
Georges&mdash;the poetry of bells. Great civic corporations reigned
in those days; churchwardens tyrannised and were rich; and many a
goodly chime of bells they hung in our old church-steeples. Let us
go into the square room of the belfry, where the clock ticks all
day, and the long ropes hang dangling down, with fur upon their
hemp for ringers' hands above the socket set for ringers' feet.
There we may read long lists of gilded names, recording mountainous
bob-majors, rung a century ago, with special praise to him who
pulled the tenor-bell, year after year, until he died, and left it
to his son. The art of bell-ringing is profound, and requires a
long apprenticeship. Even now, in some old cities, <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg039" id="pg039">39</a></span> the ringers form
a guild and mystery. Suppose it to be Christmas Eve in the year
1772. It is now a quarter before twelve, and the sexton has
unlocked the church-gates and set the belfry door ajar. Candles are
lighted in the room above, and jugs of beer stand ready for the
ringers. Up they bustle one by one, and listen to the tickings of
the clock that tells the passing minutes. At last it gives a click;
and now they throw off coat and waistcoat, strap their girdles
tighter round the waist, and each holds his rope in readiness.
Twelve o'clock strikes, and forth across the silent city go the
clamorous chimes. The steeple rocks and reels, and far away the
night is startled. Damp turbulent west winds, rushing from the
distant sea, and swirling up the inland valleys, catch the sound,
and toss it to and fro, and bear it by gusts and snatches to
watchers far away, upon bleak moorlands and the brows of woody
hills. Is there not something dim and strange in the thought of
these eight men meeting, in the heart of a great city, in the
narrow belfry-room, to stir a mighty sound that shall announce to
listening ears miles, miles away, the birth of a new day, and tell
to dancers, mourners, students, sleepers, and perhaps to dying men,
that Christ is born?</p>

<p>Let this association suffice for the time. And of our own
Christmas so much has been said and sung by better voices, that we
may leave it to the feelings and the memories of those who read the
fireside tales of Dickens, and are happy in their homes. The many
elements which I have endeavoured to recall, mix all of them in the
Christmas of the present, partly, no doubt, under the form of vague
and obscure sentiment; partly as time-honoured reminiscences,
partly as a portion of our own life. But there is one phase of
poetry which we enjoy more fully than any previous age. That is
music. Music is of all the arts the youngest, and of all can free
herself <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg040" id=
"pg040">40</a></span> most readily from symbols. A fine piece of
music moves before us like a living passion, which needs no form or
colour, no interpreting associations, to convey its strong but
indistinct significance. Each man there finds his soul revealed to
him, and enabled to assume a cast of feeling in obedience to the
changeful sound. In this manner all our Christmas thoughts and
emotions have been gathered up for us by Handel in his drama of the
'Messiah.' To Englishmen it is almost as well known and necessary
as the Bible. But only one who has heard its pastoral episode
performed year after year from childhood in the hushed cathedral,
where pendent lamps or sconces make the gloom of aisle and choir
and airy column half intelligible, can invest this music with long
associations of accumulated awe. To his mind it brings a scene at
midnight of hills clear in the starlight of the East, with white
flocks scattered on the down. The breath of winds that come and go,
the bleating of the sheep, with now and then a tinkling bell, and
now and then the voice of an awakened shepherd, is all that breaks
the deep repose. Overhead shimmer the bright stars, and low to west
lies the moon, not pale and sickly (he dreams) as in our North, but
golden, full, and bathing distant towers and tall a&euml;rial palms
with floods of light. Such is a child's vision, begotten by the
music of the symphony; and when he wakes from trance at its low
silver close, the dark cathedral seems glowing with a thousand
angel faces, and all the air is tremulous with angel wings. Then
follow the solitary treble voice and the swift chorus.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg041" id=
"pg041">41</a></span></p>

<h3><a name="SIENA" id="SIENA" /><i>SIENA</i></h3>

<p>After leaving the valley of the Arno at Empoli, the railway
enters a country which rises into earthy hills of no great height,
and spreads out at intervals into broad tracts of cultivated
lowland. Geologically speaking, this portion of Tuscany consists of
loam and sandy deposits, forming the basin between two
mountain-ranges&mdash;the Apennines and the chalk hills of the
western coast of Central Italy. Seen from the eminence of some old
Tuscan turret, this champaign country has a stern and arid aspect.
The earth is grey and dusty, the forms of hill and valley are
austere and monotonous; even the vegetation seems to sympathise
with the uninteresting soil from which it springs. A few spare
olives cast their shadows on the lower slopes; here and there a
copse of oakwood and acacia marks the course of some small rivulet;
rye-fields, grey beneath the wind, clothe the hillsides with scanty
verdure. Every knoll is crowned with a village&mdash;brown roofs
and white house-fronts clustered together on the edge of cliffs,
and rising into the campanile or antique tower, which tells so many
stories of bygone wars and decayed civilisations.</p>

<p>Beneath these villages stand groups of stone pines clearly
visible upon the naked country, cypresses like spires beside the
square white walls of convent or of villa, patches of dark foliage,
showing where the ilex and the laurel and the myrtle hide thick
tangles of rose-trees and jessamines in ancient gardens. Nothing
can exceed the barren aspect of this <a name="pg042" id=
"pg042"></a><span class="pagenum">42</span> country in midwinter:
it resembles an exaggerated Sussex, without verdure to relieve the
rolling lines of down, and hill, and valley; beautiful yet, by
reason of its frequent villages and lucid air and infinitely subtle
curves of mountain-ridges. But when spring comes, a light and
beauty break upon this gloomy soil; the whole is covered with a
delicate green veil of rising crops and fresh foliage, and the
immense distances which may be seen from every height are blue with
cloud-shadows, or rosy in the light of sunset.</p>

<p>Of all the towns of Lower Tuscany, none is more celebrated than
Siena. It stands in the very centre of the district which I have
attempted to describe, crowning one of its most considerable
heights, and commanding one of its most extensive plains. As a city
it is a typical representative of those numerous Italian towns,
whose origin is buried in remote antiquity, which have formed the
seat of three civilisations, and which still maintain a vigorous
vitality upon their ancient soil. Its site is Etruscan, its name is
Roman, but the town itself owes all its interest and beauty to the
artists and the statesmen and the warriors of the middle ages. A
single glance at Siena from one of the slopes on the northern side,
will show how truly medi&aelig;val is its character. A city wall
follows the outline of the hill, from which the towers of the
cathedral and the palace, with other cupolas and red-brick
campanili, spring; while cypresses and olive-gardens stretch
downwards to the plain. There is not a single Palladian
fa&ccedil;ade or Renaissance portico to interrupt the unity of the
effect. Over all, in the distance, rises Monte Amiata melting
imperceptibly into sky and plain.</p>

<p>The three most striking objects of interest in Siena maintain
the character of medi&aelig;val individuality by which the town is
marked. They are the public palace, the cathedral, and the house of
S. Catherine. The civil life, the arts, and <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg043" id="pg043">43</a></span> the religious
tendencies of Italy during the ascendency of medi&aelig;val ideas,
are strongly set before us here. High above every other building in
the town soars the straight brick tower of the Palazzo Pubblico,
the house of the republic, the hearth of civil life within the
State. It guards an irregular Gothic building in which the old
government of Siena used to be assembled, but which has now for a
long time been converted into prisons, courts of law, and
showrooms. Let us enter one chamber of the Palazzo&mdash;the Sala
della Pace, where Ambrogio Lorenzetti, the greatest, perhaps, of
Sienese painters, represented the evils of lawlessness and tyranny,
and the benefits of peace and justice, in three noble allegories.
They were executed early in the fourteenth century, in the age of
allegories and symbolism, when poets and painters strove to
personify in human shape all thoughts and sentiments. The first
great fresco represents Peace&mdash;the peace of the Republic of
Siena. Ambrogio has painted the twenty-four councillors who formed
the Government, standing beneath the thrones of Concord, Justice,
and Wisdom. From these controlling powers they stretch in a long
double line to a seated figure, gigantic in size, and robed with
the ensigns of baronial sovereignty. This figure is the State and
Majesty of Siena.<a name="FNanchor_1_5" id="FNanchor_1_5" /><a
href="#Footnote_1_5" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> Around him
sit Peace, Fortitude, and Prudence, <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg044" id="pg044">44</a></span> Temperance, Magnanimity, and
Justice, inalienable assessors of a powerful and righteous lord.
Faith, Hope, and Charity, the Christian virtues, float like angels
in the air above. Armed horsemen guard his throne, and captives
show that he has laid his enemy beneath his feet. Thus the
medi&aelig;val artist expressed, by painting, his theory of
government. The rulers of the State are subordinate to the State
itself; they stand between the State and the great animating
principles of wisdom, justice, and concord, incarnating the one,
and receiving inspiration from the others. The pagan qualities of
prudence, magnanimity, and courage give stability and greatness to
good government, while the spirit of Christianity must harmonise
and rule the whole. Arms, too, are needful to maintain by force
what right and law demand, and victory in a just quarrel proclaims
the power and vigour of the commonwealth. On another wall Ambrogio
has depicted the prosperous city of Siena, girt by battlements and
moat, with tower and barbican and drawbridge, to insure its peace.
Through the gates stream country-people, bringing the produce of
their farms into the town. The streets are crowded with men and
women intent on business or pleasure; craftsmen at their trade,
merchants with laden mules, a hawking party, hunters scouring the
plain, girls dancing, and children playing in the open square. A
school-master watching his class, together with the sculptured
figures of Geometry, Astronomy, and Philosophy, remind us that
education and science flourish under the dominion of well-balanced
laws. The third fresco exhibits the reverse of this fair spectacle.
Here Tyranny presides over a scene of anarchy and wrong. He is a
hideous monster, compounded of all the bestial attributes which
indicate force, treason, lechery, and fear. Avarice and Fraud and
Cruelty and War and Fury sit around him. At his feet lies Justice,
and <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg045" id=
"pg045">45</a></span> above are the effigies of Nero, Caracalla,
and like monsters of ill-regulated power. Not far from the castle
of Tyranny we see the same town as in the other fresco; but its
streets are filled with scenes of quarrel, theft, and bloodshed.
Nor are these allegories merely fanciful. In the middle ages the
same city might more than once during one lifetime present in the
vivid colours of reality the two contrasted pictures.<a name=
"FNanchor_2_6" id="FNanchor_2_6" /><a href="#Footnote_2_6"
class="fnanchor">[2]</a></p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_5" id="Footnote_1_5" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_5"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> It is
probable that the firm Ghibelline sympathies of the Sienese people
for the Empire were allegorised in this figure; so that the fresco
represented by form and colour what Dante had expressed in his
treatise 'De Monarchi&acirc;.' Among the virtues who attend him,
Peace distinguishes herself by rare and very remarkable beauty. She
is dressed in white and crowned with olive; the folds of her
drapery, clinging to the delicately modelled limbs beneath,
irresistibly suggest a classic statue. So again does the monumental
pose of her dignified, reclining, and yet languid figure. It seems
not unreasonable to believe that Lorenzetti copied Peace from the
antique Venus which belonged to the Sienese, and which in a fit of
superstitious malice they subsequently destroyed and buried in
Florentine soil.</p>
</div>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_2_6" id="Footnote_2_6" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_2_6"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> Siena,
of all Italian cities, was most subject to revolutions. Comines
describes it as a city which 'se gouverne plus follement que ville
d'Italie.' Varchi calls it 'un guazzabuglio ed una confusione di
repubbliche piuttosto che bene ordinata e instituta repubblica.'
See my 'Age of the Despots' (<i>Renaissance in Italy</i>, Part I.),
pp. 141, 554, for some account of the Sienese constitution, and of
the feuds and reconciliations of the burghers.</p>
</div>

<p>Quitting the Palazzo, and threading narrow streets, paved with
brick and overshadowed with huge empty palaces, we reach the
highest of the three hills on which Siena stands, and see before us
the Duomo. This church is the most purely Gothic of all Italian
cathedrals designed by national architects. Together with that of
Orvieto, it stands to show what the unassisted genius of the
Italians could produce, when under the empire of medi&aelig;val
Christianity and before the advent of the neopagan spirit. It is
built wholly of marble, and overlaid, inside and out, with florid
ornaments of exquisite beauty. There are no flying buttresses, no
pinnacles, no deep and fretted doorways, such as form the charm of
French and English architecture; but instead of this, the lines of
parti-coloured marbles, the scrolls and wreaths of foliage, the
mosaics and the frescoes which meet the eye in every direction,
satisfy our sense of variety, producing most agreeable combinations
of blending hues and harmoniously connected forms. The chief fault
which offends against our Northern taste is the predominance of
horizontal lines, both in the <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg046"
id="pg046">46</a></span> construction of the fa&ccedil;ade, and
also in the internal decoration. This single fact sufficiently
proves that the Italians had never seized the true idea of Gothic
or aspiring architecture. But, allowing for this original defect,
we feel that the Cathedral of Siena combines solemnity and
splendour to a degree almost unrivalled. Its dome is another point
in which the instinct of Italian architects has led them to adhere
to the genius of their ancestral art rather than to follow the
principles of Gothic design. The dome is Etruscan and Roman, native
to the soil, and only by a kind of violence adapted to the
character of pointed architecture. Yet the builders of Siena have
shown what a glorious element of beauty might have been added to
our Northern cathedrals, had the idea of infinity which our
ancestors expressed by long continuous lines, by complexities of
interwoven aisles, and by multitudinous aspiring pinnacles, been
carried out into vast spaces of a&euml;rial cupolas, completing and
embracing and covering the whole like heaven. The Duomo, as it now
stands, forms only part of a vast design. On entering we are amazed
to hear that this church, which looks so large, from the beauty of
its proportions, the intricacy of its ornaments, and the
interlacing of its columns, is but the transept of the intended
building lengthened a little, and surmounted by a cupola and
campanile.<a name="FNanchor_1_7" id="FNanchor_1_7" /><a href=
"#Footnote_1_7" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> Yet such is the
fact. Soon after its commencement a plague swept over Italy, nearly
depopulated Siena, and reduced the town to penury for want of men.
The cathedral, which, had it been accomplished, would have
surpassed all Gothic churches south of the Alps, remained a ruin. A
fragment of the nave still stands, enabling us to judge of its
extent. The eastern wall <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg047" id=
"pg047">47</a></span> joins what was to have been the transept,
measuring the mighty space which would have been enclosed by marble
vaults and columns delicately wrought. The sculpture on the eastern
door shows with what magnificence the Sienese designed to ornament
this portion of their temple; while the southern fa&ccedil;ade
rears itself aloft above the town, like those high arches which
testify to the past splendour of Glastonbury Abbey; but the sun
streams through the broken windows, and the walls are encumbered
with hovels and stables and the refuse of surrounding streets.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_7" id="Footnote_1_7" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_7"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> The
present church was begun about 1229. In 1321 the burghers fancied
it was too small for the fame and splendour of their city. So they
decreed a new <i>ecclesia pulcra, magna, et magnifica</i>, for
which the older but as yet unfinished building was to be the
transept.</p>
</div>

<p>One most remarkable feature of the internal decoration is a line
of heads of the Popes carried all round the church above the lower
arches. Larger than life, white solemn faces they lean, each from
his separate niche, crowned with the triple tiara, and labelled
with the name he bore. Their accumulated majesty brings the whole
past history of the Church into the presence of its living members.
A bishop walking up the nave of Siena must feel as a Roman felt
among the waxen images of ancestors renowned in council or in war.
Of course these portraits are imaginary for the most part; but the
artists have contrived to vary their features and expression with
great skill.</p>

<p>Not less peculiar to Siena is the pavement of the cathedral. It
is inlaid with a kind of <i>tarsia</i> work in stone, setting forth
a variety of pictures in simple but eminently effective mosaic.
Some of these compositions are as old as the cathedral; others are
the work of Beccafumi and his scholars. They represent, in the
liberal spirit of medi&aelig;val Christianity, the history of the
Church before the Incarnation. Hermes Trismegistus and the Sibyls
meet us at the doorway: in the body of the church we find the
mighty deeds of the old Jewish heroes&mdash;of Moses and Samson and
Joshua and Judith. Independently of the artistic beauty of the
designs, of the skill <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg048" id=
"pg048">48</a></span> with which men and horses are drawn in the
most difficult attitudes, of the dignity of some single figures,
and of the vigour and simplicity of the larger compositions, a
special interest attaches to this pavement in connection with the
twelfth canto of the 'Purgatorio.' Dante cannot have trodden these
stones and meditated upon their sculptured histories. Yet when we
read how he journeyed through the plain of Purgatory with eyes
intent upon its storied floor, how 'morti i morti, e i vivi parean
vivi,' how he saw 'Nimrod at the foot of his great work,
confounded, gazing at the people who were proud with him,' we are
irresistibly led to think of the Divine comedy. The strong and
simple outlines of the pavement correspond to the few words of the
poet. Bending over these pictures and trying to learn their lesson,
with the thought of Dante in our mind, the tones of an organ,
singularly sweet and mellow, fall upon our ears, and we remember
how he heard <i>Te Deum</i> sung within the gateway of
repentance.</p>

<p>Continuing our walk, we descend the hill on which the Duomo
stands, and reach a valley lying between the ancient city of Siena
and a western eminence crowned by the church of San Domenico. In
this depression there has existed from old time a kind of suburb or
separate district of the poorer people known by the name of the
Contrada d' Oca. To the Sienese it has especial interest, for here
is the birthplace of S. Catherine, the very house in which she
lived, her father's workshop, and the chapel which has been erected
in commemoration of her saintly life. Over the doorway is written
in letters of gold 'Sponsa Christi Katherin&aelig; domus.' Inside
they show the room she occupied, and the stone on which she placed
her head to sleep; they keep her veil and staff and lantern and
enamelled vinaigrette, the bag in which her alms were placed, the
sackcloth that she wore beneath her dress, the crucifix from which
she took the wounds of Christ. It is impossible <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg049" id="pg049">49</a></span> to conceive,
even after the lapse of several centuries, that any of these relics
are fictitious. Every particular of her life was remembered and
recorded with scrupulous attention by devoted followers. Her fame
was universal throughout Italy before her death; and the house from
which she went forth to preach and heal the sick and comfort
plague-stricken wretches whom kith and kin had left alone to die,
was known and well beloved by all her citizens. From the moment of
her death it became, and has continued to be, the object of
superstitious veneration to thousands. From the little loggia which
runs along one portion of its exterior may be seen the campanile
and the dome of the cathedral; on the other side rises the huge
brick church of San Domenico, in which she spent the long ecstatic
hours that won for her the title of Christ's spouse. In a chapel
attached to the church she watched and prayed, fasting and
wrestling with the fiends of a disordered fancy. There Christ
appeared to her and gave her His own heart, there He administered
to her the sacrament with His own hands, there she assumed the robe
of poverty, and gave her Lord the silver cross and took from Him
the crown of thorns.</p>

<p>To some of us these legends may appear the flimsiest web of
fiction: to others they may seem quite explicable by the laws of
semi-morbid psychology; but to Catherine herself, her biographers,
and her contemporaries, they were not so. The enthusiastic saint
and reverent people believed firmly in these things; and, after the
lapse of five centuries, her votaries still kiss the floor and
steps on which she trod, still say, 'This was the wall on which she
leant when Christ appeared; this was the corner where she clothed
Him, naked and shivering like a beggar-boy; here He sustained her
with angels' food.'</p>

<p>S. Catherine was one of twenty-five children born in <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg050" id="pg050">50</a></span> wedlock to
Jacopo and Lapa Benincasa, citizens of Siena. Her father exercised
the trade of dyer and fuller. In the year of her birth, 1347, Siena
reached the climax of its power and splendour. It was then that the
plague of Boccaccio began to rage, which swept off 80,000 citizens,
and interrupted the building of the great Duomo. In the midst of so
large a family, and during these troubled times, Catherine grew
almost unnoticed; but it was not long before she manifested her
peculiar disposition. At six years old she already saw visions and
longed for a monastic life: about the same time she used to collect
her childish companions together and preach to them. As she grew,
her wishes became stronger; she refused the proposals which her
parents made that she should marry, and so vexed them by her
obstinacy that they imposed on her the most servile duties in their
household. These she patiently fulfilled, pursuing at the same time
her own vocation with unwearied ardour. She scarcely slept at all,
and ate no food but vegetables and a little bread, scourged
herself, wore sackcloth, and became emaciated, weak, and half
delirious. At length the firmness of her character and the force of
her hallucinations won the day. Her parents consented to her
assuming the Dominican robe, and at the age of thirteen she entered
the monastic life. From this moment till her death we see in her
the ecstatic, the philanthropist, and the politician combined to a
remarkable degree. For three whole years she never left her cell
except to go to church, maintaining an almost unbroken silence. Yet
when she returned to the world, convinced at last of having won by
prayer and pain the favour of her Lord, it was to preach to
infuriated mobs, to toil among men dying of the plague, to execute
diplomatic negotiations, to harangue the republic of Florence, to
correspond with queens, and to interpose between kings and popes.
In the midst of this varied and <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg051" id="pg051">51</a></span> distracting career she continued
to see visions and to fast and scourge herself. The domestic
virtues and the personal wants and wishes of a woman were
annihilated in her: she lived for the Church, for the poor, and for
Christ, whom she imagined to be constantly supporting her. At
length she died, worn out by inward conflicts, by the tension of
religious ecstasy, by want of food and sleep, and by the excitement
of political life. To follow her in her public career is not my
purpose. It is well known how, by the power of her eloquence and
the ardour of her piety, she succeeded as a mediator between
Florence and her native city, and between Florence and the Pope;
that she travelled to Avignon, and there induced Gregory XI. to put
an end to the Babylonian captivity of the Church by returning to
Rome; that she narrowly escaped political martyrdom during one of
her embassies from Gregory to the Florentine republic; that she
preached a crusade against the Turks; that her last days were
clouded with sorrow for the schism which then rent the Papacy; and
that she aided by her dying words to keep Pope Urban on the Papal
throne. When we consider her private and spiritual life more
narrowly, it may well move our amazement to think that the
intricate politics of Central Italy, the counsels of licentious
princes and ambitious Popes, were in any measure guided and
controlled by such a woman. Alone, and aided by nothing but a
reputation for sanctity, she dared to tell the greatest men in
Europe of their faults; she wrote in words of well-assured command,
and they, demoralised, worldly, sceptical, or indifferent as they
might be, were yet so bound by superstition that they could not
treat with scorn the voice of an enthusiastic girl.</p>

<p>Absolute disinterestedness, the belief in her own spiritual
mission, natural genius, and that vast power which then belonged to
all energetic members of the monastic orders, <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg052" id="pg052">52</a></span> enabled her to
play this part. She had no advantages to begin with. The daughter
of a tradesman overwhelmed with an almost fabulously numerous
progeny, Catherine grew up uneducated. When her genius had attained
maturity, she could not even read or write. Her biographer asserts
that she learned to do so by a miracle. Anyhow, writing became a
most potent instrument in her hands; and we possess several volumes
of her epistles, as well as a treatise of mystical theology. To
conquer self-love as the root of all evil, and to live wholly for
others, was the cardinal axiom of her morality. She pressed this
principle to its most rigorous conclusions in practice; never
resting day or night from some kind of service, and winning by her
unselfish love the enthusiastic admiration of the people. In the
same spirit of exalted self-annihilation, she longed for martyrdom,
and courted death. There was not the smallest personal tie or
afterthought of interest to restrain her in the course of action
which she had marked out. Her personal influence seems to have been
immense. When she began her career of public peacemaker and
preacher in Siena, Raymond, her biographer, says that whole
families devoted to <i>vendetta</i> were reconciled, and that civil
strifes were quelled by her letters and addresses. He had seen more
than a thousand people flock to hear her speak; the confessionals
crowded with penitents, smitten by the force of her appeals; and
multitudes, unable to catch the words which fell from her lips,
sustained and animated by the light of holiness which beamed from
her inspired countenance.<a name="FNanchor_1_8" id=
"FNanchor_1_8" /><a href="#Footnote_1_8" class=
"fnanchor">[1]</a> She was not beautiful, but her face so shone
with love, and her eloquence was so pathetic in its tenderness,
that none could hear or look on her without emotion. Her writings
contain <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg053" id=
"pg053">53</a></span> abundant proofs of this peculiar suavity.
They are too sweet and unctuous in style to suit our modern taste.
When dwelling on the mystic love of Christ she cries, 'O blood! O
fire! O ineffable love!' When interceding before the Pope, she
prays for 'Pace, pace, pace, babbo mio dolce; pace, e non
pi&ugrave; guerra.' Yet clear and simple thoughts, profound
convictions, and stern moral teaching underlie her ecstatic
exclamations. One prayer which she wrote, and which the people of
Siena still use, expresses the prevailing spirit of her creed: 'O
Spirito Santo, o Deit&agrave; eterna Cristo Amore! vieni nel mio
cuore; per la tua potenza trailo a Te, mio Dio, e concedemi
carit&agrave; con timore. Liberami, o Amore ineffabile, da ogni mal
pensiero; riscaldami ed infiammami del tuo dolcissimo amore,
sicch&egrave; ogni pena mi sembri leggiera. Santo mio Padre e dolce
mio Signore, ora aiutami in ogni mio ministero. Cristo amore.
Cristo amore.' The reiteration of the word 'love' is most
significant. It was the key-note of her whole theology, the
mainspring of her life. In no merely figurative sense did she
regard herself as the spouse of Christ, but dwelt upon the bliss,
beyond all mortal happiness, which she enjoyed in supersensual
communion with her Lord. It is easy to understand how such ideas
might be, and have been, corrupted, when impressed on natures no
less susceptible, but weaker and less gifted than S.
Catherine's.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_8" id="Footnote_1_8" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_8"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> The part
played in Italy by preachers of repentance and peace is among the
most characteristic features of Italian history. On this subject
see the Appendix to my 'Age of the Despots,' <i>Renaissance in
Italy</i>, Part I.</p>
</div>

<p>One incident related by Catherine in a letter to Raymond, her
confessor and biographer, exhibits the peculiar character of her
influence in the most striking light. Nicola Tuldo, a citizen of
Perugia, had been condemned to death for treason in the flower of
his age. So terribly did the man rebel against his sentence, that
he cursed God, and refused the consolations of religion. Priests
visited him in vain; his heart was shut and sealed by the despair
of leaving life in all <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg054" id=
"pg054">54</a></span> the vigour of its prime. Then Catherine came
and spoke to him: 'whence,' she says, 'he received such comfort
that he confessed, and made me promise, by the love of God, to
stand at the block beside him on the day of his execution.' By a
few words, by the tenderness of her manner, and by the charm which
women have, she had already touched the heart no priest could
soften, and no threat of death or judgment terrify into contrition.
Nor was this strange. In our own days we have seen men open the
secrets of their hearts to women, after repelling the advances of
less touching sympathy. Youths, cold and cynical enough among their
brethren, have stood subdued like little children before her who
spoke to them of love and faith and penitence and hope. The world
has not lost its ladies of the race of S. Catherine, beautiful and
pure and holy, who have suffered and sought peace with tears, and
who have been appointed ministers of mercy for the worst and
hardest of their fellow-men. Such saints possess an efficacy even
in the imposition of their hands; many a devotee, like Tuldo, would
more willingly greet death if his S. Catherine were by to smile and
lay her hands upon his head, and cry, 'Go forth, my servant, and
fear not!' The chivalrous admiration for women mixes with religious
awe to form the reverence which these saints inspire. Human and
heavenly love, chaste and ecstatic, constitute the secret of their
power. Catherine then subdued the spirit of Tuldo and led him to
the altar, where he received the communion for the first time in
his life. His only remaining fear was that he might not have
strength to face death bravely. Therefore he prayed Catherine,
'Stay with me, do not leave me; so it shall be well with me, and I
shall die contented;' 'and,' says the saint, 'he laid his head in
the prison on my breast, and I said, "Comfort thee, my brother, the
block shall soon become thy marriage altar, the blood of Christ
<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg055" id="pg055">55</a></span>
shall bathe thy sins away, and I will stand beside thee."' When the
hour came, she went and waited for him by the scaffold, meditating
on Madonna and Catherine the saint of Alexandria. She laid her own
neck on the block, and tried to picture to herself the pains and
ecstasies of martyrdom. In her deep thought, time and place became
annihilated; she forgot the eager crowd, and only prayed for
Tuldo's soul and for herself. At length he came, walking 'like a
gentle lamb,' and Catherine received him with the salutation of
'sweet brother.' She placed his head upon the block, and laid her
hands upon him, and told him of the Lamb of God. The last words he
uttered were the names of Jesus and of Catherine. Then the axe
fell, and Catherine beheld his soul borne by angels into the
regions of eternal love. When she recovered from her trance, she
held his head within her hands; her dress was saturated with his
blood, which she could scarcely bear to wash away, so deeply did
she triumph in the death of him whom she had saved. The words of S.
Catherine herself deserve to be read. The simplicity, freedom from
self-consciousness, and fervent faith in the reality of all she did
and said and saw, which they exhibit, convince us of her entire
sincerity.</p>

<p>The supernatural element in the life of S. Catherine may be
explained partly by the mythologising adoration of the people ready
to find a miracle in every act of her they worshipped&mdash;partly
by her own temperament and modes of life, which inclined her to
ecstasy and fostered the faculty of seeing visions&mdash;partly by
a pious misconception of the words of Christ and Bible
phraseology.</p>

<p>To the first kind belong the wonders which are related of her
early years, the story of the candle which burnt her veil without
injuring her person, and the miracles performed by her body after
death. Many childish incidents were <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg056" id="pg056">56</a></span> treasured up which, had her life
proved different, would have been forgotten, or have found their
proper place among the catalogue of common things. Thus on one
occasion, after hearing of the hermits of the Theba&iuml;d, she
took it into her head to retire into the wilderness, and chose for
her dwelling one of the caverns in the sandstone rock which abound
in Siena near the quarter where her father lived. We merely see in
this event a sign of her monastic disposition, and a more than
usual aptitude for realising the ideas presented to her mind. But
the old biographers relate how one celestial vision urged the
childish hermit to forsake the world, and another bade her return
to the duties of her home.</p>

<p>To the second kind we may refer the frequent communings with
Christ and with the fathers of the Church, together with the other
visions to which she frequently laid claim: nor must we omit the
stigmata which she believed she had received from Christ. Catherine
was constitutionally inclined to hallucinations. At the age of six,
before it was probable that a child should have laid claim to
spiritual gifts which she did not possess, she burst into loud
weeping because her little brother rudely distracted her attention
from the brilliant forms of saints and angels which she traced
among the clouds. Almost all children of a vivid imagination are
apt to transfer the objects of their fancy to the world without
them. Goethe walked for hours in his enchanted gardens as a boy,
and Alfieri tells us how he saw a company of angels in the
choristers at Asti. Nor did S. Catherine omit any means of
cultivating this faculty, and of preventing her splendid visions
from fading away, as they almost always do, beneath the discipline
of intellectual education and among the distractions of daily life.
Believing simply in their heavenly origin, and receiving no secular
training whatsoever, she walked surrounded by a spiritual world,
environed, as her legend says, by angels. Her <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg057" id="pg057">57</a></span> habits were
calculated to foster this disposition: it is related that she took
but little sleep, scarcely more than two hours at night, and that
too on the bare ground; she ate nothing but vegetables and the
sacred wafer of the host, entirely abjuring the use of wine and
meat. This diet, combined with frequent fasts and severe ascetic
discipline, depressed her physical forces, and her nervous system
was thrown into a state of the highest exaltation. Thoughts became
things, and ideas were projected from her vivid fancy upon the
empty air around her. It was therefore no wonder that, after
spending long hours in vigils and meditating always on the thought
of Christ, she should have seemed to take the sacrament from His
hands, to pace the chapel in communion with Him, to meet Him in the
form of priest and beggar, to hear Him speaking to her as a friend.
Once when the anguish of sin had plagued her with disturbing
dreams, Christ came and gave her His own heart in exchange for
hers. When lost in admiration before the cross at Pisa, she saw His
five wounds stream with blood&mdash;five crimson rays smote her,
passed into her soul, and left their marks upon her hands and feet
and side. The light of Christ's glory shone round about her, she
partook of His martyrdom, and awaking from her trance she cried to
Raymond, 'Behold! I bear in my body the marks of the Lord
Jesus!'</p>

<p>This miracle had happened to S. Francis. It was regarded as the
sign of fellowship with Christ, of worthiness to drink His cup, and
to be baptised with His baptism. We find the same idea at least in
the old Latin hymns:</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i11">Fac me plagis vulnerari&mdash;</div>

<div class="i11">Cruce hac inebriari&mdash;</div>

<div class="i11">Fac ut portem Christi mortem,</div>

<div class="i11">Passionis fac consortem,</div>

<div class="i11">Et plagas recolere.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg058" id="pg058">58</a></span>
These are words from the 'Stabat Mater;' nor did S. Francis and S.
Catherine do more than carry into the vividness of actual
hallucination what had been the poetic rapture of many less
ecstatic, but not less ardent, souls. They desired to be
<i>literally</i> 'crucified with Christ;' they were not satisfied
with metaphor or sentiment, and it seemed to them that their Lord
had really vouchsafed to them the yearning of their heart. We need
not here raise the question whether the stigmata had ever been
actually self-inflicted by delirious saint or hermit: it was not
pretended that the wounds of S. Catherine were visible during her
lifetime. After her death the faithful thought that they had seen
them on her corpse, and they actually appeared in the relics of her
hands and feet. The pious fraud, if fraud there must have been,
should be ascribed, not to the saint herself, but to devotees and
relic-mongers.<a name="FNanchor_1_9" id="FNanchor_1_9" /><a href=
"#Footnote_1_9" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> The order of S.
Dominic would not be behind that of S. Francis. If the latter
boasted of their stigmata, the former would be ready to perforate
the hand or foot of their dead saint. Thus the ecstasies of genius
or devotion are brought to earth, and rendered vulgar by mistaken
piety and the rivalry of sects. The people put the most material
construction on all tropes and metaphors: above the door of S.
Catherine's chapel at Siena, for example, it is written&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i1">H&aelig;c tenet ara caput Catharin&aelig;; corda
requiris?</div>

<div class="i2">H&aelig;c imo Christus pectore clausa tenet.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>The frequent conversations which she held with S. Dominic and
other patrons of the Church, and her supernatural marriage, must be
referred to the same category. Strong faith, <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg059" id="pg059">59</a></span> and constant
familiarity with one order of ideas, joined with a creative power
of fancy, and fostered by physical debility, produced these
miraculous colloquies. Early in her career, her injured
constitution, resenting the violence with which it had been forced
to serve the ardours of her piety, troubled her with foul phantoms,
haunting images of sin and seductive whisperings, which clearly
revealed a morbid condition of the nervous system. She was on the
verge of insanity. The reality of her inspiration and her genius
are proved by the force with which her human sympathies, and moral
dignity, and intellectual vigour triumphed over these diseased
hallucinations of the cloister, and converted them into the
instruments for effecting patriotic and philanthropic designs.
There was nothing savouring of mean pretension or imposture in her
claim to supernatural enlightenment. Whatever we may think of the
wisdom of her public policy with regard to the Crusades and to the
Papal Sovereignty, it is impossible to deny that a holy and high
object possessed her from the earliest to the latest of her
life&mdash;that she lived for ideas greater than
self-aggrandisement or the saving of her soul, for the greatest,
perhaps, which her age presented to an earnest Catholic.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_9" id="Footnote_1_9" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_9"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> It is
not impossible that the stigmata may have been naturally produced
in the person of S. Francis or S. Catherine. There are cases on
record in which grave nervous disturbances have resulted in such
modifications of the flesh as may have left the traces of wounds in
scars and blisters.</p>
</div>

<p>The abuses to which the indulgence of temperaments like that of
S. Catherine must in many cases have given rise, are obvious.
Hysterical women and half-witted men, without possessing her
abilities and understanding her objects, beheld unmeaning visions,
and dreamed childish dreams. Others won the reputation of sanctity
by obstinate neglect of all the duties of life and of all the
decencies of personal cleanliness. Every little town in Italy could
show its saints like the Santa Fina of whom San Gemignano
boasts&mdash;a girl who lay for seven years on a back-board till
her mortified flesh clung to the wood; or the San Bartolo, who, for
hideous leprosy, received <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg060" id=
"pg060">60</a></span> the title of the Job of Tuscany. Children
were encouraged in blasphemous pretensions to the special power of
Heaven, and the nerves of weak women were shaken by revelations in
which they only half believed. We have ample evidence to prove how
the trade of miracles is still carried on, and how in the France of
our days, when intellectual vigour has been separated from old
forms of faith, such vision-mongering undermines morality,
encourages ignorance, and saps the force of individuals. But S.
Catherine must not be confounded with those sickly shams and
make-believes. Her enthusiasms were real; they were proper to her
age; they inspired her with unrivalled self-devotion and unwearied
energy; they connected her with the political and social movements
of her country.</p>

<p>Many of the supernatural events in S. Catherine's life were
founded on a too literal acceptation of biblical metaphors. The
Canticles, perhaps, inspired her with the belief in a mystical
marriage. An enigmatical sentence of S. Paul's suggested the
stigmata. When the saint bestowed her garment upon Christ in the
form of a beggar and gave Him the silver cross of her rosary, she
was but realising His own words: 'Inasmuch as ye shall do it unto
the least of these little ones, ye shall do it unto Me.' Charity,
according to her conception, consisted in giving to Christ. He had
first taught this duty; He would make it the test of all duty at
the last day. Catherine was charitable for the love of Christ. She
thought less of the beggar than of her Lord. How could she do
otherwise than see the aureole about His forehead, and hear the
voice of Him who had declared, 'Behold, I am with you, even to the
end of the world.' Those were times of childlike simplicity when
the eye of love was still unclouded, when men could see beyond the
phantoms of this world, and stripping off the accidents of matter,
gaze upon the spiritual and eternal truths <span class="pagenum"><a
name="pg061" id="pg061">61</a></span> that lie beneath. Heaven lay
around them in that infancy of faith; nor did they greatly differ
from the saints and founders of the Church&mdash;from Paul, who saw
the vision of the Lord, or Magdalen, who cried, 'He is risen!' An
age accustomed to veil thought in symbols, easily reversed the
process and discerned essential qualities beneath the common or
indifferent objects of the outer world. It was therefore Christ
whom S. Christopher carried in the shape of a child; Christ whom
Fra Angelico's Dominicans received in pilgrim's garb at their
convent gate; Christ with whom, under a leper's loathsome form, the
flower of Spanish chivalry was said to have shared his couch.</p>

<p>In all her miracles it will be noticed that S. Catherine showed
no originality. Her namesake of Alexandria had already been
proclaimed the spouse of Christ. S. Francis had already received
the stigmata; her other visions were such as had been granted to
all fervent mystics; they were the growth of current religious
ideas and unbounded faith. It is not as an innovator in religious
ecstasy, or as the creator of a new kind of spiritual poetry, that
we admire S. Catherine. Her inner life was simply the foundation of
her character, her visions were a source of strength to her in
times of trial, or the expression of a more than usually exalted
mood; but the means by which she moved the hearts of men belonged
to that which she possessed in common with all leaders of
mankind&mdash;enthusiasm, eloquence, the charm of a gracious
nature, and the will to do what she designed. She founded no
religious order, like S. Francis or S. Dominic, her predecessors,
or Loyola, her successor. Her work was a woman's work&mdash;to make
peace, to succour the afflicted, to strengthen the Church, to
purify the hearts of those around her; not to rule or organise.
When she died she left behind her a memory of love more than of
power, the fragrance of an unselfish and <span class="pagenum"><a
name="pg062" id="pg062">62</a></span> gentle life, the echo of
sweet and earnest words. Her place is in the heart of the humble;
children belong to her sisterhood, and the poor crowd her shrine on
festivals.</p>

<p>Catherine died at Rome on the 29th of April 1380, in her
thirty-third year, surrounded by the most faithful of her friends
and followers; but it was not until 1461 that she received the last
honour of canonisation from the hands of Pius II., &AElig;neas
Sylvius, her countryman. &AElig;eneas Sylvius Piccolomini was
perhaps the most remarkable man that Siena has produced. Like S.
Catherine, he was one of a large family; twenty of his brothers and
sisters perished in a plague. The licentiousness of his early life,
the astuteness of his intellect, and the worldliness of his aims,
contrast with the singularly disinterested character of the saint
on whom he conferred the highest honours of the Church. But he
accomplished by diplomacy and skill what Catherine had begun. If
she was instrumental in restoring the Popes to Rome, he ended the
schism which had clouded her last days. She had preached a crusade;
he lived to assemble the armies of Christendom against the Turks,
and died at Ancona, while it was still uncertain whether the
authority and enthusiasm of a pope could steady the wavering
counsels and vacillating wills of kings and princes. The middle
ages were still vital in S. Catherine; Pius II. belonged by taste
and genius to the new period of Renaissance. The hundreds of the
poorer Sienese who kneel before S. Catherine's shrine prove that
her memory is still alive in the hearts of her fellow-citizens;
while the gorgeous library of the cathedral, painted by the hand of
Pinturicchio, the sumptuous palace and the Loggia del Papa designed
by Bernardo Rossellino and Antonio Federighi, record the pride and
splendour of the greatest of the Piccolomini. But honourable as it
was for Pius to fill so high a place in the annals of his city; to
have left it as a poor adventurer, to return to it first as bishop,
then <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg063" id="pg063">63</a></span>
as pope: to have a chamber in its mother church adorned with the
pictured history of his achievements for a monument, and a triumph
of Renaissance architecture dedicated to his family, <i>gentilibus
suis</i>&mdash;yet we cannot but feel that the better part remains
with S. Catherine, whose prayer is still whispered by children on
their mother's knee, and whose relics are kissed daily by the
simple and devout.</p>

<p>Some of the chief Italian painters have represented the
incidents of S. Catherine's life and of her mystical experience.
All the pathos and beauty which we admire in Sodoma's S. Sebastian
at Florence, are surpassed by his fresco of S. Catherine receiving
the stigmata. This is one of several subjects painted by him on the
walls of her chapel in San Domenico. The tender unction, the
sweetness, the languor, and the grace which he commanded with such
admirable mastery, are all combined in the figure of the saint
falling exhausted into the arms of her attendant nuns. Soft
undulating lines rule the composition; yet dignity of attitude and
feature prevails over mere loveliness. Another of Siena's greatest
masters, Beccafumi, has treated the same subject with less
pictorial skill and dramatic effect, but with an earnestness and
simplicity that are very touching. Colourists always liked to
introduce the sweeping lines of her white robes into their
compositions. Fra Bartolommeo, who showed consummate art by
tempering the masses of white drapery with mellow tones of brown or
amber, painted one splendid picture of the marriage of S.
Catherine, and another in which he represents her prostrate in
adoration before the mystery of the Trinity. His gentle and devout
soul sympathised with the spirit of the saint. The fervour of her
devotion belonged to him more truly than the leonine power which he
unsuccessfully attempted to express in his large figure of S. Mark.
Other artists have painted the two Catherines <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg064" id="pg064">64</a></span>
together&mdash;the princess of Alexandria, crowned and robed in
purple, bearing her palm of martyrdom, beside the nun of Siena,
holding in her hand the lantern with which she went about by night
among the sick. Ambrogio Borgognone makes them stand one on each
side of Madonna's throne, while the infant Christ upon her lap
extends His hands to both, in token of their marriage.</p>

<p>The traditional type of countenance which may be traced in all
these pictures is not without a real foundation. Not only does
there exist at Siena, in the Church of San Domenico, a contemporary
portrait of S. Catherine, but her head also, which was embalmed
immediately after death, is still preserved. The skin of the face
is fair and white, like parchment, and the features have more the
air of sleep than death. We find in them the breadth and squareness
of general outline, and the long, even eyebrows which give peculiar
calm to the expression of her pictures. This relic is shown
publicly once a year on the 6th of May. That is the Festa of the
saint, when a procession of priests and acolytes, and pious people
holding tapers, and little girls dressed out in white, carry a
splendid silver image of their patroness about the city. Banners
and crosses and censers go in front; then follows the shrine
beneath a canopy: roses and leaves of box are scattered on the
path. The whole Contrada d'Oca is decked out with such finery as
the people can muster: red cloths hung from the windows, branches
and garlands strewn about the doorsteps, with brackets for torches
on the walls, and altars erected in the middle of the street.
Troops of country-folk and townspeople and priests go in and out to
visit the cell of S. Catherine; the upper and the lower chapel,
built upon its site, and the hall of the
<i>confraternit&agrave;</i> blaze with lighted tapers. The
faithful, full of wonder, kneel or stand about the 'santi luoghi,'
marvelling at the relics, and <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg065"
id="pg065">65</a></span> repeating to one another the miracles of
the saint. The same bustle pervades the Church of San Domenico.
Masses are being said at one or other chapel all the morning, while
women in their flapping Tuscan hats crowd round the silver image of
S. Catherine, and say their prayers with a continual undercurrent
of responses to the nasal voice of priest or choir. Others gain
entrance to the chapel of the saint, and kneel before her altar.
There, in the blaze of sunlight and of tapers, far away behind the
gloss and gilding of a tawdry shrine, is seen the pale, white face
which spoke and suffered so much, years ago. The contrast of its
rigid stillness and half-concealed corruption with the noise and
life and light outside is very touching. Even so the remnant of a
dead idea still stirs the souls of thousands, and many ages may
roll by before time and oblivion assert their inevitable sway.</p>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg066" id=
"pg066">66</a></span></p>

<h3><a name="OLIVETO" id="OLIVETO" /><i>MONTE OLIVETO</i></h3>

<h3>I</h3>

<p>In former days the traveller had choice of two old hostelries in
the chief street of Siena. Here, if he was fortunate, he might
secure a prophet's chamber, with a view across tiled houseroofs to
the distant Tuscan champaign&mdash;glimpses of russet field and
olive-garden framed by jutting city walls, which in some measure
compensated for much discomfort. He now betakes himself to the more
modern Albergo di Siena, overlooking the public promenade La Lizza.
Horse-chestnuts and acacias make a pleasant foreground to a
prospect of considerable extent. The front of the house is turned
toward Belcaro and the mountains between Grosseto and Volterra.
Sideways its windows command the brown bulk of San Domenico, and
the Duomo, set like a marble coronet upon the forehead of the town.
When we arrived there one October afternoon the sun was setting
amid flying clouds and watery yellow spaces of pure sky, with a
wind blowing soft and humid from the sea. Long after he had sunk
below the hills, a fading chord of golden and rose-coloured tints
burned on the city. The cathedral bell tower was glistening with
recent rain, and we could see right through its lancet windows to
the clear blue heavens beyond. Then, as the day descended into
evening, the autumn trees assumed that wonderful effect of
luminousness self-evolved, <a name="pg067" id="pg067"></a><span
class="pagenum">67</span> and the red brick walls that crimson
afterglow, which Tuscan twilight takes from singular transparency
of atmosphere.</p>

<p>It is hardly possible to define the specific character of each
Italian city, assigning its proper share to natural circumstances,
to the temper of the population, and to the monuments of art in
which these elements of nature and of human qualities are blended.
The fusion is too delicate and subtle for complete analysis; and
the total effect in each particular case may best be compared to
that impressed on us by a strong personality, making itself felt in
the minutest details. Climate, situation, ethnological conditions,
the political vicissitudes of past ages, the bias of the people to
certain industries and occupations, the emergence of distinguished
men at critical epochs, have all contributed their quota to the
composition of an individuality which abides long after the
locality has lost its ancient vigour.</p>

<p>Since the year 1557, when Gian Giacomo de' Medici laid the
country of Siena waste, levelled her luxurious suburbs, and
delivered her famine-stricken citizens to the tyranny of the Grand
Duke Cosimo, this town has gone on dreaming in suspended decadence.
Yet the epithet which was given to her in her days of glory, the
title of 'Fair Soft Siena,' still describes the city. She claims it
by right of the gentle manners, joyous but sedate, of her
inhabitants, by the grace of their pure Tuscan speech, and by the
unique delicacy of her architecture. Those palaces of brick, with
finely moulded lancet windows, and the lovely use of sculptured
marbles in pilastered colonnades, are fit abodes for the nobles who
reared them five centuries ago, of whose refined and costly living
we read in the pages of Dante or of Folgore da San Gemignano. And
though the necessities of modern life, the decay of wealth, the
dwindling of old aristocracy, and the absorption of what was once
an independent state in the Italian nation, <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg068" id="pg068">68</a></span> have obliterated
that large signorial splendour of the Middle Ages, we feel that the
modern Sienese are not unworthy of their courteous ancestry.</p>

<p>Superficially, much of the present charm of Siena consists in
the soft opening valleys, the glimpses of long blue hills and
fertile country-side, framed by irregular brown houses stretching
along the slopes on which the town is built, and losing themselves
abruptly in olive fields and orchards. This element of beauty,
which brings the city into immediate relation with the country, is
indeed not peculiar to Siena. We find it in Perugia, in Assisi, in
Montepulciano, in nearly all the hill towns of Umbria and Tuscany.
But their landscape is often tragic and austere, while this is
always suave. City and country blend here in delightful amity.
Neither yields that sense of aloofness which stirs melancholy.</p>

<p>The most charming district in the immediate neighbourhood of
Siena lies westward, near Belcaro, a villa high up on a hill. It is
a region of deep lanes and golden-green oak-woods, with cypresses
and stone-pines, and little streams in all directions flowing over
the brown sandstone. The country is like some parts of rural
England&mdash;Devonshire or Sussex. Not only is the sandstone here,
as there, broken into deep gullies; but the vegetation is much the
same. Tufted spleenwort, primroses, and broom tangle the hedges
under boughs of hornbeam and sweet-chestnut. This is the landscape
which the two sixteenth-century novelists of Siena, Fortini and
Sermini, so lovingly depicted in their tales. Of literature
absorbing in itself the specific character of a country, and
conveying it to the reader less by description than by sustained
quality of style, I know none to surpass Fortini's sketches. The
prospect from Belcaro is one of the finest to be seen in Tuscany.
The villa stands at a considerable elevation, and commands an
immense extent of hill and dale. <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg069" id="pg069">69</a></span> Nowhere, except Maremma-wards, a
level plain. The Tuscan mountains, from Monte Amiata westward to
Volterra, round Valdelsa, down to Montepulciano and Radicofani,
with their innumerable windings and intricacies of descending
valleys, are dappled with light and shade from flying storm-clouds,
sunshine here, and there cloud-shadows. Girdling the villa stands a
grove of ilex-trees, cut so as to embrace its high-built walls with
dark continuous green. In the courtyard are lemon-trees and
pomegranates laden with fruit. From a terrace on the roof the whole
wide view is seen; and here upon a parapet, from which we leaned
one autumn afternoon, my friend discovered this <i>graffito</i>:
'<i>E vidi e piansi il fato amaro!</i>'&mdash;'I gazed, and gazing,
wept the bitterness of fate.'</p>

<h3>II</h3>

<p>The prevailing note of Siena and the Sienese seems, as I have
said, to be a soft and tranquil grace; yet this people had one of
the stormiest and maddest of Italian histories. They were
passionate in love and hate, vehement in their popular amusements,
almost frantic in their political conduct of affairs. The luxury,
for which Dante blamed them, the levity De Comines noticed in their
government, found counter-poise in more than usual piety and
fervour. S. Bernardino, the great preacher and peacemaker of the
Middle Ages; S. Catherine, the worthiest of all women to be
canonised; the blessed Colombini, who founded the Order of the
Gesuati or Brothers of the Poor in Christ; the blessed Bernardo,
who founded that of Monte Oliveto; were all Sienese. Few cities
have given four such saints to modern Christendom. The biography of
one of these may serve as prelude to an account of the Sienese
monastery of Oliveto Maggiore.</p>

<p>The family of Tolomei was among the noblest of the <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg070" id="pg070">70</a></span> Sienese
aristocracy. On May 10, 1272, Mino Tolomei and his wife Fulvia, of
the Tancredi, had a son whom they christened Giovanni, but who,
when he entered the religious life, assumed the name of Bernard, in
memory of the great Abbot of Clairvaux. Of this child, Fulvia is
said to have dreamed, long before his birth, that he assumed the
form of a white swan, and sang melodiously, and settled in the
boughs of an olive-tree, whence afterwards he winged his way to
heaven amid a flock of swans as dazzling white as he. The boy was
educated in the Dominican Cloister at Siena, under the care of his
uncle Cristoforo Tolomei. There, and afterwards in the fraternity
of S. Ansano, he felt that impulse towards a life of piety, which
after a short but brilliant episode of secular ambition, was
destined to return with overwhelming force upon his nature. He was
a youth of promise, and at the age of sixteen he obtained the
doctorate in philosophy and both laws, civil and canonical. The
Tolomei upon this occasion adorned their palaces and threw them
open to the people of Siena. The Republic hailed with acclamation
the early honours of a noble, born to be one of their chief
leaders. Soon after this event Mino obtained for his son from the
Emperor the title of C&aelig;sarian Knight; and when the diploma
arrived, new festivities proclaimed the fortunate youth to his
fellow-citizens. Bernardo cased his limbs in steel, and rode in
procession with ladies and young nobles through the streets. The
ceremonies of a knight's reception in Siena at that period were
magnificent. From contemporary chronicles and from the sonnets
written by Folgore da San Gemignano for a similar occasion, we
gather that the whole resources of a wealthy family and all their
friends were strained to the utmost to do honour to the order of
chivalry. Open house was held for several days. Rich presents of
jewels, armour, dresses, chargers were freely <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg071" id="pg071">71</a></span> distributed.
Tournaments alternated with dances. But the climax of the pageant
was the novice's investiture with sword and spurs and belt in the
cathedral. This, as it appears from a record of the year 1326,
actually took place in the great marble pulpit carved by the
Pisani; and the most illustrious knights of his acquaintance were
summoned by the squire to act as sponsors for his fealty.</p>

<p>It is said that young Bernardo Tolomei's head was turned to
vanity by these honours showered upon him in his earliest manhood.
Yet, after a short period of aberration, he rejoined his
confraternity and mortified his flesh by discipline and strict
attendance on the poor. The time had come, however, when he should
choose a career suitable to his high rank. He devoted himself to
jurisprudence, and began to lecture publicly on law. Already at the
age of twenty-five his fellow-citizens admitted him to the highest
political offices, and in the legend of his life it is written, not
without exaggeration doubtless, that he ruled the State. There is,
however, no reason to suppose that he did not play an important
part in its government. Though a just and virtuous statesman,
Bernardo now forgot the special service of God, and gave himself
with heart and soul to mundane interests. At the age of forty,
supported by the wealth, alliances, and reputation of his
semi-princely house, he had become one of the most considerable
party-leaders in that age of faction. If we may trust his monastic
biographer, he was aiming at nothing less than the tyranny of
Siena. But in that year, when he was forty, a change, which can
only be described as conversion, came over him. He had advertised a
public disputation, in which he proposed before all comers to solve
the most arduous problems of scholastic science. The concourse was
great, the assembly brilliant; but the hero of the day, who had
designed it for his glory, was stricken with sudden blindness. In
one <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg072" id="pg072">72</a></span>
moment he comprehended the internal void he had created for his
soul, and the blindness of the body was illumination to the spirit.
The pride, power, and splendour of this world seemed to him a smoke
that passes. God, penitence, eternity appeared in all the awful
clarity of an authentic vision. He fell upon his knees and prayed
to Mary that he might receive his sight again. This boon was
granted; but the revelation which had come to him in blindness was
not withdrawn. Meanwhile the hall of disputation was crowded with
an expectant audience. Bernardo rose from his knees, made his
entry, and ascended the chair; but instead of the scholastic
subtleties he had designed to treat, he pronounced the old text,
'Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.'</p>

<p>Afterwards, attended by two noble comrades, Patrizio Patrizzi
and Ambrogio Piccolomini, he went forth into the wilderness. For
the human soul, at strife with strange experience, betakes itself
instinctively to solitude. Not only prophets of Israel, saints of
the Theba&iuml;d, and founders of religions in the mystic East have
done so; even the Greek Menander recognised, although he sneered
at, the phenomenon. 'The desert, they say, is the place for
discoveries.' For the medi&aelig;val mind it had peculiar
attractions. The wilderness these comrades chose was Accona, a
doleful place, hemmed in with earthen precipices, some fifteen
miles to the south of Siena. Of his vast possessions Bernardo
retained but this&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i11">The lonesome lodge,</div>

<div class="i5">That stood so low in a lonely glen.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>The rest of his substance he abandoned to the poor. This was in
1313, the very year of the Emperor Henry VII.'s death at
Buonconvento, which is a little walled town between Siena and the
desert of Accona. Whether Bernardo's retirement was in any way due
to the extinction of immediate hope <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg073" id="pg073">73</a></span> for the Ghibelline party by this
event, we do not gather from his legend. That, as is natural,
refers his action wholly to the operation of divine grace. Yet we
may remember how a more illustrious refugee, the singer of the
'Divine Comedy,' betook himself upon the same occasion to the
lonely convent of Fonte Avellana on the Alps of Catria, and
meditated there the cantos of his Purgatory. While Bernardo Tolomei
was founding the Order of Monte Oliveto, Dante penned his letter to
the cardinals of Italy: <i>Quomodo sola sedet civitas plena populo:
facta est quasi vidua domina gentium</i>.</p>

<p>Bernardo and his friends hollowed with their own hands grottos
in the rock, and strewed their stone beds with withered
chestnut-leaves. For S. Scolastica, the sister of S. Benedict, they
built a little chapel. Their food was wild fruit, and their drink
the water of the brook. Through the day they delved, for it was in
their mind to turn the wilderness into a land of plenty. By night
they meditated on eternal truth. The contrast between their rude
life and the delicate nurture of Sienese nobles, in an age when
Siena had become a by-word for luxury, must have been cruel. But it
fascinated the medi&aelig;val imagination, and the three anchorites
were speedily joined by recruits of a like temper. As yet the
new-born order had no rules; for Bernardo, when he renounced the
world, embraced humility. The brethren were bound together only by
the ties of charity. They lived in common; and under their
sustained efforts Accona soon became a garden.</p>

<p>The society could not, however, hold together without further
organisation. It began to be ill spoken of, inasmuch as vulgar
minds can recognise no good except in what is formed upon a pattern
they are familiar with. Then Bernardo had a vision. In his sleep he
saw a ladder of light ascending to the heavens. Above sat Jesus
with Our Lady in white <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg074" id=
"pg074">74</a></span> raiment, and the celestial hierarchies around
them were attired in white. Up the ladder, led by angels, climbed
men in vesture of dazzling white; and among these Bernardo
recognised his own companions. Soon after this dream, he called
Ambrogio Piccolomini, and bade him get ready for a journey to the
Pope at Avignon.</p>

<p>John XXII. received the pilgrims graciously, and gave them
letters to the Bishop of Arezzo, commanding him to furnish the new
brotherhood with one of the rules authorised by Holy Church for
governance of a monastic order. Guido Tarlati, of the great
Pietra-mala house, was Bishop and despot of Arezzo at this epoch. A
man less in harmony with coenobitical enthusiasm than this warrior
prelate, could scarcely have been found. Yet attendance to such
matters formed part of his business, and the legend even credits
him with an inspired dream; for Our Lady appeared to him, and said:
'I love the valley of Accona and its pious solitaries. Give them
the rule of Benedict. But thou shalt strip them of their mourning
weeds, and clothe them in white raiment, the symbol of my virgin
purity. Their hermitage shall change its name, and henceforth shall
be called Mount Olivet, in memory of the ascension of my divine
Son, the which took place upon the Mount of Olives. I take this
family beneath my own protection; and therefore it is my will it
should be called henceforth the congregation of S. Mary of Mount
Olivet.' After this, the Blessed Virgin took forethought for the
heraldic designs of her monks, dictating to Guido Tarlati the
blazon they still bear; it is of three hills or, whereof the third
and highest is surmounted with a cross gules, and from the
meeting-point of the three hillocks upon either hand a branch of
olive vert. This was in 1319. In 1324 John XXII. confirmed the
order, and in 1344 it was further approved by Clement VI.
Affiliated societies sprang <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg075"
id="pg075">75</a></span> up in several Tuscan cities; and in 1347,
Bernardo Tolomei, at that time General of the Order, held a chapter
of its several houses. The next year was the year of the great
plague or Black Death. Bernardo bade his brethren leave their
seclusion, and go forth on works of mercy among the sick. Some went
to Florence, some to Siena, others to the smaller hill-set towns of
Tuscany. All were bidden to assemble on the Feast of the Assumption
at Siena. Here the founder addressed his spiritual children for the
last time. Soon afterwards he died himself, at the age of
seventy-seven, and the place of his grave is not known. He was
beatified by the Church for his great virtues.</p>

<h3>III</h3>

<p>At noon we started, four of us, in an open waggonette with a
pair of horses, for Monte Oliveto, the luggage heaped mountain-high
and tied in a top-heavy mass above us. After leaving the gateway,
with its massive fortifications and frescoed arches, the road
passes into a dull earthy country, very much like some
parts&mdash;and not the best parts&mdash;of England. The beauty of
the Sienese contado is clearly on the sandstone, not upon the clay.
Hedges, haystacks, isolated farms&mdash;all were English in their
details. Only the vines, and mulberries, and wattled waggons drawn
by oxen, most Roman in aspect, reminded us we were in Tuscany. In
such <i>carpenta</i> may the vestal virgins have ascended the
Capitol. It is the primitive war-chariot also, capable of holding
four with ease; and Romulus may have mounted with the images of
Roman gods in even such a vehicle to Latiarian Jove upon the Alban
hill. Nothing changes in Italy. The wooden ploughs are those which
Virgil knew. The sight of one of them would <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg076" id="pg076">76</a></span> save an
intelligent lad much trouble in mastering a certain passage of the
Georgics.</p>

<p>Siena is visible behind us nearly the whole way to Buonconvento,
a little town where the Emperor Henry VII. died, as it was
supposed, of poison, in 1313. It is still circled with the wall and
gates built by the Sienese in 1366, and is a fair specimen of an
intact medi&aelig;val stronghold. Here we leave the main road, and
break into a country-track across a bed of sandstone, with the
delicate volcanic lines of Monte Amiata in front, and the
a&euml;rial pile of Montalcino to our right. The pyracanthus bushes
in the hedge yield their clusters of bright yellow berries, mingled
with more glowing hues of red from haws and glossy hips. On the
pale grey earthen slopes men and women are plying the long
Sabellian hoes of their forefathers, and ploughmen are driving
furrows down steep hills. The labour of the husbandmen in Tuscany
is very graceful, partly, I think, because it is so primitive, but
also because the people have an eminently noble carriage, and are
fashioned on the lines of antique statues. I noticed two young
contadini in one field, whom Frederick Walker might have painted
with the dignity of Pheidian form. They were guiding their ploughs
along a hedge of olive-trees, slanting upwards, the white-horned
oxen moving slowly through the marl, and the lads bending to press
the plough-shares home. It was a delicate piece of colour&mdash;the
grey mist of olive branches, the warm smoking earth, the creamy
flanks of the oxen, the brown limbs and dark eyes of the men, who
paused awhile to gaze at us, with shadows cast upon the furrows
from their tall straight figures. Then they turned to their work
again, and rhythmic movement was added to the picture. I wonder
when an Italian artist will condescend to pluck these flowers of
beauty, so abundantly offered by the simplest things in his own
native land. Each city has <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg077"
id="pg077">77</a></span> an Accademia delle Belle Arti, and there
is no lack of students. But the painters, having learned their
trade, make copies ten times distant from the truth of famous
masterpieces for the American market. Few seem to look beyond their
picture galleries. Thus the democratic art, the art of Millet, the
art of life and nature and the people, waits.</p>

<p>As we mount, the soil grows of a richer brown; and there are
woods of oak where herds of swine are feeding on the acorns. Monte
Oliveto comes in sight&mdash;a mass of red brick, backed up with
cypresses, among dishevelled earthy precipices, <i>balze</i> as
they are called&mdash;upon the hill below the village of Chiusure.
This Chiusure was once a promising town; but the life was crushed
out of it in the throes of medi&aelig;val civil wars, and since the
thirteenth century it has been dwindling to a hamlet. The struggle
for existence, from which the larger communes of this district,
Siena and Montepulciano, emerged at the expense of their
neighbours, must have been tragical. The <i>balze</i> now grow
sterner, drier, more dreadful. We see how deluges outpoured from
thunder-storms bring down their viscous streams of loam, destroying
in an hour the terraces it took a year to build, and spreading
wasteful mud upon the scanty cornfields. The people call this soil
<i>creta</i>; but it seems to be less like a chalk than a marl, or
<i>marna</i>. It is always washing away into ravines and gullies,
exposing the roots of trees, and rendering the tillage of the land
a thankless labour. One marvels how any vegetation has the faith to
settle on its dreary waste, or how men have the patience,
generation after generation, to renew the industry, still
beginning, never ending, which reclaims such wildernesses.
Comparing Monte Oliveto with similar districts of cretaceous
soil&mdash;with the country, for example, between Pienza and San
Quirico&mdash;we perceive how much is owed to the perseverance of
the monks whom Bernard <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg078" id=
"pg078">78</a></span> Tolomei planted here. So far as it is clothed
at all with crop and wood, this is their service.</p>

<p>At last we climb the crowning hill, emerge from a copse of oak,
glide along a terraced pathway through the broom, and find
ourselves in front of the convent gateway. A substantial tower of
red brick, machicolated at the top and pierced with small square
windows, guards this portal, reminding us that at some time or
other the monks found it needful to arm their solitude against a
force descending from Chiusure. There is an avenue of slender
cypresses; and over the gate, protected by a jutting roof, shines a
fresco of Madonna and Child. Passing rapidly downwards, we are in
the courtyard of the monastery, among its stables, barns, and
out-houses, with the forlorn bulk of the huge red building,
spreading wide, and towering up above us. As good luck ruled our
arrival, we came face to face with the Abbate de Negro, who
administers the domain of Monte Oliveto for the Government of
Italy, and exercises a kindly hospitality to chance-comers. He was
standing near the church, which, with its tall square campanile,
breaks the long stern outline of the convent. The whole edifice, it
may be said, is composed of a red-brick inclining to purple in
tone, which contrasts not unpleasantly with the lustrous green of
the cypresses, and the glaucous sheen of olives. Advantage has been
taken of a steep crest; and the monastery, enlarged from time to
time through the last five centuries, has here and there been
reared upon gigantic buttresses, which jut upon the <i>balze</i> at
a sometimes giddy height.</p>

<p>The Abbate received us with true courtesy, and gave us spacious
rooms, three cells apiece, facing Siena and the western mountains.
There is accommodation, he told us, for three hundred monks; but
only three are left in it. As this order was confined to members of
the nobility, each of <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg079" id=
"pg079">79</a></span> the religious had his own apartment&mdash;not
a cubicle such as the uninstructed dream of when they read of
monks, but separate chambers for sleep and study and
recreation.</p>

<p>In the middle of the vast sad landscape, the place is still,
with a silence that can be almost heard. The deserted state of
those innumerable cells, those echoing corridors and shadowy
cloisters, exercises overpowering tyranny over the imagination.
Siena is so far away, and Montalcino is so faintly outlined on its
airy parapet, that these cities only deepen our sense of
desolation. It is a relief to mark at no great distance on the
hillside a contadino guiding his oxen, and from a lonely farm yon
column of ascending smoke. At least the world goes on, and life is
somewhere resonant with song. But here there rests a pall of
silence among the oak-groves and the cypresses and <i>balze</i>. As
I leaned and mused, while Christian (my good friend and
fellow-traveller from the Grisons) made our beds, a melancholy
sunset flamed up from a rampart of cloud, built like a city of the
air above the mountains of Volterra&mdash;fire issuing from its
battlements, and smiting the fretted roof of heaven above. It was a
conflagration of celestial rose upon the saddest purples and
cavernous recesses of intensest azure.</p>

<p>We had an excellent supper in the visitors'
refectory&mdash;soup, good bread and country wine, ham, a roast
chicken with potatoes, a nice white cheese made of sheep's milk,
and grapes for dessert. The kind Abbate sat by, and watched his
four guests eat, tapping his tortoiseshell snuff-box, and telling
us many interesting things about the past and present state of the
convent. Our company was completed with Lupo, the pet cat, and
Pirro, a woolly Corsican dog, very good friends, and both
enormously voracious. Lupo in particular engraved himself upon the
memory of Christian, into whose large legs he thrust his claws,
when the cheese-parings and <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg080"
id="pg080">80</a></span> scraps were not supplied him with
sufficient promptitude. I never saw a hungrier and bolder cat. It
made one fancy that even the mice had been exiled from this
solitude. And truly the rule of the monastic order, no less than
the habit of Italian gentlemen, is frugal in the matter of the
table, beyond the conception of northern folk.</p>

<p>Monte Oliveto, the Superior told us, owned thirty-two
<i>poderi</i>, or large farms, of which five have recently been
sold. They are worked on the <i>mezzeria</i> system; whereby
peasants and proprietors divide the produce of the soil; and which
he thinks inferior for developing its resources to that of
<i>affitto</i>, or leaseholding.</p>

<p>The contadini live in scattered houses; and he says the estate
would be greatly improved by doubling the number of these
dwellings, and letting the subdivided farms to more energetic
people. The village of Chiusure is inhabited by labourers. The
contadini are poor: a dower, for instance, of fifty <i>lire</i> is
thought something: whereas near Genoa, upon the leasehold system, a
farmer may sometimes provide a dower of twenty thousand
<i>lire</i>. The country produces grain of different sorts,
excellent oil, and timber. It also yields a tolerable red wine. The
Government makes from eight to nine per cent. upon the value of the
land, employing him and his two religious brethren as agents.</p>

<p>In such conversation the evening passed. We rested well in large
hard beds with dry rough sheets. But there was a fretful wind
abroad, which went wailing round the convent walls and rattling the
doors in its deserted corridors. One of our party had been placed
by himself at the end of a long suite of apartments, with balconies
commanding the wide sweep of hills that Monte Amiata crowns. He
confessed in the morning to having passed a restless night,
tormented by the ghostly noises of the wind, a wanderer, 'like the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg081" id="pg081">81</a></span>
world's rejected guest,' through those untenanted chambers. The
olives tossed their filmy boughs in twilight underneath his
windows, sighing and shuddering, with a sheen in them as eerie as
that of willows by some haunted mere.</p>

<h4>IV</h4>

<p>The great attraction to students of Italian art in the convent
of Monte Oliveto is a large square cloister, covered with
wall-paintings by Luca Signorelli and Giovannantonio Bazzi,
surnamed Il Sodoma. These represent various episodes in the life of
S. Benedict; while one picture, in some respects the best of the
whole series, is devoted to the founder of the Olivetan Order,
Bernardo Tolomei, dispensing the rule of his institution to a
consistory of white-robed monks. Signorelli, that great master of
Cortona, may be studied to better advantage elsewhere, especially
at Orvieto and in his native city. His work in this cloister,
consisting of eight frescoes, has been much spoiled by time and
restoration. Yet it can be referred to a good period of his
artistic activity (the year 1497) and displays much which is
specially characteristic of his manner. In Totila's barbaric train,
he painted a crowd of fierce emphatic figures, combining all ages
and the most varied attitudes, and reproducing with singular
vividness the Italian soldiers of adventure of his day. We see
before us the long-haired followers of Braccio and the Baglioni;
their handsome savage faces; their brawny limbs clad in the
particoloured hose and jackets of that period; feathered caps stuck
sideways on their heads; a splendid swagger in their straddling
legs. Female beauty lay outside the sphere of Signorelli's
sympathy; and in the Monte Oliveto cloister he was not called upon
to paint it. But none of the Italian masters felt more keenly, or
more powerfully <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg082" id=
"pg082">82</a></span> represented in their work, the muscular
vigour of young manhood. Two of the remaining frescoes, different
from these in motive, might be selected as no less characteristic
of Signorelli's manner. One represents three sturdy monks, clad in
brown, working with all their strength to stir a boulder, which has
been bewitched, and needs a miracle to move it from its place. The
square and powerfully outlined drawing of these figures is beyond
all praise for its effect of massive solidity. The other shows us
the interior of a fifteenth-century tavern, where two monks are
regaling themselves upon the sly. A country girl, with shapely arms
and shoulders, her upper skirts tucked round the ample waist to
which broad sweeping lines of back and breasts descend, is serving
wine. The exuberance of animal life, the freedom of attitude
expressed in this, the mainly interesting figure of the
composition, show that Signorelli might have been a great master of
realistic painting. Nor are the accessories less effective. A
wide-roofed kitchen chimney, a page-boy leaving the room by a
flight of steps which leads to the house door, and the table at
which the truant monks are seated, complete a picture of homely
Italian life. It may still be matched out of many an inn in this
hill district.</p>

<p>Called to graver work at Orvieto, where he painted his gigantic
series of frescoes illustrating the coming of Anti-christ, the
Destruction of the World, the Resurrection, the Last Judgment, and
the final state of souls in Paradise and Hell, Signorelli left his
work at Monte Oliveto unaccomplished. Seven years later it was
taken up by a painter of very different genius. Sodoma was a native
of Vercelli, and had received his first training in the Lombard
schools, which owed so much to Lionardo da Vinci's influence. He
was about thirty years of age when chance brought him to Siena.
Here he made acquaintance with Pandolfo Petrucci, who had <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg083" id="pg083">83</a></span> recently
established himself in a species of tyranny over the Republic. The
work he did for this patron and other nobles of Siena, brought him
into notice. Vasari observes that his hot Lombard colouring, a
something florid and attractive in his style, which contrasted with
the severity of the Tuscan school, rendered him no less agreeable
as an artist than his free manners made him acceptable as a
house-friend. Fra Domenico da Leccio, also a Lombard, was at that
time General of the monks of Monte Oliveto. On a visit to this
compatriot in 1505, Sodoma received a commission to complete the
cloister; and during the next two years he worked there, producing
in all twenty-five frescoes. For his pains he seemed to have
received but little pay&mdash;Vasari says, only the expenses of
some colour-grinders who assisted him; but from the books of the
convent it appears that 241 ducats, or something over 60<i>l.</i>
of our money, were disbursed to him.</p>

<p>Sodoma was so singular a fellow, even in that age of piquant
personalities, that it may be worth while to translate a fragment
of Vasari's gossip about him. We must, however, bear in mind that,
for some unknown reason, the Aretine historian bore a rancorous
grudge against this Lombard whose splendid gifts and great
achievements he did all he could by writing to depreciate. 'He was
fond,' says Vasari, 'of keeping in his house all sorts of strange
animals: badgers, squirrels, monkeys, cat-a-mountains,
dwarf-donkeys, horses, racers, little Elba ponies, jackdaws,
bantams, doves of India, and other creatures of this kind, as many
as he could lay his hands on. Over and above these beasts, he had a
raven, which had learned so well from him to talk, that it could
imitate its master's voice, especially in answering the door when
some one knocked, and this it did so cleverly that people took it
for Giovannantonio himself, as all the folk of Siena know quite
well. In like manner, his other pets were <span class="pagenum"><a
name="pg084" id="pg084">84</a></span> so much at home with him that
they never left his house, but played the strangest tricks and
maddest pranks imaginable, so that his house was like nothing more
than a Noah's Ark.' He was a bold rider, it seems; for with one of
his racers, ridden by himself, he bore away the prize in that wild
horse-race they run upon the Piazza at Siena. For the rest, 'he
attired himself in pompous clothes, wearing doublets of brocade,
cloaks trimmed with gold lace, gorgeous caps, neck-chains, and
other vanities of a like description, fit for buffoons and
mountebanks.' In one of the frescoes of Monte Oliveto, Sodoma
painted his own portrait, with some of his curious pets around him.
He there appears as a young man with large and decidedly handsome
features, a great shock of dark curled hair escaping from a yellow
cap, and flowing down over a rich mantle which drapes his
shoulders. If we may trust Vasari, he showed his curious humours
freely to the monks. 'Nobody could describe the amusement he
furnished to those good fathers, who christened him Mattaccio (the
big madman), or the insane tricks he played there.'</p>

<p>In spite of Vasari's malevolence, the portrait he has given us
of Bazzi has so far nothing unpleasant about it. The man seems to
have been a madcap artist, combining with his love for his
profession a taste for fine clothes, and what was then perhaps
rarer in people of his sort, a great partiality for living
creatures of all kinds. The darker shades of Vasari's picture have
been purposely omitted from these pages. We only know for certain,
about Bazzi's private life, that he was married in 1510 to a
certain Beatrice, who bore him two children, and who was still
living with him in 1541. The further suggestion that he painted at
Monte Oliveto subjects unworthy of a religious house, is wholly
disproved by the frescoes which still exist in a state of very
tolerable preservation. They represent various episodes in the
legend of S. <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg085" id=
"pg085">85</a></span> Benedict; all marked by that spirit of
simple, almost childish piety which is a special characteristic of
Italian religious history. The series forms, in fact, a painted
<i>novella</i> of monastic life; its petty jealousies, its petty
trials, its tribulations and temptations, and its indescribably
petty miracles. Bazzi was well fitted for the execution of this
task. He had a swift and facile brush, considerable versatility in
the treatment of monotonous subjects, and a never-failing sense of
humour. His white-cowled monks, some of them with the rosy
freshness of boys, some with the handsome brown faces of middle
life, others astute and crafty, others again wrinkled with old age,
have clearly been copied from real models. He puts them into action
without the slightest effort, and surrounds them with landscapes,
architecture, and furniture, appropriate to each successive
situation. The whole is done with so much grace, such simplicity of
composition, and transparency of style, corresponding to the
<i>na&iuml;f</i> and superficial legend, that we feel a perfect
harmony between the artist's mind and the motives he was made to
handle. In this respect Bazzi's portion of the legend of S.
Benedict is more successful than Signorelli's. It was fortunate,
perhaps, that the conditions of his task confined him to
uncomplicated groupings, and a scale of colour in which white
predominates. For Bazzi, as is shown by subsequent work in the
Farnesina Villa at Rome, and in the church of S. Domenico at Siena,
was no master of composition; and the tone, even of his
masterpieces, inclines to heat. Unlike Signorelli, Bazzi felt a
deep artistic sympathy with female beauty; and the most attractive
fresco in the whole series is that in which the evil monk
Florentius brings a bevy of fair damsels to the convent. There is
one group, in particular, of six women, so delicately varied in
carriage of the head and suggested movement of the body, as to be
comparable only to a strain of concerted <span class="pagenum"><a
name="pg086" id="pg086">86</a></span> music. This is perhaps the
painter's masterpiece in the rendering of pure beauty, if we except
his S. Sebastian of the Uffizzi.</p>

<p>We tire of studying pictures, hardly less than of reading about
them! I was glad enough, after three hours spent among the frescoes
of this cloister, to wander forth into the copses which surround
the convent. Sunlight was streaming treacherously from flying
clouds; and though it was high noon, the oak-leaves were still
a-tremble with dew. Pink cyclamens and yellow amaryllis starred the
moist brown earth; and under the cypress-trees, where alleys had
been cut in former time for pious feet, the short firm turf was
soft and mossy. Before bidding the hospitable Padre farewell, and
starting in our waggonette for Asciano, it was pleasant to meditate
awhile in these green solitudes. Generations of white-stoled monks
who had sat or knelt upon the now deserted terraces, or had slowly
paced the winding paths to Calvaries aloft and points of vantage
high above the wood, rose up before me. My mind, still full of
Bazzi's frescoes, peopled the wilderness with grave monastic forms,
and gracious, young-eyed faces of boyish novices.</p>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg087" id=
"pg087">87</a></span></p>

<h3><a name="MONTEPULCIANO" id=
"MONTEPULCIANO" /><i>MONTEPULCIANO</i></h3>

<h3>I</h3>

<p>For the sake of intending travellers to this, the lordliest of
Tuscan hill-towns, it will be well to state at once and without
circumlocution what does not appear upon the time-tables of the
line from Empoli to Rome. Montepulciano has a station; but this
railway station is at the distance of at least an hour and a half's
drive from the mountain upon which the city stands.</p>

<p>The lumbering train which brought us one October evening from
Asciano crawled into this station after dark, at the very moment
when a storm, which had been gathering from the south-west, burst
in deluges of rain and lightning. There was, however, a covered
carriage going to the town. Into this we packed ourselves, together
with a polite Italian gentleman who, in answer to our questions,
consulted his watch, and smilingly replied that a little half-hour
would bring us easily to Montepulciano. He was a native of the
place. He knew perfectly well that he would be shut up with us in
that carriage for two mortal hours of darkness and downpour. And
yet, such is the irresistible impulse in Italians to say something
immediately agreeable, he fed us with false hopes and had no fear
of consequences. What did it matter to him if we were pulling out
our watches and chattering in well-contented undertone about
<i>vino nobile</i>, <i>biftek</i>, and possibly a <i>polio
arrosto</i>, or a dish of <i>tord</i>? At <a name="pg088" id=
"pg088"></a><span class="pagenum">88</span> the end of the
half-hour, as he was well aware, self-congratulations and visions
of a hearty supper would turn to discontented wailings, and the
querulous complaining of defrauded appetites. But the end of half
an hour was still half an hour off; and we meanwhile were
comfortable.</p>

<p>The night was pitchy dark, and blazing flashes of lightning
showed a white ascending road at intervals. Rain rushed in
torrents, splashing against the carriage wheels, which moved
uneasily, as though they could but scarcely stem the river that
swept down upon them. Far away above us to the left, was one light
on a hill, which never seemed to get any nearer. We could see
nothing but a chasm of blackness below us on one side, edged with
ghostly olive-trees, and a high bank on the other. Sometimes a star
swam out of the drifting clouds; but then the rain hissed down
again, and the flashes came in floods of livid light, illuminating
the eternal olives and the cypresses which looked like huge black
spectres. It seemed almost impossible for the horses to keep their
feet, as the mountain road grew ever steeper and the torrent
swelled around them. Still they struggled on. The promised
half-hour had been doubled, trebled, quadrupled, when at last we
saw the great brown sombre walls of a city tower above us. Then we
entered one of those narrow lofty Tuscan gates, and rolled upon the
pavement of a street.</p>

<p>The inn at Montepulciano is called Marzocco, after the
Florentine lion which stands upon its column in a little square
before the house. The people there are hospitable, and more than
once on subsequent occasions have they extended to us kindly
welcome. But on this, our first appearance, they had scanty room at
their disposal. Seeing us arrive so late, and march into their
dining-room, laden with sealskins, waterproofs, and ulsters, one of
the party <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg089" id=
"pg089">89</a></span> hugging a complete Euripides in Didot's huge
edition, they were confounded. At last they conducted the whole
company of four into a narrow back bedroom, where they pointed to
one fair-sized and one very little bed. This was the only room at
liberty, they said; and could we not arrange to sleep here? <i>S'
accomodi, Signore! S' accomodi, Signora!</i> These encouraging
words, uttered in various tones of cheerful and insinuating
politeness to each member of the party in succession, failed to
make us comprehend how a gentleman and his wife, with a lean but
rather lengthy English friend, and a bulky native of the Grisons,
could 'accommodate themselves' collectively and undividedly with
what was barely sufficient for their just moiety, however much it
might afford a night's rest to their worse half. Christian was sent
out into the storm to look for supplementary rooms in
Montepulciano, which he failed to get. Meanwhile we ordered supper,
and had the satisfaction of seeing set upon the board a huge red
flask of <i>vino nobile</i>. In copious draughts of this the King
of Tuscan wines, we drowned our cares; and when the cloth was
drawn, our friend and Christian passed their night upon the supper
table. The good folk of the inn had recovered from their surprise,
and from the inner recesses of their house had brought forth
mattresses and blankets. So the better and larger half of the
company enjoyed sound sleep.</p>

<p>It rained itself out at night, and the morning was clear, with
the transparent atmosphere of storm-clouds hurrying in broken
squadrons from the bad sea quarter. Yet this is just the weather in
which Tuscan landscape looks its loveliest. Those immense expanses
of grey undulating uplands need the luminousness of watery
sunshine, the colour added by cloud-shadows, and the pearly
softness of rising vapours, to rob them of a certain awful
grimness. The main street of Montepulciano goes straight uphill for
a considerable distance <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg090" id=
"pg090">90</a></span> between brown palaces; then mounts by a
staircase-zigzag under huge impending masses of masonry; until it
ends in a piazza. On the ascent, at intervals, the eye is
fascinated by prospects to the north and east over Val di Chiana,
Cortona, Thrasymene, Chiusi; to south and west over Monte Cetona,
Radicofani, Monte Amiata, the Val d' Ombrone, and the Sienese
Contado. Grey walls overgrown with ivy, arcades of time-toned
brick, and the forbidding bulk of houses hewn from solid
travertine, frame these glimpses of a&euml;rial space. The piazza
is the top of all things. Here are the Duomo; the Palazzo del
Comune, closely resembling that of Florence, with the Marzocco on
its front; the fountain, between two quaintly sculptured columns;
and the vast palace Del Monte, of heavy Renaissance architecture,
said to be the work of Antonio di San Gallo.</p>

<p>We climbed the tower of the Palazzo del Comune, and stood at the
altitude of 2000 feet above the sea. The view is finer in its kind
than I have elsewhere seen, even in Tuscany, that land of panoramic
prospects over memorable tracts of world-historic country. Such
landscape cannot be described in words. But the worst is that, even
while we gaze, we know that nothing but the faintest memory of our
enjoyment will be carried home with us. The atmospheric conditions
were perfect that morning. The sun was still young; the sky
sparkled after the night's thunderstorm; the whole immensity of
earth around lay lucid, smiling, newly washed in baths of moisture.
Masses of storm-cloud kept rolling from the west, where we seemed
to feel the sea behind those intervening hills. But they did not
form in heavy blocks or hang upon the mountain summits. They
hurried and dispersed and changed and flung their shadows on the
world below.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg091" id=
"pg091">91</a></span></p>

<h3>II</h3>

<p>The charm of this view is composed of so many different
elements, so subtly blent, appealing to so many separate
sensibilities; the sense of grandeur, the sense of space, the sense
of natural beauty, and the sense of human pathos; that deep
internal faculty we call historic sense; that it cannot be defined.
First comes the immense surrounding space&mdash;a space measured in
each arc of the circumference by sections of at least fifty miles,
limited by points of exquisitely picturesque beauty, including
distant cloud-like mountain ranges and crystals of sky-blue
Apennines, circumscribing landscapes of refined loveliness in
detail, always varied, always marked by objects of peculiar
interest where the eye or memory may linger. Next in importance to
this immensity of space, so powerfully affecting the imagination by
its mere extent, and by the breadth of atmosphere attuning all
varieties of form and colour to one harmony beneath illimitable
heaven, may be reckoned the episodes of rivers, lakes, hills,
cities, with old historic names. For there spreads the lordly
length of Thrasymene, islanded and citadelled, in hazy morning
mist, still dreaming of the shock of Roman hosts with Carthaginian
legions. There is the lake of Chiusi, set like a jewel underneath
the copse-clad hills which hide the dust of a dead Tuscan nation.
The streams of Arno start far far away, where Arezzo lies enfolded
in bare uplands. And there at our feet rolls Tiber's largest
affluent, the Chiana. And there is the canal which joins their
fountains in the marsh that Lionardo would have drained. Monte
Cetona is yonder height which rears its bristling ridge defiantly
from neighbouring Chiusi. And there springs Radicofani, the eagle's
eyrie of a brigand brood. Next, Monte Amiata stretches the long
lines of her antique volcano; the swelling mountain flanks, <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg092" id="pg092">92</a></span> descending
gently from her cloud-capped top, are russet with autumnal oak and
chestnut woods. On them our eyes rest lovingly; imagination wanders
for a moment through those mossy glades, where cyclamens are
growing now, and primroses in spring will peep amid anemones from
rustling foliage strewn by winter's winds. The heights of
Casentino, the Perugian highlands, Volterra, far withdrawn amid a
wilderness of rolling hills, and solemn snow-touched ranges of the
Spolentino, Sibyl-haunted fastnesses of Norcia, form the most
distant horizon-lines of this unending panorama. And then there are
the cities placed each upon a point of vantage: Siena;
olive-mantled Chiusi; Cortona, white upon her spreading throne;
poetic Montalcino, lifted aloft against the vaporous sky; San
Quirico, nestling in pastoral tranquillity; Pienza, where
&AElig;neas Sylvius built palaces and called his birthplace after
his own Papal name. Still closer to the town itself of
Montepulciano, stretching along the irregular ridge which gave it
building ground, and trending out on spurs above deep orchards,
come the lovely details of oak-copses, blending with grey tilth and
fields rich with olive and vine. The gaze, exhausted with
immensity, pierces those deeply cloven valleys, sheltered from wind
and open to the sun&mdash;undulating folds of brown earth, where
Bacchus, when he visited Tuscany, found the grape-juice that
pleased him best, and crowned the wine of Montepulciano king. Here
from our eyrie we can trace white oxen on the furrows, guided by
brown-limbed, white-shirted contadini.</p>

<p>The morning glory of this view from Montepulciano, though
irrecoverable by words, abides in the memory, and draws one back by
its unique attractiveness. On a subsequent visit to the town in
springtime, my wife and I took a twilight walk, just after our
arrival, through its gloomy fortress streets, up to the piazza,
where the impendent houses <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg093"
id="pg093">93</a></span> lowered like bastions, and all the masses
of their mighty architecture stood revealed in shadow and dim
lamplight. Far and wide, the country round us gleamed with
bonfires; for it was the eve of the Ascension, when every contadino
lights a beacon of chestnut logs and straw and piled-up leaves.
Each castello on the plain, each village on the hills, each lonely
farmhouse at the skirt of forest or the edge of lake, smouldered
like a red Cyclopean eye beneath the vault of stars. The flames
waxed and waned, leapt into tongues, or disappeared. As they passed
from gloom to brilliancy and died away again, they seemed almost to
move. The twilight scene was like that of a vast city, filling the
plain and climbing the heights in terraces. Is this custom, I
thought, a relic of old Pales-worship?</p>

<h3>III</h3>

<p>The early history of Montepulciano is buried in impenetrable
mists of fable. No one can assign a date to the foundation of these
high-hill cities. The eminence on which it stands belongs to the
volcanic system of Monte Amiata, and must at some time have formed
a portion of the crater which threw that mighty mass aloft. But
sons have passed since the <i>gran sasso di Maremma</i> was a
fire-vomiting monster, glaring like Etna in eruption on the
Tyrrhene sea; and through those centuries how many races may have
camped upon the summit we call Montepulciano! Tradition assigns the
first quasi-historical settlement to Lars Porsena, who is said to
have made it his summer residence, when the lower and more marshy
air of Clusium became oppressive. Certainly it must have been a
considerable town in the Etruscan period. Embedded in the walls of
palaces may still be seen numerous fragments of sculptured
basreliefs, the works of that mysterious people. Apropos of
Montepulciano's importance <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg094"
id="pg094">94</a></span> in the early years of Roman history, I
lighted on a quaint story related by its very jejune annalist,
Spinello Benci. It will be remembered that Livy attributes the
invasion of the Gauls, who, after besieging Clusium, advanced on
Rome, to the persuasions of a certain Aruns. He was an exile from
Clusium; and wishing to revenge himself upon his country-people, he
allured the Senonian Gauls into his service by the promise of
excellent wine, samples of which he had taken with him into
Lombardy. Spinello Benci accepts the legend literally, and
continues: 'These wines were so pleasing to the palate of the
barbarians, that they were induced to quit the rich and teeming
valley of the Po, to cross the Apennines, and move in battle array
against Chiusi. And it is clear that the wine which Aruns selected
for the purpose was the same as that which is produced to this day
at Montepulciano. For nowhere else in the Etruscan district can
wines of equally generous quality and fiery spirit be found, so
adapted for export and capable of such long preservation.'</p>

<p>We may smile at the historian's <i>na&iuml;vet&eacute;</i>. Yet
the fact remains that good wine of Montepulciano can still allure
barbarians of this epoch to the spot where it is grown. Of all
Italian vintages, with the exception of some rare qualities of
Sicily and the Valtellina, it is, in my humble opinion, the best.
And when the time comes for Italy to develop the resources of her
vineyards upon scientific principles, Montepulciano will drive
Brolio from the field and take the same place by the side of
Chianti which Volnay occupies by common Macon. It will then be
quoted upon wine-lists throughout Europe, and find its place upon
the tables of rich epicures in Hyperborean regions, and add its
generous warmth to Trans-atlantic banquets. Even as it is now made,
with very little care bestowed on cultivation and none to speak of
on selection of the grape, the wine is rich and noble, slightly
rough to a <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg095" id=
"pg095">95</a></span> sophisticated palate, but clean in quality
and powerful and racy. It deserves the enthusiasm attributed by
Redi to Bacchus:<a name="FNanchor_1_10" id="FNanchor_1_10" /><a
href="#Footnote_1_10" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i1">Fill, fill, let us all have our will!</div>

<div class="i1">But with <i>what</i>, with <i>what</i>, boys, shall
we fill.</div>

<div class="i1">Sweet Ariadne&mdash;no, not <i>that</i>
one&mdash;<i>ah</i> no;</div>

<div class="i1">Fill me the manna of Montepulciano:</div>

<div class="i1">Fill me a magnum and reach it me.&mdash;Gods!</div>

<div class="i1">How it glides to my heart by the sweetest of
roads!</div>

<div class="i1">Oh, how it kisses me, tickles me, bites me!</div>

<div class="i1">Oh, how my eyes loosen sweetly in tears!</div>

<div class="i1">I'm ravished! I'm rapt! Heaven finds me
admissible!</div>

<div class="i1">Lost in an ecstasy! blinded!
invisible!&mdash;</div>

<div class="i1">Hearken all earth!</div>

<div class="i1">We, Bacchus, in the might of our great mirth,</div>

<div class="i1">To all who reverence us, are right thinkers;</div>

<div class="i1">Hear, all ye drinkers!</div>

<div class="i1">Give ear and give faith to the edict divine;</div>

<div class="i1">Montepulciano's the King of all wine.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>It is necessary, however, that our modern barbarian should
travel to Montepulciano itself, and there obtain a flask of
<i>manna</i> or <i>vino nobile</i> from some trusty cellar-master.
He will not find it bottled in the inns or restaurants upon his
road.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_10" id="Footnote_1_10" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_10"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> From
Leigh Hunt's Translation.</p>
</div>

<h3>IV</h3>

<p>The landscape and the wine of Montepulciano are both well worth
the trouble of a visit to this somewhat inaccessible city. Yet more
remains to be said about the attractions of the town itself. In the
Duomo, which was spoiled by unintelligent rebuilding at a dismal
epoch of barren art, are fragments of one of the rarest monuments
of Tuscan sculpture. This is the tomb of Bartolommeo Aragazzi. He
was a native of Montepulciano, and secretary to Pope Martin V.,
that <i>Papa</i> <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg096" id=
"pg096">96</a></span> <i>Martino non vale un quattrino</i>, on
whom, during his long residence in Florence, the street-boys made
their rhymes. Twelve years before his death he commissioned
Donatello and Michelozzo Michelozzi, who about that period were
working together upon the monuments of Pope John XXIII. and
Cardinal Brancacci, to erect his own tomb at the enormous cost of
twenty-four thousand scudi. That thirst for immortality of fame,
which inspired the humanists of the Renaissance, prompted Aragazzi
to this princely expenditure. Yet, having somehow won the hatred of
his fellow-students, he was immediately censured for excessive
vanity. Lionardo Bruni makes his monument the theme of a ferocious
onslaught. Writing to Poggio Bracciolini, Bruni tells a story how,
while travelling through the country of Arezzo, he met a train of
oxen dragging heavy waggons piled with marble columns, statues, and
all the necessary details of a sumptuous sepulchre. He stopped, and
asked what it all meant. Then one of the contractors for this
transport, wiping the sweat from his forehead, in utter weariness
of the vexatious labour, at the last end of his temper, answered:
'May the gods destroy all poets, past, present, and future.' I
inquired what he had to do with poets, and how they had annoyed
him. 'Just this,' he replied, 'that this poet, lately deceased, a
fool and windy-pated fellow, has ordered a monument for himself;
and with a view to erecting it, these marbles are being dragged to
Montepulciano; but I doubt whether we shall contrive to get them up
there. The roads are too bad.' 'But,' cried I, 'do you believe
<i>that</i> man was a poet&mdash;that dunce who had no science,
nay, nor knowledge either? who only rose above the heads of men by
vanity and doltishness?' 'I don't know,' he answered, 'nor did I
ever hear tell, while he was alive, about his being called a poet;
but his fellow-townsmen now decide he was one; nay, if he had but
left a few more money-bags, <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg097"
id="pg097">97</a></span> they'd swear he was a god. Anyhow, but for
his having been a poet, I would not have cursed poets in general.'
Whereupon, the malevolent Bruni withdrew, and composed a
scorpion-tailed oration, addressed to his friend Poggio, on the
suggested theme of 'diuturnity in monuments,' and false ambition.
Our old friends of humanistic learning&mdash;Cyrus, Alexander,
C&aelig;sar&mdash;meet us in these frothy paragraphs. Cambyses,
Xerxes, Artaxerxes, Darius, are thrown in to make the gruel of
rhetoric 'thick and slab.' The whole epistle ends in a long-drawn
peroration of invective against 'that excrement in human shape,'
who had had the ill-luck, by pretence to scholarship, by big gains
from the Papal treasury, by something in his manners alien from the
easy-going customs of the Roman Court, to rouse the rancour of his
fellow-humanists.</p>

<p>I have dwelt upon this episode, partly because it illustrates
the peculiar thirst for glory in the students of that time, but
more especially because it casts a thin clear thread of actual
light upon the masterpiece which, having been transported with this
difficulty from Donatello's workshop, is now to be seen by all
lovers of fine art, in part at least, at Montepulciano. In part at
least: the phrase is pathetic. Poor Aragazzi, who thirsted so for
'diuturnity in monuments,' who had been so cruelly assaulted in the
grave by humanistic jealousy, expressing its malevolence with
humanistic crudity of satire, was destined after all to be
defrauded of his well-paid tomb. The monument, a master work of
Donatello and his collaborator, was duly erected. The oxen and the
contractors, it appears, had floundered through the mud of
Valdichiana, and struggled up the mountain-slopes of Montepulciano.
But when the church, which this triumph of art adorned, came to be
repaired, the miracle of beauty was dismembered. The sculpture for
which Aragazzi spent his thousands of crowns, which Donatello
touched with his immortalising chisel, over <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg098" id="pg098">98</a></span> which the
contractors vented their curses and Bruni eased his bile; these
marbles are now visible as mere <i>disjecta membra</i> in a church
which, lacking them, has little to detain a traveller's haste.</p>

<p>On the left hand of the central door, as you enter, Aragazzi
lies, in senatorial robes, asleep; his head turned slightly to the
right upon the pillow, his hands folded over his breast. Very noble
are the draperies, and dignified the deep tranquillity of slumber.
Here, we say, is a good man fallen upon sleep, awaiting
resurrection. The one commanding theme of Christian sculpture, in
an age of Pagan feeling, has been adequately rendered. Bartolommeo
Aragazzi, like Ilaria led Carretto at Lucca, like the canopied
doges in S. Zanipolo at Venice, like the Acciauoli in the
Florentine Certosa, like the Cardinal di Portogallo in Samminiato,
is carved for us as he had been in life, but with that life
suspended, its fever all smoothed out, its agitations over, its
pettinesses dignified by death. This marmoreal repose of the once
active man symbolises for our imagination the state into which he
passed four centuries ago, but in which, according to the creed, he
still abides, reserved for judgment and re-incarnation. The flesh,
clad with which he walked our earth, may moulder in the vaults
beneath. But it will one day rise again; and art has here presented
it imperishable to our gaze. This is how the Christian sculptors,
inspired by the majestic calm of classic art, dedicated a Christian
to the genius of repose. Among the nations of antiquity this repose
of death was eternal; and being unable to conceive of a man's body
otherwise than for ever obliterated by the flames of funeral, they
were perforce led back to actual life when they would carve his
portrait on a tomb. But for Christianity the rest of the grave has
ceased to be eternal. Centuries may pass, but in the end it must be
broken. Therefore art is justified in <span class="pagenum"><a
name="pg099" id="pg099">99</a></span> showing us the man himself in
an imagined state of sleep. Yet this imagined state of sleep is so
incalculably long, and by the will of God withdrawn from human
prophecy, that the ages sweeping over the dead man before the
trumpets of archangels wake him, shall sooner wear away memorial
stone than stir his slumber. It is a slumber, too, unterrified,
unentertained by dreams. Suspended animation finds no fuller
symbolism than the sculptor here presents to us in abstract
form.</p>

<p>The boys of Montepulciano have scratched Messer Aragazzi's
sleeping figure with <i>graffiti</i> at their own free will. Yet
they have had no power to erase the poetry of Donatello's mighty
style. That, in spite of Bruni's envy, in spite of injurious time,
in spite of the still worse insult of the modernised cathedral and
the desecrated monument, embalms him in our memory and secures for
him the diuturnity for which he paid his twenty thousand crowns.
Money, methinks, beholding him, was rarely better expended on a
similar ambition. And ambition of this sort, relying on the genius
of such a master to give it wings for perpetuity of time, is,
<i>pace</i> Lionardo Bruni, not ignoble.</p>

<p>cpposite the figure of Messer Aragazzi are two square basreliefs
from the same monument, fixed against piers of the nave. One
represents Madonna enthroned among worshippers; members, it may be
supposed, of Aragazzi's household. Three angelic children,
supporting the child Christ upon her lap, complete that pyramidal
form of composition which Fra Bartolommeo was afterwards to use
with such effect in painting. The other basrelief shows a group of
grave men and youths, clasping hands with loveliest interlacement;
the placid sentiment of human fellowship translated into harmonies
of sculptured form. Children below run up to touch their knees, and
reach out boyish <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg100" id=
"pg100">100</a></span> arms to welcome them. Two young men, with
half-draped busts and waving hair blown off their foreheads,
anticipate the type of adolescence which Andrea del Sarto perfected
in his S. John. We might imagine that this masterly panel was
intended to represent the arrival of Messer Aragazzi in his home.
It is a scene from the domestic life of the dead man, duly
subordinated to the recumbent figure, which, when the monument was
perfect, would have dominated the whole composition.</p>

<p>Nothing in the range of Donatello's work surpasses these two
basreliefs for harmonies of line and grouping, for choice of form,
for beauty of expression, and for smoothness of surface-working.
The marble is of great delicacy, and is wrought to a wax-like
surface. At the high altar are three more fragments from the
mutilated tomb. One is a long low frieze of children bearing
garlands, which probably formed the base of Aragazzi's monument,
and now serves for a predella. The remaining pieces are detached
statues of Fortitude and Faith. The former reminds us of
Donatello's S. George; the latter is twisted into a strained
attitude, full of character, but lacking grace. What the effect of
these emblematic figures would have been when harmonised by the
architectural proportions of the sepulchre, the repose of Aragazzi
on his sarcophagus, the suavity of the two square panels and the
rhythmic beauty of the frieze, it is not easy to conjecture. But
rudely severed from their surroundings, and exposed in isolation,
one at each side of the altar, they leave an impression of awkward
discomfort on the memory. A certain hardness, peculiar to the
Florentine manner, is felt in them. But this quality may have been
intended by the sculptors for the sake of contrast with what is
eminently graceful, peaceful, and melodious in the other fragments
of the ruined masterpiece.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg101" id=
"pg101">101</a></span></p>

<h3>V</h3>

<p>At a certain point in the main street, rather more than halfway
from the Albergo del Marzocco to the piazza, a tablet has been let
into the wall upon the left-hand side. This records the fact that
here in 1454 was born Angelo Ambrogini, the special glory of
Montepulciano, the greatest classical scholar and the greatest
Italian poet of the fifteenth century. He is better known in the
history of literature as Poliziano, or Politianus, a name he took
from his native city, when he came, a marvellous boy, at the age of
ten, to Florence, and joined the household of Lorenzo de' Medici.
He had already claims upon Lorenzo's hospitality. For his father,
Benedetto, by adopting the cause of Piero de' Medici in
Montepulciano, had exposed himself to bitter feuds and hatred of
his fellow-citizens. To this animosity of party warfare he fell a
victim a few years previously. We only know that he was murdered,
and that he left a helpless widow with five children, of whom
Angelo was the eldest. The Ambrogini or Cini were a family of some
importance in Montepulciano; and their dwelling-house is a palace
of considerable size. From its eastern windows the eye can sweep
that vast expanse of country, embracing the lakes of Thrasymene and
Chiusi, which has been already described. What would have happened,
we wonder, if Messer Benedetto, the learned jurist, had not
espoused the Medicean cause and embroiled himself with murderous
antagonists? Would the little Angelo have grown up in this quiet
town, and practised law, and lived and died a citizen of
Montepulciano? In that case the lecture-rooms of Florence would
never have echoed to the sonorous hexameters of the 'Rusticus' and
'Ambra.' Italian literature would have lacked the 'Stanze' and
'Orfeo.' European scholarship would have been defrauded <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg102" id="pg102">102</a></span> of the
impulse given to it by the 'Miscellanea.' The study of Roman law
would have missed those labours on the Pandects, with which the
name of Politian is honourably associated. From the Florentine
society of the fifteenth century would have disappeared the
commanding central figure of humanism, which now contrasts
dramatically with the stern monastic Prior of S. Mark. Benedetto's
tragic death gave Poliziano to Italy and to posterity.</p>

<h3>VI</h3>

<p>Those who have a day to spare at Montepulciano can scarcely
spend it better than in an excursion to Pienza and San Quirico.
Leaving the city by the road which takes a westerly direction, the
first object of interest is the Church of San Biagio, placed on a
fertile plateau immediately beneath the ancient acropolis. It was
erected by Antonio di San Gallo in 1518, and is one of the most
perfect specimens existing of the sober classical style. The Church
consists of a Greek square, continued at the east end into a
semicircular tribune, surmounted by a central cupola, and flanked
by a detached bell-tower, ending in a pyramidal spire. The whole is
built of solid yellow travertine, a material which, by its warmth
of colour, is pleasing to the eye, and mitigates the mathematical
severity of the design. Upon entering, we feel at once what Alberti
called the music of this style; its large and simple harmonies,
depending for effect upon sincerity of plan and justice of balance.
The square masses of the main building, the projecting cornices and
rounded tribune, meet together and soar up into the cupola; while
the grand but austere proportions of the arches and the piers
compose a symphony of perfectly concordant lines. The music is
grave and solemn, architecturally expressed in terms of measured
<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg103" id="pg103">103</a></span>
space and outlined symmetry. The whole effect is that of one thing
pleasant to look upon, agreeably appealing to our sense of unity,
charming us by grace and repose; not stimulative nor suggestive,
not multiform nor mysterious. We are reminded of the temples
imagined by Francesco Colonna, and figured in his
<i>Hypnerotomachia Poliphili</i>. One of these shrines has, we
feel, come into actual existence here; and the religious ceremonies
for which it is adapted are not those of the Christian worship.
Some more primitive, less spiritual rites, involving less of tragic
awe and deep-wrought symbolism, should be here performed. It is
better suited for Polifilo's lustration by Venus Physizoe than for
the mass on Easter morning. And in this respect, the sentiment of
the architecture is exactly faithful to that mood of religious
feeling which appeared in Italy under the influences of the
classical revival&mdash;when the essential doctrines of
Christianity were blurred with Pantheism; when Jehovah became
<i>Jupiter Optimus Maximus</i>; and Jesus was the <i>Heros</i> of
Calvary, and nuns were <i>Virgines Vestales</i>. In literature this
mood often strikes us as insincere and artificial. But it admitted
of realisation and showed itself to be profoundly felt in
architecture.</p>

<p>After leaving Madonna di San Biagio, the road strikes at once
into an open country, expanding on the right towards the woody
ridge of Monte Fallonica, on the left toward Cetona and Radicofani,
with Monte Amiata full in front&mdash;its double crest and long
volcanic slope recalling Etna; the belt of embrowned forest on its
flank, made luminous by sunlight. Far away stretches the Sienese
Maremma; Siena dimly visible upon her gentle hill; and still
beyond, the pyramid of Volterra, huge and cloud-like, piled against
the sky. The road, as is almost invariable in this district, keeps
to the highest line of ridges, winding much, and following <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg104" id="pg104">104</a></span> the
dimplings of the earthy hills. Here and there a solitary castello,
rusty with old age, and turned into a farm, juts into
picturesqueness from some point of vantage on a mound surrounded
with green tillage. But soon the dull and intolerable <i>creta</i>,
ash-grey earth, without a vestige of vegetation, furrowed by rain,
and desolately breaking into gullies, swallows up variety and
charm. It is difficult to believe that this <i>creta</i> of
Southern Tuscany, which has all the appearance of barrenness, and
is a positive deformity in the landscape, can be really fruitful.
Yet we are frequently being told that it only needs assiduous
labour to render it enormously productive.</p>

<p>When we reached Pienza we were already in the middle of a
country without cultivation, abandoned to the marl. It is a little
place, perched upon the ledge of a long sliding hill, which
commands the vale of Orcia; Monte Amiata soaring in a&euml;rial
majesty beyond. Its old name was Cosignano. But it had the honour
of giving birth to &AElig;neas Sylvius Piccolomini, who, when he
was elected to the Papacy and had assumed the title of Pius II.,
determined to transform and dignify his native village, and to call
it after his own name. From that time forward Cosignano has been
known as Pienza.</p>

<p>Pius II. succeeded effectually in leaving his mark upon the
town. And this forms its main interest at the present time. We see
in Pienza how the most active-minded and intelligent man of his
epoch, the representative genius of Italy in the middle of the
fifteenth century, commanding vast wealth and the Pontifical
prestige, worked out his whim of city-building. The experiment had
to be made upon a small scale; for Pienza was then and was destined
to remain a village. Yet here, upon this miniature piazza&mdash;in
modern as in ancient Italy the meeting-point of civic life, the
forum&mdash; <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg105" id=
"pg105">105</a></span> we find a cathedral, a palace of the bishop,
a palace of the feudal lord, and a palace of the commune, arranged
upon a well-considered plan, and executed after one design in a
consistent style. The religious, municipal, signorial, and
ecclesiastical functions of the little town are centralised around
the open market-place, on which the common people transacted
business and discussed affairs. Pius entrusted the realisation of
his scheme to a Florentine architect; whether Bernardo Rossellino,
or a certain Bernardo di Lorenzo, is still uncertain. The same
artist, working in the flat manner of Florentine domestic
architecture, with rusticated basements, rounded windows and bold
projecting cornices&mdash;the manner which is so nobly illustrated
by the Rucellai and Strozzi palaces at Florence&mdash;executed also
for Pius the monumental Palazzo Piccolomini at Siena. It is a great
misfortune for the group of buildings he designed at Pienza, that
they are huddled together in close quarters on a square too small
for their effect. A want of space is peculiarly injurious to the
architecture of this date, 1462, which, itself geometrical and
spatial, demands a certain harmony and liberty in its surroundings,
a proportion between the room occupied by each building and the
masses of the edifice. The style is severe and prosaic. Those
charming episodes and accidents of fancy, in which the Gothic style
and the style of the earlier Lombard Renaissance abounded, are
wholly wanting to the rigid, mathematical, hard-headed genius of
the Florentine quattrocento. Pienza, therefore, disappoints us. Its
heavy palace frontispieces shut the spirit up in a tight box. We
seem unable to breathe, and lack that element of life and
picturesqueness which the splendid retinues of nobles in the age of
Pinturicchio might have added to the now forlorn Piazza.</p>

<p>Yet the material is a fine warm travertine, mellowing to <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg106" id="pg106">106</a></span> dark red,
brightening to golden, with some details, especially the tower of
the Palazzo Comunale, in red brick. This building, by the way, is
imitated in miniature from that of Florence. The cathedral is a
small church of three aisles, equally high, ending in what the
French would call a <i>chevet</i>. Pius had observed this plan of
construction somewhere in Austria, and commanded his architect,
Bernardo, to observe it in his plan. He was attracted by the
facilities for window-lighting which it offered; and what is very
singular, he provided by the Bull of his foundation for keeping the
walls of the interior free from frescoes and other coloured
decorations. The result is that, though the interior effect is
pleasing, the church presents a frigid aspect to eyes familiarised
with warmth of tone in other buildings of that period. The details
of the columns and friezes are classical; and the fa&ccedil;ade,
strictly corresponding to the structure, and very honest in its
decorative elements, is also of the earlier Renaissance style. But
the vaulting and some of the windows are pointed.</p>

<p>The Palazzo Piccolomini, standing at the right hand of the
Duomo, is a vast square edifice. The walls are flat and even,
pierced at regular intervals with windows, except upon the
south-west side, where the rectangular design is broken by a noble
double Loggiata, gallery rising above gallery&mdash;serene curves
of arches, grandly proportioned columns, massive balustrades, a
spacious corridor, a roomy vaulting&mdash;opening out upon the
palace garden, and offering fair prospect over the wooded heights
of Castiglione and Rocca d' Orcia, up to Radicofani and shadowy
Amiata. It was in these double tiers of galleries, in the garden
beneath and in the open inner square of the palazzo, that the great
life of Italian aristocracy displayed itself. Four centuries ago
these spaces, now so desolate in their immensity, echoed to the
tread of serving-men, the songs of pages; horse-hooves struck upon
the pavement <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg107" id=
"pg107">107</a></span> of the court; spurs jingled on the
staircases; the brocaded trains of ladies sweeping from their
chambers rustled on the marbles of the loggia; knights let their
hawks fly from the garden parapets; cardinals and abbreviators
gathered round the doors from which the Pope would issue, when he
rose from his siesta to take the cool of evening in those airy
colonnades. How impossible it is to realise that scene amid this
solitude! The palazzo still belongs to the Piccolomini family. But
it has fallen into something worse than ruin&mdash;the squalor of
half-starved existence, shorn of all that justified its grand
proportions. Partition-walls have been run up across its halls to
meet the requirements of our contracted modern customs. Nothing
remains of the original decorations except one carved
chimney-piece, an emblazoned shield, and a frescoed portrait of the
founder. All movable treasures have been made away with. And yet
the carved heraldics of the exterior, the coat of Piccolomini,
'argent, on a cross azure five crescents or,' the Papal ensigns,
keys, and tiara, and the monogram of Pius, prove that this country
dwelling of a Pope must once have been rich in details befitting
its magnificence. With the exception of the very small portion
reserved for the Signori, when they visit Pienza, the palace has
become a granary for country produce in a starveling land. There
was one redeeming point about it to my mind. That was the handsome
young man, with earnest Tuscan eyes and a wonderfully sweet voice,
the servant of the Piccolomini family, who lives here with his
crippled father, and who showed us over the apartments.</p>

<p>We left Pienza and drove on to S. Quirico, through the same
wrinkled wilderness of marl; wasteful, uncultivated, bare to every
wind that blows. A cruel blast was sweeping from the sea, and Monte
Amiata darkened with rain-clouds. Still the pictures, which formed
themselves at intervals, as we <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg108" id="pg108">108</a></span> wound along these barren ridges,
were very fair to look upon, especially one not far from S.
Quirico. It had for fore-ground a stretch of
tilth&mdash;olive-trees, honeysuckle hedges, and cypresses. Beyond
soared Amiata in all its breadth and blue air-blackness, bearing on
its mighty flanks the broken cliffs and tufted woods of Castiglione
and the Rocca d'Orcia; eagles' nests emerging from a fertile
valley-champaign, into which the eye was led for rest. It so
chanced that a band of sunlight, escaping from filmy clouds,
touched this picture with silvery greys and soft greens&mdash;a
suffusion of vaporous radiance, which made it for one moment a
Claude landscape.</p>

<p>S. Quirico was keeping <i>festa</i>. The streets were crowded
with healthy, handsome men and women from the contado. This village
lies on the edge of a great oasis in the Sienese desert&mdash;an
oasis formed by the waters of the Orcia and Asso sweeping down to
join Ombrone, and stretching on to Montalcino. We put up at the
sign of the 'Two Hares,' where a notable housewife gave us a dinner
of all we could desire; <i>frittata di cervello</i>, good fish,
roast lamb stuffed with rosemary, salad and cheese, with excellent
wine and black coffee, at the rate of three <i>lire</i> a head.</p>

<p>The attraction of S. Quirico is its gem-like little collegiata,
a Lombard church of the ninth century, with carved portals of the
thirteenth. It is built of golden travertine; some details in brown
sandstone. The western and southern portals have pillars resting on
the backs of lions. On the western side these pillars are four
slender columns, linked by snake-like ligatures. On the southern
side they consist of two carved figures&mdash;possibly S. John and
the Archangel Michael. There is great freedom and beauty in these
statues, as also in the lions which support them, recalling the
early French and German manner. In addition, one finds the <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg109" id="pg109">109</a></span> usual
Lombard grotesques&mdash;two sea-monsters, biting each other;
harpy-birds; a dragon with a twisted tail; little men grinning and
squatting in adaptation to coigns and angles of the windows. The
toothed and chevron patterns of the north are quaintly blent with
rude acanthus scrolls and classical egg-mouldings. Over the western
porch is a Gothic rose window. Altogether this church must be
reckoned one of the most curious specimens of that hybrid
architecture, fusing and appropriating different manners, which
perplexes the student in Central Italy. It seems strangely out of
place in Tuscany. Yet, if what one reads of Toscanella, a village
between Viterbo and Orbetello, be true, there exist examples of a
similar fantastic Lombard style even lower down.</p>

<p>The interior was most disastrously gutted and 'restored' in
1731: its open wooden roof masked by a false stucco vaulting. A few
relics, spared by the eighteenth-century Vandals, show that the
church was once rich in antique curiosities. A marble knight in
armour lies on his back, half hidden by the pulpit stairs. And in
the choir are half a dozen rarely beautiful panels of tarsia,
executed in a bold style and on a large scale. One design&mdash;a
man throwing his face back, and singing, while he plays a
mandoline; with long thick hair and fanciful beretta; behind him a
fine line of cypress and other trees&mdash;struck me as singularly
lovely. In another I noticed a branch of peach, broad leaves and
ripe fruit, not only drawn with remarkable grace and power, but so
modelled as to stand out with the roundness of reality.</p>

<p>The whole drive of three hours back to Montepulciano was one
long banquet of inimitable distant views. Next morning, having to
take farewell of the place, we climbed to the Castello, or
<i>arx</i> of the old city! It is a ruined spot, outside the
present walls, upon the southern slope, where there is now a farm,
and a fair space of short sheep-cropped turf, very green and <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg110" id="pg110">110</a></span> grassy,
and gemmed with little pink geraniums as in England in such places.
The walls of the old castle, overgrown with ivy, are broken down to
their foundations. This may possibly have been done when
Montepulciano was dismantled by the Sienese in 1232. At that date
the Commune succumbed to its more powerful neighbours. The half of
its inhabitants were murdered, and its fortifications were
destroyed. Such episodes are common enough in the history of that
internecine struggle for existence between the Italian
municipalities, which preceded the more famous strife of Guelfs and
Ghibellines. Stretched upon the smooth turf of the Castello, we
bade adieu to the divine landscape bathed in light and mountain
air&mdash;to Thrasymene and Chiusi and Cetona; to Amiata, Pienza,
and S. Quirico; to Montalcino and the mountains of Volterra; to
Siena and Cortona; and, closer, to Monte Fallonica, Madonna di
Biagio, the house-roofs and the Palazzo tower of Montepulciano.</p>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg111" id=
"pg111">111</a></span></p>

<h3><a name="PERUGIA" id="PERUGIA" /><i>PERUGIA</i></h3>

<p>Perugia is the empress of hill-set Italian cities. Southward
from her high-built battlements and church towers the eye can sweep
a circuit of the Apennines unrivalled in its width. From cloudlike
Radicofani, above Siena in the west, to snow-capped Monte Catria,
beneath whose summit Dante spent those saddest months of solitude
in 1313, the mountains curve continuously in lines of austere
dignity and tempered sweetness. Assisi, Spoleto, Todi, Trevi, crown
lesser heights within the range of vision. Here and there the
glimpse of distant rivers lights a silver spark upon the plain.
Those hills conceal Lake Thrasymene; and there lies Orvieto, and
Ancona there: while at our feet the Umbrian champaign, breaking
away into the valley of the Tiber, spreads in all the largeness of
majestically converging mountain-slopes. This is a landscape which
can never lose its charm. Whether it be purple golden summer, or
winter with sad tints of russet woods and faintly rosy snows, or
spring attired in tenderest green of new-fledged trees and budding
flowers, the air is always pure and light and finely tempered here.
City gates, sombre as their own antiquity, frame vistas of the
laughing fields. Terraces, flanked on either side by jutting
masonry, cut clear vignettes of olive-hoary slopes, with
cypress-shadowed farms in hollows of the hills. Each coign or point
of vantage carries a bastion or tower of Etruscan, Roman,
medi&aelig;val architecture, tracing the limits of the town upon
its mountain plateau. Everywhere <a name="pg112" id=
"pg112"></a><span class="pagenum">112</span> art and nature lie
side by side in amity beneath a sky so pure and delicate, that from
its limpid depth the spirit seems to drink new life. What air-tints
of lilac, orange, and pale amethyst are shed upon those vast
ethereal hills and undulating plains! What wandering cloud-shadows
sail across this sea of olives and of vines, with here and there a
fleece of vapour or a column of blue smoke from charcoal burners on
the mountain flank! To southward, far away beyond those hills, is
felt the presence of eternal Rome, not seen, but clearly indicated
by the hurrying of a hundred streams that swell the Tiber.</p>

<p>In the neighbourhood of the town itself there is plenty to
attract the student of antiquities, or art, or history. He may
trace the walls of the Etruscan city, and explore the vaults where
the dust of the Volumnii lies coffered in sarcophagi and urns. Mild
faces of grave deities lean from the living tufa above those narrow
alcoves, where the chisel-marks are still fresh, and where the
vigilant lamps still hang suspended from the roof by leaden chains.
Or, in the Museum, he may read on basreliefs and vases how gloomy
and morose were the superstitions of those obscure forerunners of
majestic Rome. The piazza offers one of the most perfect Gothic
fa&ccedil;ades, in its Palazzo Pubblico, to be found in Italy. The
flight of marble steps is guarded from above by the bronze griffin
of Perugia and the Baglioni, with the bronze lion of the Guelf
faction, to which the town was ever faithful. Upon their marble
brackets they ramp in all the lean ferocity of feudal heraldry, and
from their claws hang down the chains wrested in old warfare from
some barricaded gateway of Siena. Below is the fountain, on the
many-sided curves of which Giovanni Pisano sculptured, in quaint
statuettes and basreliefs, all the learning of the middle ages,
from the Bible history down to fables of &AElig;sop and allegories
of the several months. Facing the same piazza <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg113" id="pg113">113</a></span> is the Sala del
Cambio, a medi&aelig;val Bourse, with its tribunal for the
settlement of mercantile disputes, and its exquisite carved
woodwork and frescoes, the masterpiece of Perugino's school. Hard
by is the University, once crowded with native and foreign
students, where the eloquence of Greek Demetrius in the first dawn
of the Renaissance withdrew the gallants of Perugia&mdash;those
slim youths with shocks of nut-brown hair beneath their tiny red
caps, whose comely legs, encased in tight-fitting hose of two
different colours, looked so strange to modern eyes upon the canvas
of Signorelli&mdash;from their dice and wine-cups, and amours and
daggers, to grave studies in the lore of Greece and Rome.</p>

<p>This piazza, the scene of all the bloodiest tragedies in
Perugian annals, is closed at the north end by the Cathedral, with
the open pulpit in its wall from which S. Bernardino of Siena
preached peace in vain. The citizens wept to hear his words: a
bonfire of vanities was lighted on the flags beside Pisano's
fountain: foe kissed foe: and the same cowl of S. Francis was set
in token of repentance on heads that long had schemed destruction,
each for each. But a few days passed, and the penitents returned to
cut each other's throat. Often and often have those steps of the
Duomo run with blood of Baglioni, Oddi, Arcipreti, and La Staffa.
Once the whole church had to be washed with wine and blessed anew
before the rites of Christianity could be resumed in its desecrated
aisles. It was here that within the space of two days, in 1500, the
catafalque was raised for the murdered Astorre, and for his
traitorous cousin Grifonetto Baglioni. Here, too, if more ancient
tradition does not err, were stretched the corpses of twenty-seven
members of the same great house at the end of one of their grim
combats.</p>

<p>No Italian city illustrates more forcibly than Perugia the
violent contrasts of the earlier Renaissance. This is perhaps <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg114" id="pg114">114</a></span> its most
essential characteristic&mdash;that which constitutes its chief
&aelig;sthetic interest. To many travellers the name of Perugia
suggests at once the painter who, more than any other, gave
expression to devout emotions in consummate works of pietistic art.
They remember how Raphael, when a boy, with Pinturicchio, Lo
Spagna, and Adone Doni, in the workshop of Pietro Perugino, learned
the secret of that style to which he gave sublimity and freedom in
his Madonnas di San Sisto, di Foligno, and del Cardellino. But the
students of medi&aelig;val history in detail know Perugia far
better as the lion's lair of one of the most ferocious broods of
heroic ruffians Italy can boast. To them the name of Perugia
suggests at once the great house of the Baglioni, who drenched
Umbria with blood, and gave the broad fields of Assisi to the wolf,
and who through six successive generations bred captains for the
armies of Venice, Florence, Naples, and the Church.<a name=
"FNanchor_1_11" id="FNanchor_1_11" /><a href=
"#Footnote_1_11" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> That the trade of
Perugino in religious pictures should have been carried on in the
city which shared the factions of the Baglioni&mdash;that Raphael
should have been painting Pietas while Astorre and Simonetto were
being murdered by the beautiful young Grifonetto&mdash;is a paradox
of the purest water in the history of civilisation.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_11" id="Footnote_1_11" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_11"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Most of
the references in this essay are made to the Perugian chronicles of
Graziani, Matarazzo, Bontempi, and Frolliere, in the <i>Archivio
Storico Italiano</i>, vol. xvi. parts 1 and 2. Ariodante Fabretti's
<i>Biografie dei Capitani Venturieri dell' Umbria</i> supply some
details.</p>
</div>

<p>The art of Perugino implied a large number of devout and wealthy
patrons, a public not only capable of comprehending him, but also
eager to restrict his great powers within the limits of purely
devotional delineation. The feuds and passions of the Baglioni, on
the other hand, implied a society in which egregious crimes only
needed success to be accounted glorious, where force, cruelty, and
cynical craft reigned <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg115" id=
"pg115">115</a></span> supreme, and where the animal instincts
attained gigantic proportions in the persons of splendid young
athletic despots. Even the names of these Baglioni, Astorre,
Lavinia, Zenobia, Atalanta, Troilo, Ercole, Annibale, Ascanio,
Penelope, Orazio, and so forth, clash with the sweet mild forms of
Perugino, whose very executioners are candidates for Paradise, and
kill their martyrs with compunction.</p>

<p>In Italy of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries such
contradictions subsisted in the same place and under the conditions
of a common culture, because there was no limit to the development
of personality. Character was far more absolute then than now. The
force of the modern world, working in the men of those times like
powerful wine, as yet displayed itself only as a spirit of freedom
and expansion and revolt. The strait laces of medi&aelig;val
Christianity were loosened. The coercive action of public opinion
had not yet made itself dominant. That was an age of adolescence,
in which men were and dared to be <i>themselves</i> for good or
evil. Hypocrisy, except for some solid, well-defined, selfish
purpose, was unknown: the deference to established canons of
decorum which constitutes more than half of our so-called morality,
would have been scarcely intelligible to an Italian. The outlines
of individuality were therefore strongly accentuated. Life itself
was dramatic in its incidents and motives, its catastrophes and
contrasts. These conditions, eminently favourable to the growth of
arts and the pursuit of science, were no less conducive to the
hypertrophy of passions, and to the full development of ferocious
and inhuman personalities. Every man did what seemed good in his
own eyes. Far less restrained than we are by the verdict of his
neighbours, but bound by faith more blind and fiercer
superstitions, he displayed the contradictions of his character in
picturesque chiaroscuro. What he could was the limit set on what
<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg116" id="pg116">116</a></span> he
would. Therefore, considering the infinite varieties of human
temperaments, it was not merely possible, but natural, for Pietro
Perugino and Gianpaolo Baglioni to be inhabitants at the same time
of the selfsame city, and for the pious Atalanta to mourn the
bloodshed and the treason of her Achillean son, the young and
terrible Grifone. Here, in a word, in Perugia, beneath the fierce
blaze of the Renaissance, were brought into splendid contrast both
the martial violence and the religious sentiment of
medi&aelig;valism, raised for a moment to the elevation of fine
art.</p>

<p>Some of Perugino's qualities can be studied better in Perugia
than elsewhere. Of his purely religious pictures&mdash;altar-pieces
of Madonna and Saints, martyrdoms of S. Sebastian, Crucifixions,
Ascensions, Annunciations, and Depositions from the
Cross,&mdash;fine specimens are exhibited in nearly all the
galleries of Europe. A large number of his works and of those of
his scholars may be seen assembled in the Pinacoteca of Perugia.
Yet the student of his pietistic style finds little here of novelty
to notice. It is in the Sala del Cambio that we gain a really new
conception of his faculty. Upon the decoration of that little hall
he concentrated all his powers of invention. The frescoes of the
Transfiguration and the Nativity, which face the great door, are
the triumphs of his devotional manner. On other panels of the
chamber he has portrayed the philosophers of Greece and Rome, the
kings and generals of antiquity, the prophets and the sibyls who
announced Christ's advent. The roof is covered with arabesques of
delicate design and dainty execution&mdash;labyrinths of fanciful
improvisation, in which flowers and foliage and human forms are
woven into a harmonious framework for the medallions of the seven
planets. The woodwork with which the hall is lined below the
frescoes, shows to what a point of perfection the art of
intarsiatura had <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg117" id=
"pg117">117</a></span> been carried in his school. All these
decorative masterpieces are the product of one ingenuous style.
Uninfluenced by the Roman frescoes imitated by Raphael in his
Loggie of the Vatican, they breathe the spirit of the earlier
Renaissance, which created for itself free forms of grace and
loveliness without a pattern, divining by its innate sense of
beauty what the classic artists had achieved. Take for an example
the medallion of the planet Jupiter. The king of gods and men,
hoary-headed and mild-eyed, is seated in his chariot drawn by
eagles: before him kneels Ganymede, a fair-haired, exquisite, slim
page, with floating mantle and ribbands fluttering round his tight
hose and jerkin. Such were the cup-bearers of Galeazzo Sforza and
Gianpaolo Baglioni. Then compare this fresco with the Jupiter in
mosaic upon the cupola of the Chigi chapel in S. Maria del Popolo
at Rome. A new age of experience had passed over Raphael between
his execution of Perugino's design in the one and his conception of
the other. He had seen the marbles of the Vatican, and had heard of
Plato in the interval: the simple graces of the earlier Renaissance
were no longer enough for him; but he must realise the thought of
classic myths in his new manner. In the same way we may compare
this Transfiguration with Raphael's last picture, these sibyls with
those of S. Maria della Pace, these sages with the School of
Athens, these warriors with the Battle of Maxentius. What is
characteristic of the full-grown Raphael is his universal
comprehension, his royal faculty for representing past and present,
near and distant, things the most diverse, by forms ideal and yet
distinctive. Each phase of the world's history and of human
activity receives from him appropriate and elevated expression.
What is characteristic of the frescoes in the Sala del Cambio, and
indeed of the whole manner of Perugino, is that all subjects,
sacred or secular, allegorical or real, are <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg118" id="pg118">118</a></span> conceived in
the same spirit of restrained and well-bred piety. There is no
attempt at historical propriety or dramatic realism. Grave,
ascetic, melancholy faces of saints are put on bodies of kings,
generals, sages, sibyls, and deities alike. The same ribbands and
studied draperies clothe and connect all. The same conventional
attitudes of meditative gracefulness are repeated in each group.
Yet, the whole effect, if somewhat feeble and insipid, is
harmonious and thoughtful. We see that each part has proceeded from
the same mind, in the same mood, and that the master's mind was no
common one, the mood itself was noble. Good taste is everywhere
apparent: the work throughout is a masterpiece of refined
fancy.</p>

<p>To Perugino the representative imagination was of less
importance than a certain delicate and adequately ideal mode of
feeling and conceiving. The consequent charm of his style is that
everything is thought out and rendered visible in one decorous key.
The worst that can be said of it is that its suavity inclines to
mawkishness, and that its quietism borders upon sleepiness. We find
it difficult not to accuse him of affectation. At the same time we
are forced to allow that what he did, and what he refrained from
doing, was determined by a purpose. A fresco of the Adoration of
the Shepherds, and a picture of S. Sebastian in the Pinacoteca,
where the archer on the right hand is drawn in a natural attitude
with force and truth, show well enough what Perugino could do when
he chose.</p>

<p>The best way of explaining his conventionality, in which the
supreme power of a master is always verging on the facile trick of
a mannerist, is to suppose that the people of Perugia and the
Umbrian highlands imposed on him this narrow mode of treatment. We
may presume that he was always receiving orders for pictures to be
executed in his well-known manner. <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg119" id="pg119">119</a></span> Celestial insipidity in art was
the fashion in that Umbria which the Baglioni and the Popes laid
waste from time to time with fire and sword.<a name="FNanchor_1_12"
id="FNanchor_1_12" /><a href="#Footnote_1_12" class=
"fnanchor">[1]</a></p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_12" id="Footnote_1_12" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_12"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> It will
not be forgotten by students of Italian history that Umbria was the
cradle of the <i>Battuti</i> or Flagellants, who overspread Italy
in the fourteenth century, and to whose devotion were due the
<i>Laude</i>, or popular hymns of the religious confraternities,
which in course of time produced the <i>Sacre Rappresentazioni</i>
of fifteenth-century Florentine literature. Umbria, and especially
Perugia and Assisi, seems to have been inventive in piety between
1200 and 1400.</p>
</div>

<p>Therefore the painter who had made his reputation by placing
devout young faces upon twisted necks, with a back-ground of limpid
twilight and calm landscape, was forced by the fervour of his
patrons, and his own desire for money, to perpetuate pious
prettinesses long after he had ceased to feel them. It is just this
widespread popularity of a master unrivalled in one line of
devotional sentimentalism which makes the contrast between Perugino
and the Baglioni family so striking.</p>

<p>The Baglioni first came into notice during the wars they carried
on with the Oddi of Perugia in the fourteenth and fifteenth
centuries.<a name="FNanchor_1_13" id="FNanchor_1_13" /><a href=
"#Footnote_1_13" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> This was one of
those duels to the death, like that of the Visconti with the
Torrensi of Milan, on which the fate of so many Italian cities in
the middle ages hung. The nobles fought; the townsfolk assisted
like a Greek chorus, sharing the passions of the actors, but
contributing little to the <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg120"
id="pg120">120</a></span> catastrophe. The piazza was the theatre
on which the tragedy was played. In this contest the Baglioni
proved the stronger, and began to sway the state of Perugia after
the irregular fashion of Italian despots. They had no legal right
over the city, no hereditary magistracy, no title of princely
authority.<a name="FNanchor_2_14" id="FNanchor_2_14" /><a href=
"#Footnote_2_14" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> The Church was
reckoned the supreme administrator of the Perugian commonwealth.
But in reality no man could set foot on the Umbrian plain without
permission from the Baglioni. They elected the officers of state.
The lives and goods of the citizens were at their discretion. When
a Papal legate showed his face, they made the town too hot to hold
him. One of Innocent VIII.'s nephews had been murdered by them.<a
name="FNanchor_3_15" id="FNanchor_3_15" /><a href=
"#Footnote_3_15" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> Another cardinal
had shut himself up in a box, and sneaked on mule-back like a bale
of merchandise through the gates to escape their fury. It was in
vain that from time to time the people rose against them,
massacring Pandolfo Baglioni on the public square in 1393, and
joining with Ridolfo and Braccio of the dominant house to
assassinate another Pandolfo with his son Niccolo in 1460. The more
they were cut down, the more they flourished. The wealth they
derived from their lordships in the duchy of Spoleto and the
Umbrian hill-cities, and the treasures they accumulated in the
service of the Italian republics, made them omnipotent in their
native town. There they built tall houses on the site which Paul
III. chose afterwards for his <i>castello</i>, and which is now an
open place above the Porta San Carlo. From the <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg121" id="pg121">121</a></span> balconies and
turrets of these palaces, swarming with their <i>bravi</i>, they
surveyed the splendid land that felt their force&mdash;a land
which, even in midsummer, from sunrise to sunset keeps the light of
day upon its up-turned face. And from this eyrie they issued forth
to prey upon the plain, or to take their lust of love or blood
within the city streets. The Baglioni spent but short time in the
amusements of peace. From father to son they were warriors, and we
have records of few Italian houses, except perhaps the Malatesti of
Rimini, who equalled them in hardihood and fierceness. Especially
were they noted for the remorseless <i>vendette</i> which they
carried on among themselves, cousin tracking cousin to death with
the ferocity and craft of sleuthhounds. Had they restrained these
fratricidal passions, they might, perhaps, by following some common
policy, like that of the Medici in Florence or the Bentivogli in
Bologna, have successfully resisted the Papal authority and secured
dynastic sovereignty.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_13" id="Footnote_1_13" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_13"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> The
Baglioni persecuted their rivals with persistent fury to the very
last. Matarazzo tells how Morgante Baglioni gave a death-wound to
his nephew, the young Carlo de li Oddi, in 1501: 'Dielli una ferita
nella formosa faccia: el quale era in aspetto vago e bello giovane
d' anni 23 o 24, <i>al quale uscivano e bionde tresse sotto la
bella armadura</i>.' The same night his kinsman Pompeo was murdered
in prison with this last lament upon his lips: 'O infelice casa
degli Oddi, quale aveste tanta, fama di conduttieri, capitanie,
cavaliere, speron d' oro, protonotarie, e abbate; et in uno solo
tempo aveste homine quarantadue; e oggie, per me quale son ultimo,
se asconde el nome de la magnifica e famosa casa degli Oddi, che
mai al mondo non ser&agrave; p&iacute;u nominata' (p. 175).</p>
</div>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_2_14" id="Footnote_2_14" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_2_14"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> The
Baglioni were lords of Spello, Bettona, Montalera, and other
Umbrian burghs, but never of Perugia. Perugia had a civic
constitution similar to that of Florence and other Guelf towns
under the protection of the Holy See. The power of the eminent
house was based only on wealth and prestige.</p>
</div>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_3_15" id="Footnote_3_15" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_3_15"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> See
Matarazzo, <a href="#pg038">p. 38</a>. It is here that he
relates the covert threat addressed by Guido Baglioni to Alexander
VI., who was seeking to inveigle him into his clutches.</p>
</div>

<p>It is not until 1495 that the history of the Baglioni becomes
dramatic, possibly because till then they lacked the pen of
Matarazzo.<a name="FNanchor_1_16" id="FNanchor_1_16" /><a href=
"#Footnote_1_16" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> But from this
year forward to their final extinction, every detail of their
doings has a picturesque and awful interest. Domestic furies, like
the revel descried by Cassandra above the palace of Mycen&aelig;,
seem to take possession of the fated house; and the doom which has
fallen on them is worked out with pitiless exactitude to the last
generation. In 1495 the heads of the Casa Baglioni were two
brothers, Guido and Ridolfo, who had a numerous progeny of heroic
sons. From Guido sprang Astorre, Adriano, called for his <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg122" id="pg122">122</a></span> great
strength Morgante,<a name="FNanchor_2_17" id="FNanchor_2_17" /><a
href="#Footnote_2_17" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> Gismondo,
Marcantonio, and Gentile. Ridolfo owned Troilo, Gianpaolo, and
Simonetto. The first glimpse we get of these young athletes in
Matarazzo's chronicle is on the occasion of a sudden assault upon
Perugia, made by the Oddi and the exiles of their faction in
September 1495. The foes of the Baglioni entered the gates, and
began breaking the iron chains, <i>serragli</i>, which barred the
streets against advancing cavalry. None of the noble house were on
the alert except young Simonetto, a lad of eighteen, fierce and
cruel, who had not yet begun to shave his chin.<a name=
"FNanchor_3_18" id="FNanchor_3_18" /><a href=
"#Footnote_3_18" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> In spite of all
dissuasion, he rushed forth alone, bareheaded, in his shirt, with a
sword in his right hand and a buckler on his arm, and fought
against a squadron. There at the barrier of the piazza he kept his
foes at bay, smiting men-at-arms to the ground with the sweep of
his tremendous sword, and receiving on his gentle body twenty-two
cruel wounds. While thus at fearful odds, the noble Astorre mounted
his charger and joined him. Upon his helmet flashed the falcon of
the Baglioni with the dragon's tail that swept behind. Bidding
Simonetto tend his wounds, he in his turn held the square.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_16" id="Footnote_1_16" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_16"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> His
chronicle is a masterpiece of na&iuml;ve, unstudied narrative. Few
documents are so important for the student of the sixteenth century
in Italy. Whether it be really the work of Matarazzo or Maturanzio,
the distinguished humanist, is more than doubtful. The writer seems
to me as yet unspoiled by classic studies and the pedantries of
imitation.</p>
</div>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_2_17" id="Footnote_2_17" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_2_17"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> This
name, it may be incidentally mentioned, proves the wide-spread
popularity of Pulci's poem, the <i>Morgante Maggiore</i>.</p>
</div>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_3_18" id="Footnote_3_18" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_3_18"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> 'Era
costui al presente di anni 18 o 19; ancora non se radeva barba; e
mostrava tanta forza e tanto ardire, e era tanto adatto nel fatto
d' arme, che era gran maraveglia; e iostrava cum tanta gintilezza e
gagliardia, che homo del mondo non l' aria mai creso; et aria dato
con la punta de la lancia in nel fondo d' uno bicchiere da la
mattina a la sera,' &amp;c. (p. 50).</p>
</div>

<p>Listen to Matarazzo's description of the scene; it is as good as
any piece of the 'Mort Arthur:'&mdash;'According to the report of
one who told me what he had seen with his own eyes, never did anvil
take so many blows as he upon his person and his steed; and they
all kept striking at his lordship in <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg123" id="pg123">123</a></span> such crowds that the one
prevented the other. And so many lances, partisans, and crossbow
quarries, and other weapons, made upon his body a most mighty din,
that above every other noise and shout was heard the thud of those
great strokes. But he, like one who had the mastery of war, set his
charger where the press was thickest, jostling now one, and now
another; so that he ever kept at least ten men of his foes
stretched on the ground beneath his horse's hoofs; which horse was
a most fierce beast, and gave his enemies what trouble he best
could. And now that gentle lord was all fordone with sweat and
toil, he and his charger; and so weary were they that scarcely
could they any longer breathe.'</p>

<p>Soon after, the Baglioni mustered in force. One by one their
heroes rushed from the palaces. The enemy were driven back with
slaughter; and a war ensued, which made the fair land between
Assisi and Perugia a wilderness for many months. It must not be
forgotten that, at the time of these great feats of Simonetto and
Astorre, young Raphael was painting in the studio of Perugino. What
the whole city witnessed with astonishment and admiration, he, the
keenly sensitive artist-boy, treasured in his memory. Therefore in
the S. George of the Louvre, and in the mounted horseman trampling
upon Heliodorus in the Stanze of the Vatican, victorious Astorre
lives for ever, immortalised in all his splendour by the painter's
art. The grinning griffin on the helmet, the resistless frown upon
the forehead of the beardless knight, the terrible right arm, and
the ferocious steed,&mdash;all are there as Raphael saw and wrote
them on his brain. One characteristic of the Baglioni, as might be
plentifully illustrated from their annalist, was their eminent
beauty, which inspired beholders with an enthusiasm and a love they
were far from deserving by their virtues. It is this, in
combination with their personal heroism, which gives a peculiarly
<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg124" id="pg124">124</a></span>
dramatic interest to their doings, and makes the chronicle of
Matarazzo more fascinating than a novel. He seems unable to write
about them without using the language of an adoring lover.</p>

<p>In the affair of 1495 the Baglioni were at amity among
themselves. When they next appear upon the scene, they are engaged
in deadly feud. Cousin has set his hand to the throat of cousin,
and the two heroes of the piazza are destined to be slain by
foulest treachery of their own kin. It must be premised that
besides the sons of Guido and Ridolfo already named, the great
house counted among its most distinguished members a young Grifone,
or Grifonetto, the son of Grifone and Atalanta Baglioni. Both his
father and grandfather had died violent deaths in the prime of
their youth; Galeotto, the father of Atalanta, by poison, and
Grifone by the knife at Ponte Ricciolo in 1477. Atalanta was left a
young widow with one only son, this Grifonetto, whom Matarazzo
calls 'un altro Ganimede,' and who combined the wealth of two chief
branches of the Baglioni. In 1500, when the events about to be
related took place, he was quite a youth. Brave, rich, handsome,
and married to a young wife, Zenobia Sforza, he was the admiration
of Perugia. He and his wife loved each other dearly; and how,
indeed, could it be otherwise, since 'l' uno e l' altro sembravano
doi angioli di Paradiso?' At the same time he had fallen into the
hands of bad and desperate counsellors. A bastard of the house,
Filippo da Braccio, his half-uncle, was always at his side,
instructing him not only in the accomplishments of chivalry, but
also in wild ways that brought his name into disrepute. Another of
his familiars was Carlo Barciglia Baglioni, an unquiet spirit, who
longed for more power than his poverty and comparative obscurity
allowed. With them associated Jeronimo della Penna, a veritable
ruffian, contaminated from his earliest <span class="pagenum"><a
name="pg125" id="pg125">125</a></span> youth with every form of
lust and violence, and capable of any crime.<a name="FNanchor_1_19"
id="FNanchor_1_19" /><a href="#Footnote_1_19" class=
"fnanchor">[1]</a> These three companions, instigated partly by the
Lord of Camerino and partly by their own cupidity, conceived a
scheme for massacring the families of Guido and Ridolfo at one
blow. As a consequence of this wholesale murder, Perugia would be
at their discretion. Seeing of what use Grifonetto by his wealth
and name might be to them, they did all they could to persuade him
to join their conjuration. It would appear that the bait first
offered him was the sovereignty of the city, but that he was at
last gained over by being made to believe that his wife Zenobia had
carried on an intrigue with Gianpaolo Baglioni. The dissolute
morals of the family gave plausibility to an infernal trick which
worked upon the jealousy of Grifonetto. Thirsting for revenge, he
consented to the scheme. The conspirators were further fortified by
the accession of Jeronimo della Staffa, and three members of the
House of Corgna. It is noticeable that out of the whole number only
two, Bernardo da Corgna and Filippo da Braccio, were above the age
of thirty. Of the rest, few had reached twenty-five. At so early an
age were the men of those times adepts in violence and treason. The
execution of the plot was fixed for the wedding festivities of
Astorre Baglioni with Lavinia, the daughter of Giovanni Colonna and
Giustina Orsini. At that time the whole Baglioni family were to be
assembled in Perugia, with the single exception of Marcantonio, who
was taking baths at Naples for his health. It was known that the
members of the noble house, nearly all of them condottieri by
trade, and eminent for their great strength <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg126" id="pg126">126</a></span> and skill in
arms, took few precautions for their safety. They occupied several
houses close together between the Porta San Carlo and the Porta
Eburnea, set no regular guard over their sleeping chambers, and
trusted to their personal bravery, and to the fidelity of their
attendants.<a name="FNanchor_2_20" id="FNanchor_2_20" /><a href=
"#Footnote_2_20" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> It was thought
that they might be assassinated in their beds. The wedding
festivities began upon the 28th of July, and great is the
particularity with which Matarazzo describes the doings of each
successive day&mdash;processions, jousts, triumphal arches,
banquets, balls, and pageants. The night of the 14th of August was
finally set apart for the consummation of <i>el gran
tradimento</i>: it is thus that Matarazzo always alludes to the
crime of Grifonetto with a solemnity of reiteration that is most
impressive. A heavy stone let fall into the courtyard of Guido
Baglioni's palace was to be the signal: each conspirator was then
to run to the sleeping chamber of his appointed prey. Two of the
principals and fifteen bravi were told off to each victim: rams and
crowbars were prepared to force the doors, if needful. All happened
as had been anticipated. The crash of the falling stone was heard.
The conspirators rushed to the scene of operations. Astorre, who
was sleeping in the house of his traitorous cousin Grifonetto, was
slain in the arms of his young bride, crying, as he vainly
struggled, 'Misero Astorre che more come poltrone!' Simonetto, who
lay that night with a lad called Paolo he greatly loved, flew to
arms, exclaiming to his brother, 'Non dubitare Gismondo, mio
fratello!' He too was soon despatched, together with his bedfellow.
Filippo da Braccio, after killing him, tore from a great wound in
his side the still quivering heart, into which <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg127" id="pg127">127</a></span> he drove his
teeth with savage fury. Old Guido died groaning, 'Ora &egrave;
gionto il ponto mio;' and Gismondo's throat was cut while he lay
holding back his face that he might be spared the sight of his own
massacre. The corpses of Astorre and Simonetto were stripped and
thrown out naked into the streets. Men gathered round and marvelled
to see such heroic forms, with faces so proud and fierce even in
death. In especial the foreign students likened them to ancient
Romans.<a name="FNanchor_3_21" id="FNanchor_3_21" /><a href=
"#Footnote_3_21" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> But on their
fingers were rings, and these the ruffians of the place would fain
have hacked off with their knives. From this indignity the noble
limbs were spared; then the dead Baglioni were hurriedly consigned
to an unhonoured tomb. Meanwhile the rest of the intended victims
managed to escape. Gianpaolo, assailed by Grifonetto and
Gianfrancesco della Corgna, took refuge with his squire and
bedfellow, Maraglia, upon a staircase leading from his room. While
the squire held the passage with his pike against the foe,
Gianpaolo effected his flight over neighbouring house-roofs. He
crept into the attic of some foreign students, who, trembling with
terror, gave him food and shelter, clad him in a scholar's gown,
and helped him to fly in this disguise from the gates at dawn. He
then joined his brother Troilo at Marsciano, whence he returned
without delay to punish the traitors. At the same time Grifonetto's
mother, Atalanta, taking with her his wife Zenobia and the two
young sons of Gianpaolo, Malatesta and Orazio, afterwards so
celebrated in Italian history for their great feats of arms and
their crimes, fled to her country-house at Landona. Grifonetto in
vain <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg128" id=
"pg128">128</a></span> sought to see her there. She drove him from
her presence with curses for the treason and the fratricide that he
had planned. It is very characteristic of these wild natures,
framed of fierce instincts and discordant passions, that his
mother's curse weighed like lead upon the unfortunate young man.
Next day, when Gianpaolo returned to try the luck of arms,
Grifonetto, deserted by the companions of his crime and paralysed
by the sense of his guilt, went out alone to meet him on the public
place. The semi-failure of their scheme had terrified the
conspirators: the horrors of that night of blood unnerved them. All
had fled except the next victim of the feud. Putting his sword to
the youth's throat, Gianpaolo looked into his eyes and said, 'Art
thou here, Grifonetto? Go with God's peace: I will not slay thee,
nor plunge my hand in my own blood, as thou hast done in thine.'
Then he turned and left the lad to be hacked in pieces by his
guard. The untranslatable words which Matarazzo uses to describe
his death are touching from the strong impression they convey of
Grifonetto's goodliness: 'Qui ebbe sua signoria sopra sua nobile
persona tante ferite che suoi membra leggiadre stese in terra.'<a
name="FNanchor_4_22" id="FNanchor_4_22" /><a href=
"#Footnote_4_22" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> None but Greeks
felt the charm of personal beauty thus. But while Grifonetto was
breathing out his life upon the pavement of the piazza, his mother
Atalanta and his wife Zenobia came to greet him through the
awe-struck city. As they approached, all men fell aside and slunk
away before their grief. None would seem to have had a share in
Grifonetto's murder. Then Atalanta knelt by her dying son, and
ceased from wailing, and prayed and exhorted him to pardon those
who had caused his death. It appears that Grifonetto was too weak
to speak, but that he made a signal of assent, and received his
mother's blessing at the last: <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg129" id="pg129">129</a></span> 'E allora porse el nobil
giovenetto la dextra mano a la sua giovenile matre strengendo de
sua matre la bianca mano; e poi incontinente spir&ograve; l' anima
dal formoso corpo, e pass&ograve; cum infinite benedizioni de sua
matre in cambio de la maledictione che prima li aveva date.'<a
name="FNanchor_5_23" id="FNanchor_5_23" /><a href=
"#Footnote_5_23" class="fnanchor">[5]</a> Here again the
style of Matarazzo, tender and full of tears, conveys the keenest
sense of the pathos of beauty and of youth in death and sorrow. He
has forgotten <i>el gran tradimento</i>. He only remembers how
comely Grifonetto was, how noble, how frank and spirited, how
strong in war, how sprightly in his pleasures and his loves. And he
sees the still young mother, delicate and nobly born, leaning over
the athletic body of her bleeding son. This scene, which is perhaps
a genuine instance of what we may call the neo-Hellenism of the
Renaissance, finds its parallel in the 'Phoeniss&aelig;' of
Euripides. Jocasta and Antigone have gone forth to the battlefield
and found the brothers Polynices and Eteocles drenched in
blood:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i11">From his chest</div>

<div class="i2">Heaving a heavy breath, King Eteocles heard</div>

<div class="i2">His mother, and stretched forth a cold damp
hand</div>

<div class="i2">On hers, and nothing said, but with his eyes</div>

<div class="i2">Spake to her by his tears, showing kind
thoughts</div>

<div class="i2">In symbols.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>It was Atalanta, we may remember, who commissioned Raphael to
paint the so-called Borghese Entombment. Did she perhaps feel, as
she withdrew from the piazza, soaking with young Grifonetto's
blood,<a name="FNanchor_6_24" id="FNanchor_6_24" /><a href=
"#Footnote_6_24" class="fnanchor">[6]</a> that she too had
some portion in the sorrow of that mother who had wept for Christ?
The <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg130" id="pg130">130</a></span>
memory of the dreadful morning must have remained with her through
life, and long communion with our Lady of Sorrows may have
sanctified the grief that had so bitter and so shameful a root of
sin.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_19" id="Footnote_1_19" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_19"><span class="label">[1]</span></a>
Matarazzo's description of the ruffians who surrounded Grifonetto
(pp. 104, 105, 113) would suit Webster's Flamineo or Bosola. In one
place he likens Filippo to Achitophel and Grifonetto to Absalom.
Villano Villani, quoted by Fabretti (vol. iii. p. 125), relates the
street adventures of this clique. It is a curious picture of the
pranks of an Italian princeling in the fifteenth century.</p>
</div>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_2_20" id="Footnote_2_20" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_2_20"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> Jacobo
Antiquari, the secretary of Lodovico Sforza, in a curious letter,
which gives an account of the massacre, says that he had often
reproved the Baglioni for 'sleeping in their beds without any guard
or watch, so that they might easily be overcome by enemies.'</p>
</div>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_3_21" id="Footnote_3_21" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_3_21"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> 'Quelli
che li vidino, e maxime li forastiere studiante assimigliavano el
magnifico Messer Astorre cos&igrave; morto ad un antico Romano,
perch&egrave; prima era unanissimo; tanto sua figura era degnia e
magnia,' &amp;c. This is a touch exquisitely illustrative of the
Renaissance enthusiasm for classic culture.</p>
</div>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_4_22" id="Footnote_4_22" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_4_22"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> Here
his lordship received upon his noble person so many wounds that he
stretched his graceful limbs upon the earth.</p>
</div>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_5_23" id="Footnote_5_23" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_5_23"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> 'And
then the noble stripling stretched his right hand to his youthful
mother, pressing the white hand of his mother; and afterwards
forthwith he breathed his soul forth from his beauteous body, and
died with numberless blessings of his mother instead of the curses
she had given him before.'</p>
</div>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_6_24" id="Footnote_6_24" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_6_24"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> See
Matarazzo, <a href="#pg134">p. 134</a>, for this
detail.</p>
</div>

<p>After the death of Grifonetto, and the flight of the
conspirators, Gianpaolo took possession of Perugia. All who were
suspected of complicity in the treason were massacred upon the
piazza and in the Cathedral. At the expense of more than a hundred
murders, the chief of the Baglioni found himself master of the city
on the 17th of July. First he caused the Cathedral to be washed
with wine and reconsecrated. Then he decorated the Palazzo with the
heads of the traitors and with their portraits in fresco, painted
hanging head downwards, as was the fashion in Italy.<a name=
"FNanchor_1_25" id="FNanchor_1_25" /><a href=
"#Footnote_1_25" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> Next he
established himself in what remained of the palaces of his kindred,
hanging the saloons with black, and arraying his retainers in the
deepest mourning. Sad indeed was now the aspect of Perugia.
Helpless and comparatively uninterested, the citizens had been
spectators of these bloody broils. They were now bound to share the
desolation of their masters. Matarazzo's description of the
mournful palace and the silent town, and of the return of
Marcantonio from Naples, presents a picture striking for its
vividness.<a name="FNanchor_2_26" id="FNanchor_2_26" /><a href=
"#Footnote_2_26" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> In the true style
of the Baglioni, Marcantonio sought to vent his sorrow not so much
in tears as by new violence. He prepared and lighted torches,
meaning to burn the whole quarter of Sant' Angelo; and from this
design he was with difficulty dissuaded by his <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg131" id="pg131">131</a></span> brother. To
such mad freaks of rage and passion were the inhabitants of a
medi&aelig;val town in Italy exposed! They make us understand the
<i>ordinanze di giustizia</i>, by which to be a noble was a crime
in Florence.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_25" id="Footnote_1_25" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_25"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> See
Varchi (ed. Lemonnier, 1857), vol. ii. p. 265, vol. iii. pp. 224,
652, and Corio (Venice, 1554), p. 326, for instances of <i>dipinti
per traditori</i>.</p>
</div>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_2_26" id="Footnote_2_26" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_2_26"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> P. 142.
'Pareva ogni cosa oscura e lacrimosa: tutte loro servitore
piangevano; et le camere de lo resto de li magnifici Baglioni, e
sale, e ognie cosa erano tutte intorno cum pagnie negre. E per la
citt&agrave; non era pi&ugrave; alcuno che sonasse n&egrave;
cantasse; e poco si rideva,' &amp;c.</p>
</div>

<p>From this time forward the whole history of the Baglioni family
is one of crime and bloodshed. A curse had fallen on the house, and
to the last of its members the penalty was paid. Gianpaolo himself
acquired the highest reputation throughout Italy for his courage
and sagacity both as a general and a governor.<a name=
"FNanchor_1_27" id="FNanchor_1_27" /><a href=
"#Footnote_1_27" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> It was he who
held Julius II. at his discretion in 1506, and was sneered at by
Machiavelli for not consummating his enormities by killing the
warlike Pope.<a name="FNanchor_2_28" id="FNanchor_2_28" /><a href=
"#Footnote_2_28" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> He again, after
joining the diet of La Magione against Cesare Borgia, escaped by
his acumen the massacre of Sinigaglia, which overthrew the other
conspirators. But his name was no less famous for unbridled lust
and deeds of violence. He boasted that his son Constantino was a
true Baglioni, since he was his sister's child. He once told
Machiavelli that he had it in his mind to murder four citizens of
Perugia, his enemies. He looked calmly on while his kinsmen Eusebio
and Taddeo Baglioni, who had been accused of treason, were hewn to
pieces by his guard. His wife, Ippolita de' Conti, was poignarded
in her Roman farm; on hearing the news, he ordered a festival in
which he was engaged to proceed with redoubled merriment.<a name=
"FNanchor_3_29" id="FNanchor_3_29" /><a href=
"#Footnote_3_29" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> At last the time
came for him to die <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg132" id=
"pg132">132</a></span> by fraud and violence. Leo X., anxious to
remove so powerful a rival from Perugia, lured him in 1520 to Rome
under the false protection of a papal safe-conduct. After a short
imprisonment he had him beheaded in the Castle of S. Angelo. It was
thought that Gentile, his first cousin, sometime Bishop of Orvieto,
but afterwards the father of two sons in wedlock with Giulia
Vitelli&mdash;such was the discipline of the Church at this
epoch&mdash;had contributed to the capture of Gianpaolo, and had
exulted in his execution.<a name="FNanchor_4_30" id=
"FNanchor_4_30" /><a href="#Footnote_4_30" class=
"fnanchor">[4]</a> If so, he paid dear for his treachery; for
Orazio Baglioni, the second son of Gianpaolo and captain of the
Church under Clement VII., had him murdered in 1527, together with
his two nephews Fileno and Annibale.<a name="FNanchor_5_31" id=
"FNanchor_5_31" /><a href="#Footnote_5_31" class=
"fnanchor">[5]</a> This Orazio was one of the most bloodthirsty of
the whole brood. Not satisfied with the assassination of Gentile,
he stabbed Galeotto, the son of Grifonetto, with his own hand in
the same year.<a name="FNanchor_6_32" id="FNanchor_6_32" /><a href=
"#Footnote_6_32" class="fnanchor">[6]</a> Afterwards he
died in the kingdom of Naples while leading the Black Bands in the
disastrous war which followed the sack of Rome. He left no son.
Malatesta, his elder brother, became one of the most celebrated
generals of the age, holding the batons of the Venetian and
Florentine republics, and managing to maintain his ascendency in
Perugia in spite of the persistent opposition of successive popes.
But his name is best known in history for one of the greatest
public crimes&mdash;a crime which must be ranked with that of
Marshal Bazaine. Intrusted with the defence of Florence during the
siege of 1530, he sold the city to his enemy, Pope Clement,
receiving for the price of this infamy certain privileges and
immunities which fortified his hold upon Perugia for a season. All
Italy was ringing <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg133" id=
"pg133">133</a></span> with the great deeds of the Florentines, who
for the sake of their liberty transformed themselves from merchants
into soldiers, and withstood the united powers of Pope and Emperor
alone. Meanwhile Malatesta, whose trade was war, and who was being
largely paid for his services by the beleaguered city, contrived by
means of diplomatic procrastination, secret communication with the
enemy, and all the arts that could intimidate an army of recruits,
to push affairs to a point at which Florence was forced to
capitulate without inflicting the last desperate glorious blow she
longed to deal her enemies. The universal voice of Italy condemned
him. When Matteo Dandolo, the Doge of Venice, heard what he had
done, he cried before the Pregadi in conclave, 'He has sold that
people and that city, and the blood of those poor citizens ounce by
ounce, and has donned the cap of the biggest traitor in the
world.'<a name="FNanchor_7_33" id="FNanchor_7_33" /><a href=
"#Footnote_7_33" class="fnanchor">[7]</a> Consumed with
shame, corroded by an infamous disease, and mistrustful of Clement,
to whom he had sold his honour, Malatesta retired to Perugia, and
died in 1531. He left one son, Ridolfo, who was unable to maintain
himself in the lordship of his native city. After killing the Papal
legate, Cinzio Filonardi, in 1534, he was dislodged four years
afterwards, when Paul III. took final possession of the place as an
appanage of the Church, razed the houses of the Baglioni to the
ground, and built upon their site the Rocca Paolina. This fortress
bore an inscription: 'Ad coercendam Perusinorum audaciam.' The city
was given over to the rapacity of the abominable Pier Luigi
Farnese, and so bad was this tyranny of priests and bastards, that,
strange to say, the Perugians regretted the troublous times of the
Baglioni. Malatesta in dying had exclaimed, 'Help me, if you can;
since after me you will be set to draw the cart like oxen.'
Frollieri, relating the speech, adds, <span class="pagenum"><a
name="pg134" id="pg134">134</a></span> 'And this has been fulfilled
to the last letter, for all have borne not only the yoke but the
burden and the goad.' Ridolfo Baglioni and his cousin Braccio, the
eldest son of Grifonetto, were both captains of Florence. The one
died in battle in 1554, the other in 1559. Thus ended the
illustrious family. They are now represented by descendants from
females, and by contadini who preserve their name and boast a
pedigree of which they have no records.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_27" id="Footnote_1_27" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_27"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> See
Frollieri, p. 437, for a very curious account of his character.</p>
</div>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_2_28" id="Footnote_2_28" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_2_28"><span class="label">[2]</span></a>
Fabretti (vol. iii. pp. 193-202. and notes) discusses this
circumstance in detail. Machiavelli's critique runs thus
(<i>Discorsi</i>, lib. i. cap. 27): 'N&egrave; si poteva credere
che si fosse astenuto o per bont&agrave;, o per coscienza che lo
ritenesse; perch&egrave; in un petto d'un uomo facinoroso, che si
teneva la sorella, ch' aveva morti i cugini e i nipot&iacute; per
regnare, non poteva scendere alcuno pietoso rispetto: ma si
conchiuse che gli uomini non sanno essere onorevolmente tristi, o
perfettamente buoni,' &amp;c.</p>
</div>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_3_29" id="Footnote_3_29" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_3_29"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> See
Fabretti, vol. iii. p. 230. He is an authority for the details of
Gianpaolo's life. The circumstance alluded to above justifies the
terrible opening scene in Shelley's tragedy, <i>The Cenci</i>.</p>
</div>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_4_30" id="Footnote_4_30" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_4_30"><span class="label">[4]</span></a>
Fabretti, vol. iii. p. 230, vol. iv. p. 10.</p>
</div>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_5_31" id="Footnote_5_31" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_5_31"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> See
Varchi, <i>Storie Florentine</i>, vol. i. p. 224.</p>
</div>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_6_32" id="Footnote_6_32" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_6_32"><span class="label">[6]</span></a>
Ibid.</p>
</div>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_7_33" id="Footnote_7_33" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_7_33"><span class="label">[7]</span></a>
Fabretti, vol. iv. p. 206.</p>
</div>

<p>The history of the Baglioni needs no commentary. They were not
worse than other Italian nobles, who by their passions and their
parties destroyed the peace of the city they infested. It is with
an odd mixture of admiration and discontent that the chroniclers of
Perugia allude to their ascendency. Matarazzo, who certainly cannot
be accused of hostility to the great house, describes the miseries
of his country under their bad government in piteous terms:<a name=
"FNanchor_1_34" id="FNanchor_1_34" /><a href=
"#Footnote_1_34" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> 'As I wish not to
swerve from the pure truth, I say that from the day the Oddi were
expelled, our city went from bad to worse. All the young men
followed the trade of arms. Their lives were disorderly; and every
day divers excesses were divulged, and the city had lost all reason
and justice. Every man administered right unto himself,
<i>propri&acirc; autoritate et manu regi&acirc;</i>. Meanwhile the
Pope sent many legates, if so be the city could be brought to
order: but all who came returned in dread of being hewn in pieces;
for they threatened to throw some from the windows of the palace,
so that no cardinal or other legate durst approach Perugia, unless
he were a friend of the Baglioni. And the city was brought to such
misery, that the most wrongous men were most prized; and those who
had slain two or three men walked as they listed through the
palace, and went with sword or poignard to speak to the
podest&agrave; and other magistrates. Moreover, every man of <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg135" id="pg135">135</a></span> worth was
down-trodden by bravi whom the nobles favoured; nor could a citizen
call his property his own. The nobles robbed first one and then
another of goods and land. All offices were sold or else
suppressed; and taxes and extortions were so grievous that every
one cried out. And if a man were in prison for his head, he had no
reason to fear death, provided he had some interest with a noble.'
Yet the same Matarazzo in another place finds it in his heart to
say:<a name="FNanchor_2_35" id="FNanchor_2_35" /><a href=
"#Footnote_2_35" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> 'Though the city
suffered great pains for these nobles, yet the illustrious house of
Baglioni brought her honour throughout Italy, by reason of the
great dignity and splendour of that house, and of their pomp and
name. Wherefore through them our city was often set above the rest,
and notably above the commonwealths of Florence and Siena.' Pride
feels no pain. The gratified vanity of the Perugian burgher, proud
to see his town preferred before its neighbours, blinds the
annalist to all the violence and villany of the magnificent Casa
Baglioni. So strong was the <i>esprit de ville</i> which through
successive centuries and amid all vicissitudes of politics divided
the Italians against themselves, and proved an insuperable obstacle
to unity.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_34" id="Footnote_1_34" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_34"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Pp.
102, 103.</p>
</div>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_2_35" id="Footnote_2_35" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_2_35"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> P.
139.</p>
</div>

<p>After reading the chronicle of Matarazzo at Perugia through one
winter day, I left the inn and walked at sunset to the
blood-bedabbled cathedral square; for still those steps and
pavements to my strained imagination seemed reeking with the
outpoured blood of Baglioni; and on the ragged stonework of San
Lorenzo red patches slanted from the dying day. Then by one of
those strange freaks of the brain to which we are all subject, for
a moment I lost sight of untidy Gothic fa&ccedil;ades and gaunt
unfinished church walls; and as I walked, I was in the Close of
Salisbury on a perfumed summer afternoon. The drowsy scent of
lime-flowers and mignonette, <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg136"
id="pg136">136</a></span> the cawing of elm-cradled rooks, the hum
of bees above, the velvet touch of smooth-shorn grass, and the
breathless shadow of motionless green boughs made up one potent and
absorbing mood of the charmed senses. Far overhead soared the calm
grey spire into the infinite air, and the perfection of
accomplished beauty slept beneath in those long lines of nave and
choir and transepts. It was but a momentary dream, a thought that
burned itself upon a fancy overtaxed by passionate images. Once
more the puppet-scene of the brain was shifted; once more I saw the
bleak bare flags of the Perugian piazza, the forlorn front of the
Duomo, the bronze griffin, and Pisano's fountain, with here and
there a flake of that tumultuous fire which the Italian sunset
sheds. Who shall adequately compare the two pictures? Which shall
we prefer&mdash;the Close of Salisbury, with its sleepy bells and
cushioned ease of immemorial Deans&mdash;or this poor threadbare
passion of Perugia, where every stone is stained with blood, and
where genius in painters and scholars and prophets and ecstatic
lovers has throbbed itself away to nothingness? It would be foolish
to seek an answer to this question, idle to institute a comparison,
for instance, between those tall young men with their broad winter
cloaks who remind me of Grifonetto, and the vergers pottering in
search of shillings along the gravel paths of Salisbury. It is more
rational, perhaps, to reflect of what strange stuff our souls are
made in this age of the world, when &aelig;sthetic pleasures, full,
genuine, and satisfying, can be communicated alike by Perugia with
its fascination of a dead irrevocable dramatic past, and Salisbury,
which finds the artistic climax of its English comfort in the
'Angel in the House.' From Matarazzo, smitten with a Greek love for
the beautiful Grifonetto, to Mr. Patmore, is a wide step.</p>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg137" id=
"pg137">137</a></span></p>

<h3><a name="ORVIETO" id="ORVIETO" /><i>ORVIETO</i></h3>

<p>On the road from Siena to Rome, halfway between Ficulle and
Viterbo, is the town of Orvieto. Travellers often pass it in the
night-time. Few stop there, for the place is old and dirty, and its
inns are said to be indifferent. But none who see it even from a
distance can fail to be struck with its imposing aspect, as it
rises from the level plain upon that mass of rock among the
Apennines.</p>

<p>Orvieto is built upon the first of those huge volcanic blocks
which are found like fossils embedded in the more recent geological
formations of Central Italy, and which stretch in an irregular but
unbroken line to the Campagna of Rome. Many of them, like that on
which Civita Castellana is perched, are surrounded by rifts and
chasms and ravines and fosses, strangely furrowed and twisted by
the force of fiery convulsions. But their advanced guard, Orvieto,
stands up definite and solid, an almost perfect cube, with walls
precipitous to north and south and east, but slightly sloping to
the westward. At its foot rolls the Paglia, one of those barren
streams which swell in winter with the snows and rains of the
Apennines, but which in summer-time shrink up, and leave bare beds
of sand and pestilential canebrakes to stretch irregularly round
their dwindled waters.</p>

<p>The weary flatness and utter desolation of this valley present a
sinister contrast to the broad line of the Apennines, swelling tier
on tier, from their oak-girdled basements set with villages and
towers, up to the snow and cloud that crown <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg138" id="pg138">138</a></span> their topmost
crags. The time to see this landscape is at sunrise; and the
traveller should take his stand upon the rising ground over which
the Roman road is carried from the town&mdash;the point, in fact,
which Turner has selected for his vague and misty sketch of Orvieto
in our Gallery. Thence he will command the whole space of the
plain, the Apennines, and the river creeping in a straight line at
the base; while the sun, rising to his right, will slant along the
mountain flanks, and gild the leaden stream, and flood the castled
crags of Orvieto with a haze of light. From the centre of this
glory stand out in bold relief old bastions built upon the solid
tufa, vast gaping gateways black in shadow, towers of churches
shooting up above a medley of deep-corniced tall Italian houses,
and, amid them all, the marble front of the Cathedral, calm and
solemn in its unfamiliar Gothic state. Down to the valley from
these heights there is a sudden fall; and we wonder how the few
spare olive-trees that grow there can support existence on the
steep slope of the cliff.</p>

<p>Our mind, in looking at this landscape, is carried by the force
of old association to Jerusalem. We could fancy ourselves to be
standing on Mount Olivet, with the valley of Jehoshaphat between us
and the Sacred City. As we approach the town, the difficulty of
scaling its crags seems insurmountable. The road, though carried
skilfully along each easy slope or ledge of quarried rock, still
winds so much that nearly an hour is spent in the ascent. Those who
can walk should take a footpath, and enter Orvieto by the
medi&aelig;val road, up which many a Pope, flying from rebellious
subjects or foreign enemies, has hurried on his mule.<a name=
"FNanchor_1_36" id="FNanchor_1_36" /><a href=
"#Footnote_1_36" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_36" id="Footnote_1_36" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_36"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Clement
VII., for example, escaped from Rome disguised as a gardener after
the sack in 1527, and, to quote the words of Varchi (St. Flor., v.
17), 'Entr&ograve; agli otto di dicembre a due ore di notte in
Orvieto, terra di sito fortissimo, per lo essere ella sopra uno
scoglio pieno di tufi posta, d' ogni intorno scosceso e dirupato,'
&amp;c.</p>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg139" id="pg139">139</a></span>
To unaccustomed eyes there is something forbidding and terrible
about the dark and cindery appearance of volcanic tufa. Where it is
broken, the hard and gritty edges leave little space for
vegetation; while at intervals the surface spreads so smooth and
straight that one might take it for solid masonry erected by the
architect of Pandemonium. Rubbish and shattered bits of earthenware
and ashes, thrown from the city walls, cling to every ledge and
encumber the broken pavement of the footway. Then as we rise, the
castle battlements above appear more menacing, toppling upon the
rough edge of the crag, and guarding each turn of the road with
jealous loopholes or beetle-browed machicolations, until at last
the gateway and portcullis are in view.</p>

<p>On first entering Orvieto, one's heart fails to find so terrible
a desolation, so squalid a solitude, and so vast a difference
between the present and the past, between the beauty of surrounding
nature and the misery of this home of men. A long space of
unoccupied ground intervenes between the walls and the hovels which
skirt the modern town. This, in the times of its splendour, may
have served for oliveyards, vineyards, and pasturage, in case of
siege. There are still some faint traces of dead gardens left upon
its arid wilderness, among the ruins of a castellated palace,
decorated with the cross-keys and tiara of an unremembered pope.
But now it lies a mere tract of scorched grass, insufferably hot
and dry and sandy, intersected by dirty paths, and covered with the
loathliest offal of a foul Italian town. Should you cross this
ground at mid-day, under the blinding sun, when no living thing,
except perhaps some poisonous reptile, is about, you would declare
that Orvieto had been stricken for its sins by Heaven. Your mind
would dwell mechanically on all that you have read of Papal crimes,
of fratricidal wars, of Pagan abominations in the high places of
the Church, of tempestuous passions and <span class="pagenum"><a
name="pg140" id="pg140">140</a></span> refined iniquity&mdash;of
everything, in fact, which renders Italy of the Middle Ages and the
Renaissance dark and ominous amid the splendours of her art and
civilisation. This is the natural result; this shrunken and squalid
old age of poverty and self-abandonment is the end of that strong,
prodigal, and vicious youth. Who shall restore vigour to these dead
bones? we cry. If Italy is to live again, she must quit her ruined
palace towers to build fresh dwellings elsewhere. Filth, lust,
rapacity, treason, godlessness, and violence have made their
habitation here; ghosts haunt these ruins; these streets still
smell of blood and echo to the cries of injured innocence; life
cannot be pure, or calm, or healthy, where this curse has
settled.</p>

<p>Occupied with such reflections, we reach the streets of Orvieto.
They are not very different from those of most Italian villages,
except that there is little gaiety about them. Like Assisi or
Siena, Orvieto is too large for its population, and merriment flows
better from close crowding than from spacious accommodation. Very
dark, and big, and dirty, and deserted, is the judgment we
pronounce upon the houses; very filthy and malodorous each passage;
very long this central street; very few and sad and sullen the
inhabitants; and where, we wonder, is the promised inn? In search
of this one walks nearly through the city, until one enters the
Piazza, where there is more liveliness. Here caf&eacute;s may be
found; soldiers, strong and sturdy, from the north, lounge at the
corners; the shops present more show; and a huge hotel, not bad for
such a place, and appropriately dedicated to the Belle Arti,
standing in a courtyard of its own, receives the traveller weary
with his climb. As soon as he has taken rooms, his first desire is
to go forth and visit the Cathedral.</p>

<p>The great Duomo was erected at the end of the thirteenth century
to commemorate the Miracle of Bolsena. The value <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg141" id="pg141">141</a></span> of this miracle
consisted in its establishing unmistakably the truth of
transubstantiation. The story runs that a young Bohemian priest who
doubted the dogma was performing the office of the mass in a church
at Bolsena, when, at the moment of consecration, blood issued from
five gashes in the wafer, which resembled the five wounds of
Christ. The fact was evident to all the worshippers, who saw blood
falling on the linen of the altar; and the young priest no longer
doubted, but confessed the miracle, and journeyed straightway with
the evidence thereof to Pope Urban IV. The Pope, who was then at
Orvieto, came out with all his retinue to meet the convert and do
honour to the magic-working relics. The circumstances of this
miracle are well known to students of art through Raphael's
celebrated fresco in the Stanze of the Vatican. And it will be
remembered by the readers of ecclesiastical history that Urban had
in 1264 promulgated by a bull the strict observance of the Corpus
Christi festival in connection with his strong desire to
re-establish the doctrine of Christ's presence in the elements. Nor
was it without reason that, while seeking miraculous support for
this dogma, he should have treated the affair of Bolsena so
seriously as to celebrate it by the erection of one of the most
splendid cathedrals in Italy; for the peace of the Church had
recently been troubled by the reforming ardour of the Fraticelli
and by the promulgation of Abbot Joachim's Eternal Gospel. This new
evangelist had preached the doctrine of progression in religious
faith, proclaiming a kingdom of the Spirit which should transcend
the kingdom of the Son, even as the Christian dispensation had
superseded the Jewish supremacy of the Father. Nor did he fail at
the same time to attack the political and moral abuses of the
Papacy, attributing its degradation to the want of vitality which
pervaded the old Christian system, and calling on the clergy to
lead more <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg142" id=
"pg142">142</a></span> simple and regenerate lives, consistently
with the spiritual doctrine which he had received by inspiration.
The theories of Joachim were immature and crude; but they were
among the first signs of that liberal effort after
self-emancipation which eventually stirred all Europe at the time
of the Renaissance. It was, therefore, the obvious policy of the
Popes to crush so dangerous an opposition while they could; and by
establishing the dogma of transubstantiation, they were enabled to
satisfy the craving mysticism of the people, while they placed upon
a firmer basis the cardinal support of their own religious
power.</p>

<p>In pursuance of his plan, Urban sent for Lorenzo Maitani, the
great Sienese architect, who gave designs for a Gothic church in
the same style as the Cathedral of Siena, though projected on a
smaller scale. These two churches, in spite of numerous
shortcomings manifest to an eye trained in French or English
architecture, are still the most perfect specimens of Pointed
Gothic produced by the Italian genius. The Gottico Tedesco had
never been received with favour in Italy. Remains of Roman
architecture, then far more numerous and perfect than they are at
present, controlled the minds of artists, and induced them to adopt
the rounded rather than the pointed arch. Indeed, there would seem
to be something peculiarly Northern in the spirit of Gothic
architecture: its intricacies suit the gloom of Northern skies, its
massive exterior is adapted to the severity of Northern weather,
its vast windows catch the fleeting sunlight of the North, and the
pinnacles and spires which constitute its beauty are better
expressed in rugged stone than in the marbles of the South.
Northern cathedrals do not depend for their effect upon the
advantages of sunlight or picturesque situations. Many of them are
built upon broad plains, over which for more than half the year
hangs fog. But the cathedrals of Italy owe <span class="pagenum"><a
name="pg143" id="pg143">143</a></span> their charm to colour and
brilliancy: their gilded sculpture and mosaics, the variegated
marbles and shallow portals of their fa&ccedil;ades, the light
a&euml;rial elegance of their campanili, are all adapted to the
luminous atmosphere of a smiling land, where changing effects of
natural beauty distract the attention from solidity of design and
permanence of grandeur in the edifice itself.<a name=
"FNanchor_1_37" id="FNanchor_1_37" /><a href=
"#Footnote_1_37" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_37" id="Footnote_1_37" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_37"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> In
considering why Gothic architecture took so little root in
medi&aelig;val Italy, we must remember that the Italians had
maintained an unbroken connection with Pagan Rome, and that many of
their finest churches were basilicas appropriated to Christian
rites. Add to this that the commerce of their cities, which first
acquired wealth in the twelfth century, especially Pisa and Venice,
kept them in communication with the Levant, where they admired the
masterpieces of Byzantine architecture, and whence they imported
Greek artists in mosaic and stonework. Against these external
circumstances, taken in connection with the hereditary leanings of
an essentially Latin race, and with the natural conditions of
landscape and climate alluded to above, the influence of a few
imported German architects could not have had sufficient power to
effect a thorough metamorphosis of the national taste. For further
treatment of this subject see my 'Fine Arts,' <i>Renaissance in
Italy</i>, Part III. chap. ii.</p>
</div>

<p>The Cathedral of Orvieto will illustrate these remarks. Its
design is very simple. It consists of a parallelogram, from which
three chapels of equal size project, one at the east end, and one
at the north and south. The windows are small and narrow, the
columns round, and the roof displays none of that intricate
groining we find in English churches. The beauty of the interior
depends on surface decoration, on marble statues, woodwork, and
fresco-paintings. Outside, there is the same simplicity of design,
the same elaborated local ornament. The sides of the Cathedral are
austere, their narrow windows cutting horizontal lines of black and
white marble. But the fa&ccedil;ade is a triumph of decorative art.
It is strictly what has often been described as a 'frontispiece;'
for it bears no sincere relation to the construction of the
building. The three gables <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg144"
id="pg144">144</a></span> rise high above the aisles. The pinnacles
and parapets and turrets are stuck on to look agreeable. It is a
screen such as might be completed or left unfinished at will by the
architect. Finished as it is, the fa&ccedil;ade of Orvieto presents
a wilderness of beauties. Its pure white marble has been mellowed
by time to a rich golden hue, in which are set mosaics shining like
gems or pictures of enamel. A statue stands on every pinnacle; each
pillar has a different design; round some of them are woven wreaths
of vine and ivy; acanthus leaves curl over the capitals, making
nests for singing birds or Cupids; the doorways are a labyrinth of
intricate designs, in which the utmost elegance of form is made
more beautiful by incrustations of precious agates and Alexandrine
glasswork. On every square inch of this wonderful fa&ccedil;ade
have been lavished invention, skill, and precious material. But its
chief interest centres in the sculptures executed by Giovanni and
Andrea, sons and pupils of Nicola Pisano. The names of these three
men mark an era in the history of art. They first rescued Italian
sculpture from the grotesqueness of the Lombard and the wooden
monotony of the Byzantine styles. Sculpture takes the lead of all
the arts. And Nicola Pisano, before Cimabue, before Duccio, even
before Dante, opened the gates of beauty, which for a thousand
years had been shut up and overgrown with weeds. As Dante invoked
the influence of Virgil when he began to write his medi&aelig;val
poem, and made a heathen bard his hierophant in Christian
mysteries, just so did Nicola Pisano draw inspiration from a
Gr&aelig;co-Roman sarcophagus. He studied the basrelief of
Ph&aelig;dra and Hippolytus, which may still be seen upon the tomb
of Countess Beatrice in the Campo Santo, and so learned by heart
the beauty of its lines and the dignity expressed in its figures,
that in all his subsequent works we trace the elevated tranquillity
of Greek sculpture. This imitation never degenerated into servile
copying; nor, on the <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg145" id=
"pg145">145</a></span> other hand, did Nicola attain the perfect
grace of an Athenian artist. He remained a truly medi&aelig;val
carver, animated with a Christian instead of a Pagan spirit, but
caring for the loveliness of form which art in the dark ages failed
to realise.<a name="FNanchor_1_38" id="FNanchor_1_38" /><a href=
"#Footnote_1_38" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_38" id="Footnote_1_38" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_38"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> I am
not inclined to reject the old legend mentioned above about
Pisano's study of the antique. For a full discussion of the
question see my 'Fine Arts,' <i>Renaissance in Italy</i>, Part III.
chap. iii.</p>
</div>

<p>Whether it was Nicola or his scholars who designed the
basreliefs at Orvieto is of little consequence. Vasari ascribes
them to the father; but we know that he completed his pulpit at
Pisa in 1230, and his death is supposed to have taken place fifteen
years before the foundation of the cathedral. At any rate, they are
imbued with his genius, and bear the strongest affinity to his
sculptures at Pisa, Siena, and Bologna. To estimate the influence
they exercised over the arts of sculpture and painting in Italy
would be a difficult task. Duccio and Giotto studied here; Ghiberti
closely followed them. Signorelli and Raphael made drawings from
their compositions. And the spirit which pervades these sculptures
may be traced in all succeeding works of art. It is not classic; it
is modern, though embodied in a form of beauty modelled on the
Greek.</p>

<p>The basreliefs are carved on four marble tablets placed beside
the porches of the church, and corresponding in size and shape with
the chief doorways. They represent the course of Biblical history,
beginning with the creation of the world, and ending with the last
judgment. If it were possible here to compare them in detail with
the similar designs of Ghiberti, Michel Angelo, and Raphael, it
might be shown that the Pisani established modes of treating sacred
subjects from which those mighty masters never deviated, though
each stamped upon them his peculiar genius, making them more
perfect as time added to the power of art. It would also be <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg146" id="pg146">146</a></span> not
without interest to show that, in their primitive conceptions of
the earliest events in history, the works of the Pisan artists
closely resemble some sculptures executed on the walls of Northern
cathedrals, as well as early mosaics in the South of Italy. We
might have noticed how all the grotesque elements which appear in
Nicola Pisano, and which may still be traced in Ghiberti, are
entirely lost in Michel Angelo, how the supernatural is humanised,
how the symbolical receives an actual expression, and how
intellectual types are substituted for mere local and individual
representations. For instance, the Pisani represent the Creator as
a young man standing on the earth, with a benign and dignified
expression, and attended by two ministering angels. He is the
Christ of the Creed, 'by whom all things were made.' In Ghiberti we
find an older man, sometimes appearing in a whirlwind of clouds and
attendant spirits, sometimes walking on the earth, but still far
different in conception from the Creative Father of Michel Angelo.
The latter is rather the Platonic Demiurgus than the Mosaic God. By
every line and feature of his face and flowing hair, by each
movement of his limbs, whether he ride on clouds between the waters
and the firmament, or stand alone creating by a glance and by a
motion of his hand Eve, the full-formed and conscious woman, he is
proclaimed the Maker who from all eternity has held the thought of
the material universe within his mind. Raphael does not depart from
this conception. The profound abstraction of Michel Angelo ruled
his intellect, and received from his genius a form of perhaps
greater grace. A similar growth from the germinal designs of the
Pisani may be traced in many groups.</p>

<p>But we must not linger at the gate. Let us enter the cathedral
and see some of the wonders it contains. Statues of gigantic size
adorn the nave. Of these, the most beautiful <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg147" id="pg147">147</a></span> are the work of
Ippolito Scalza, an artist whom Orvieto claims with pride as one of
her own sons. The long line of saints and apostles whom they
represent conduct us to the high altar, surrounded by its shadowy
frescoes, and gleaming with the work of carvers in marble and
bronze and precious metals. But our steps are drawn toward the
chapel of the south transept, where now a golden light from the
autumnal sunset falls across a crowd of worshippers. From far and
near the poor people are gathered. Most of them are women. They
kneel upon the pavement and the benches, sunburnt faces from the
vineyards and the canebrakes of the valley. The old look
prematurely aged and withered&mdash;their wrinkled cheeks bound up
in scarlet and orange-coloured kerchiefs, their skinny fingers
fumbling on the rosary, and their mute lips moving in prayer. The
younger women have great listless eyes and large limbs used to
labor. Some of them carry babies trussed up in tight
swaddling-clothes. One kneels beside a dark-browed shepherd, on
whose shoulder falls his shaggy hair; and little children play
about, half hushed, half heedless of the place, among old men whose
life has dwindled down into a ceaseless round of prayers. We wonder
why this chapel, alone in the empty cathedral, is so crowded with
worshippers. They surely are not turned towards that splendid
Piet&agrave; of Scalza&mdash;a work in which the marble seems to
live a cold, dead, shivering life. They do not heed Angelico's and
Signorelli's frescoes on the roof and walls. The interchange of
light and gloom upon the stalls and carved work of the canopies can
scarcely rivet so intense a gaze. All eyes seem fixed upon a
curtain of red silk above the altar. Votive pictures, and glass
cases full of silver hearts, wax babies, hands and limbs of every
kind, are hung round it. A bell rings. A jingling organ plays a
little melody in triple time; and from the sacristy comes forth the
priest. With <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg148" id=
"pg148">148</a></span> much reverence, and with a show of
preparation, he and the acolytes around him mount the altar steps
and pull a string which draws the curtain. Behind the silken veil
we behold Madonna and her child&mdash;a faint, old, ugly picture,
blackened with the smoke and incense of five hundred years, a
wonder-working image, cased in gold, and guarded from the common
air by glass and draperies. Jewelled crowns are stuck upon the
heads of the mother and the infant. In the efficacy of Madonna di
San Brizio to ward off agues, to deliver from the pangs of
childbirth or the fury of the storm, to keep the lover's troth and
make the husband faithful to his home, these pious women of the
marshes and the mountains put a simple trust.</p>

<p>While the priest sings, and the people pray to the dance-music
of the organ, let us take a quiet seat unseen, and picture to our
minds how the chapel looked when Angelico and Signorelli stood
before its plastered walls, and thought the thoughts with which
they covered them. Four centuries have gone by since those walls
were white and even to their brushes; and now you scarce can see
the golden aureoles of saints, the vast wings of the angels, and
the flowing robes of prophets through the gloom. Angelico came
first, in monk's dress, kneeling before he climbed the scaffold to
paint the angry judge, the Virgin crowned, the white-robed army of
the Martyrs, and the glorious company of the Apostles. These he
placed upon the roof, expectant of the Judgment. Then he passed
away, and Luca Signorelli, the rich man who 'lived splendidly and
loved to dress himself in noble clothes,' the liberal and courteous
gentleman, took his place upon the scaffold. For all the
worldliness of his attire and the worldliness of his living, his
brain teemed with stern and terrible thoughts. He searched the
secrets of sin and of the grave, of destruction and of
resurrection, of heaven and hell. All these he has painted on the
walls beneath the saints of Fra <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg149" id="pg149">149</a></span> Angelico. First come the troubles
of the last days, the preaching of Antichrist, and the confusion of
the wicked. In the next compartment we see the Resurrection from
the tomb; and side by side with that is painted Hell. Paradise
occupies another portion of the chapel. On each side of the window,
beneath the Christ of Fra Angelico, are delineated scenes from the
Judgment. A wilderness of arabesques, enclosing medallion portraits
of poets and chiaroscuro episodes selected from Dante and Ovid,
occupies the lower portions of the chapel walls beneath the great
subjects enumerated above; and here Signorelli has given free vein
to his fancy and his mastery over anatomical design, accumulating
naked human figures in the most fantastic and audacious variety of
pose.</p>

<p>Look at the 'Fulminati'&mdash;so the group of wicked men are
called whose death precedes the Judgment. Huge naked angels,
sailing upon vanlike wings, breathe columns of red flame upon a
crowd of wicked men and women. In vain these sinners avoid the
descending fire. It pursues and fells them to the earth. As they
fly, their eyes are turned towards the dreadful faces in the air.
Some hurry through a portico, huddled together, falling men, and
women clasping to their arms dead babies scorched with flame. One
old man stares straightforward, doggedly awaiting death. One woman
scowls defiance as she dies. A youth has twisted both hands in his
hair, and presses them against his ears to drown the screams and
groans and roaring thunder. They trample upon prostrate forms
already stiff. Every shape and attitude of sudden terror and
despairing guilt are here. Next comes the Resurrection. Two angels
of the Judgment&mdash;gigantic figures, with the plumeless wings
that Signorelli loves&mdash;are seen upon the clouds. They blow
trumpets with all their might, so that each naked muscle seems
strained to make the blast, which bellows through the air and
shakes <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg150" id=
"pg150">150</a></span> the sepulchres beneath the earth. Thence
rise the dead. All are naked, and a few are seen like skeletons.
With painful effort they struggle from the soil that clasps them
round, as if obeying an irresistible command. Some have their heads
alone above the ground. Others wrench their limbs from the clinging
earth; and as each man rises, it closes under him. One would think
that they were being born again from solid clay, and growing into
form with labour. The fully risen spirits stand and walk about, all
occupied with the expectation of the Judgment; but those that are
yet in the act of rising, have no thought but for the strange and
toilsome process of this second birth. Signorelli here, as
elsewhere, proves himself one of the greatest painters by the
simple means with which he produces the most marvellous effects.
His composition sways our souls with all the passion of the
terrible scenes that he depicts. Yet what does it contain? Two
stern angels on the clouds, a blank grey plain, and a multitude of
naked men and women. In the next compartment Hell is painted. This
is a complicated picture, consisting of a mass of human beings
entangled with torturing fiends. Above hover demons bearing damned
spirits, and three angels see that justice takes its course.
Signorelli here degenerates into no medi&aelig;val ugliness and
mere barbarity of form. His fiends are not the bestial creatures of
Pisano's basreliefs, but models of those monsters which Duppa has
engraved from Michel Angelo's 'Last Judgment'&mdash;lean naked men,
in whose hollow eyes glow the fires of hate and despair, whose
nails have grown to claws, and from whose ears have started horns.
They sail upon bats' wings; and only by their livid hue, which
changes from yellow to the ghastliest green, and by the cruelty of
their remorseless eyes, can you know them from the souls they
torture. In Hell ugliness and power of mischief come with length of
years. <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg151" id=
"pg151">151</a></span> Continual growth in crime distorts the form
which once was human; and the interchange of everlasting hatred
degrades the tormentor and his victim to the same demoniac
ferocity. To this design the science of foreshortening, and the
profound knowledge of the human form in every posture, give its
chief interest. Paradise is not less wonderful. Signorelli has
contrived to throw variety and grace into the somewhat monotonous
groups which this subject requires. Above are choirs of angels, not
like Fra Angelico's, but tall male creatures clothed in voluminous
drapery, with grave features and still, solemn eyes. Some are
dancing, some are singing to the lute, and one, the most gracious
of them all, bends down to aid a suppliant soul. The men beneath,
who listen in a state of bliss, are all undraped. Signorelli, in
this difficult composition, remains temperate, serene, and simple;
a Miltonic harmony pervades the movement of his angelic choirs.
Their beauty is the product of their strength and virtue. No floral
ornaments or cherubs, or soft clouds, are found in his Paradise;
yet it is fair and full of grace. Here Luca seems to have
anticipated Raphael.</p>

<p>It may be parenthetically observed, that Signorelli has
introduced himself and Niccolo Angeli, treasurer of the cathedral
building fund, in the corner of the fresco representing Antichrist,
with the date 1503. They stand as spectators and solemn witnesses
of the tragedy, set forth in all its acts by the great master.</p>

<p>After viewing these frescoes, we muse and ask ourselves why
Signorelli's fame is so inadequate to his deserts? Partly, no
doubt, because he painted in obscure Italian towns, and left few
easel-pictures.<a name="FNanchor_1_39" id="FNanchor_1_39" /><a
href="#Footnote_1_39" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> Besides, the
artists of the sixteenth <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg152" id=
"pg152">152</a></span> century eclipsed all their predecessors, and
the name of Signorelli has been swallowed up in that of Michel
Angelo. Vasari said that 'esso Michel Angelo imit&ograve; l'andar
di Luca, <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg153" id=
"pg153">153</a></span> come pu&ograve; vedere ognuno.' Nor is it
hard to see that what the one began at Orvieto the other completed
in the Vatican. These great men had truly kindred spirits. Both
struggled <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg154" id=
"pg154">154</a></span> to express their intellectual conceptions in
the simplest and most abstract forms. The works of both are
distinguished by contempt for adventitious ornaments and for the
grace of positive colour. Both chose to work in fresco, and
selected subjects of the gravest and most elevated character. The
study of anatomy, and the scientific drawing of the naked body,
which Luca practised, were carried to perfection by Michel Angelo.
Sublimity of thought and self-restraint pervade their compositions.
He who would understand Buonarroti must first appreciate
Signorelli. The latter, it is true, was confined to a narrower
circle in his study of the beautiful and the sublime. He had not
ascended to that pure idealism, superior to all the accidents of
place and time, which is the chief distinction of Michel Angelo's
work. At the same time, his manner had not suffered from too fervid
an enthusiasm for the imperfectly comprehended antique. He painted
the life he saw around him, and clothed his men and women in the
dress of Italy.</p>

<p>Such reflections, and many more, pass through our mind as we sit
and ponder in the chapel, which the daylight has deserted. The
country people are still on their knees, still careless of the
frescoed forms around them, still praying to Madonna of the
Miracles. The service is well-nigh done. The benediction has been
given, the organist strikes up his air of Verdi, and the
congregation shuffles off, leaving the dimly lighted chapel for the
vast sonorous dusky nave. How strange it is to hear that faint
strain of a feeble opera sounding where, a short while since, the
trumpet-blast of Signorelli's angels seemed to thrill our ears!</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_39" id="Footnote_1_39" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_39"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> The
Uffizzi and Pitti Galleries at Florence contain one or two fine
specimens of Luca Signorelli's Holy Families, which show his
influence over the early manner of Michel Angelo. Into the
background of one circular picture he has introduced a group of
naked figures, which was imitated by Buonarroti in the Holy Family
of the Tribune. The Accademia has also a picture of saints and
angels illustrative of his large style and crowded composition. The
Brera at Milan can boast of a very characteristic Flagellation,
where the nude has been carefully studied, and the brutality of an
insolent officer is forcibly represented. But perhaps the most
interesting of his works out of Orvieto are those in his native
place, Cortona. In the Church of the Ges&ugrave; in that town there
is an altar-piece representing Madonna in glory with saints, which
also contains on a smaller scale than the principal figures a
little design of the Temptation in Eden. You recognise the master's
individuality in the muscular and energetic Adam. The Duomo has a
Communion of the Apostles which shows Signorelli's independence of
tradition. It is the Cenacolo treated with freedom. Christ stands
in the midst of the twelve, who are gathered around him, some
kneeling and some upright, upon a marble pavement. The whole scene
is conceived in a truly grand style&mdash;noble attitudes, broad
draperies, sombre and rich colouring, masculine massing of the
figures in effective groups. The Christ is especially noble.
Swaying a little to the right, he gives the bread to a kneeling
apostle. The composition is marked by a dignity and self-restraint
which Raphael might have envied. San Niccolo, again, has a fine
picture by this master. It is a Deposition with saints and
angels&mdash;those large-limbed and wide-winged messengers of God
whom none but Signorelli realised. The composition of this picture
is hazardous, and at first sight it is even displeasing. The
figures seem roughly scattered in a vacant space. The dead Christ
has but little dignity, and the passion of S. Jerome in the
foreground is stiff in spite of its exaggeration. But long study
only serves to render this strange picture more and more
attractive. Especially noticeable is the youthful angel clad in
dark green who sustains Christ. He is a young man in the bloom of
strength and beauty, whose long golden hair falls on each side of a
sublimely lovely face. Nothing in painting surpasses the modelling
of the vigorous but delicate left arm stretched forward to support
the heavy corpse. This figure is conceived and executed in a style
worthy of the Orvietan frescoes. Signorelli, for whose imagination
angels had a special charm, has shown here that his too frequent
contempt for grace was not the result of insensibility to beauty.
Strength is the parent of sweetness in this wonderful winged youth.
But not a single sacrifice is made in the whole picture to mere
elegance.&mdash;Cortona is a place which, independently of
Signorelli, well deserves a visit. Like all Etruscan towns, it is
perched on the top of a high hill, whence it commands a wonderful
stretch of landscape&mdash;Monte Amiata and Montepulciano to the
south, Chiusi with its lake, the lake of Thrasymene, and the whole
broad Tuscan plain. The city itself is built on a projecting
buttress of the mountain, to which it clings so closely that, in
climbing to the terrace of S. Margarita, you lose sight of all but
a few towers and house-roofs. One can almost fancy that Signorelli
gained his broad and austere style from the habitual contemplation
of a view so severe in outline, and so vacant in its width. This
landscape has none of the variety which distinguishes the prospect
from Perugia, none of the suavity of Siena. It is truly sympathetic
in its bare simplicity to the style of the great painter of
Cortona. Try to see it on a winter morning, when the mists are
lying white and low and thin upon the plain, when distant hills
rise islanded into the air, and the outlines of lakes are just
discernible through fleecy haze.&mdash;Next to Cortona in
importance is the Convent of Monte Oliveto in the neighbourhood of
Siena, where Signorelli painted eight frescoes from the story of S.
Benedict, distinguished by his customary vigour of conception,
masculine force of design, and martial splendour in athletic
disdainful young men. One scene in this series, representing the
interior of a country inn, is specially interesting for a realism
not usual in the work of Signorelli. The frescoes painted for
Petruccio at Siena, one of which is now in the National Gallery,
the fresco in the Sistine Chapel, which has suffered sadly from
retouching, and the magnificent classical picture called the
'School of Pan,' executed for Lorenzo de' Medici, and now at
Berlin, must not be forgotten, nor yet the church-pictures
scattered over Loreto, Arcevia, Citt&agrave; di Castello, Borgo San
Sepolcro, Volterra, and other cities of the Tuscan-Umbrian
district. Arezzo, it may be added in conclusion, has two
altar-pieces of Signorelli's in its Pinacoteca, neither of which
adds much to our conception of this painter's style. Noticeable as
they may be among the works of that period, they prove that his
genius was hampered by the narrow and traditional treatment imposed
on him in pictures of this kind. Students may be referred to Robert
Vischer's <i>Luca Signorelli</i> (Leipzig, 1879) for a complete
list of the master's works and an exhaustive biography. I have
tried to estimate his place in the history of Italian art in my
volume on the 'Fine Arts,' <i>Renaissance in Italy</i>, Part III. I
may also mention two able articles by Professor Colvin published a
few years since in the <i>Cornhill Magazine</i>.</p>
</div>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg155" id=
"pg155">155</a></span></p>

<h3><a name="LUCRETIUS" id="LUCRETIUS" /><i>LUCRETIUS</i></h3>

<p>In seeking to distinguish the Roman from the Greek genius we can
find no surer guide than Virgil's famous lines in the Sixth
&AElig;neid. Virgil lived to combine the traditions of both races
in a work of profoundly meditated art, and to their points of
divergence he was sensitive as none but a poet bent upon resolving
them could be. The real greatness of the Romans consisted in their
capacity for government, law, practical administration. What they
willed, they carried into effect with an iron indifference to
everything but the object in view. What they acquired, they held
with the firm grasp of force, and by the might of organised
authority. Their architecture, in so far as it was original,
subserved purposes of public utility. Philosophy with them ceased
to be speculative, and applied itself to the ethics of conduct.
Their religious conceptions&mdash;in so far as these were not
adopted together with general culture from the Greeks, or together
with sensual mysticism from the East&mdash;were practical
abstractions. The Latin ideal was to give form to the state by
legislation, and to mould the citizen by moral discipline. The
Greek ideal was contained in the poetry of Homer, the sculpture of
Pheidias, the heroism of Harmodius, the philosophy of Socrates.
Hellas was held together by no system, but by the Delphic oracle
and the Olympian games. The Greeks depended upon culture, as the
Romans upon law. The national character determined by culture, and
that determined by discipline, eventually broke down: but the ruin
in either case <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg156" id=
"pg156">156</a></span> was different. The Greek became servile,
indolent, and slippery; the Roman became arrogant, bloodthirsty,
tyrannous, and brutal. The Greeks in their best days attained to
&sigma;&omega;&phi;&rho;&omicron;&sigma;&#973;&nu;&eta;, their
regulative virtue, by a kind of instinct; and even in their worst
debasement they never exhibited the extravagance of lust and
cruelty and pompous prodigality displayed by Rome. The Romans,
deficient in the &aelig;sthetic instinct, whether applied to morals
or to art, were temperate upon compulsion; and when the strain of
law relaxed, they gave themselves unchecked to profligacy. The bad
taste of the Romans made them aspire to the huge and monstrous.
Nero's whim to cut through the isthmus, Caligula's villa built upon
the sea at Bai&aelig;, the acres covered by imperial palaces in
Rome, are as Latin as the small scale of the Parthenon is Greek.
Athens annihilates our notions of mere magnitude by the
predominance of harmony and beauty, to which size is irrelevant.
Rome dilates them to the full: it is the colossal greatness, the
mechanical pride, of her monuments that win our admiration. By
comparing the Dionysian theatre at Athens, during a representation
of the 'Antigone,' with the Flavian amphitheatre at Rome, while the
gladiators sang their <i>Ave C&aelig;sar!</i> we gain at once a
measure for the differences between Greek and Latin taste. In
spiritual matters, again, Rome, as distinguished from Hellas, was
omnivorous. The cosmopolitan receptivity of Roman sympathies,
absorbing Egypt and the Orient wholesale, is as characteristic as
the exclusiveness of the Greeks, their sensitive anxiety about the
&#7974;&theta;&omicron;&sigmaf;. We feel that it was in a Roman
rather than a Greek atmosphere, where no middle term of art existed
like a neutral ground between the moral law and sin, where no
delicate intellectual sensibilities interfered with the
assimilation of new creeds, that Christianity was destined to
strike root and flourish.</p>

<p>These remarks, familiar to students, form a proper prelude to
<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg157" id="pg157">157</a></span> the
criticism of Lucretius: for in Lucretius the Roman character found
its most perfect literary incarnation. He is at all points a true
Roman, gifted with the strength, the conquering temper, the
uncompromising haughtiness, and the large scale of his race.
Holding, as it were, the thought of Greece in fee, he administers
the Epicurean philosophy as though it were a province, marshalling
his arguments like legionaries, and spanning the chasms of
speculative insecurity with the masonry of hypotheses. As the
arches of the Pont du Gard, suspended in their power amid that
solitude, produce an overmastering feeling of awe; so the huge
fabric of the Lucretian system, hung across the void of Nihilism,
inspires a sense of terror, not so much on its own account as for
the Roman sternness of the mind that made it. 'Le retentissement de
mes pas dans ces immenses vo&ucirc;tes me faisait croire entendre
la forte voix de ceux qui les avait b&acirc;ties. Je me perdais
comme un insecte dans cette immensit&eacute;.' This is what
Rousseau wrote about the aqueduct of Nismes. This is what we feel
in pacing the corridors of the Lucretian poem. Sometimes it seems
like walking through resounding caves of night and death, where
unseen cataracts keep plunging down uncertain depths, and winds
'thwarted and forlorn' swell from an unknown distance, and rush by,
and wail themselves to silence in the unexplored beyond. At another
time the impression left upon the memory is different. We have been
following a Roman road from the gate of the Eternal City, through
field and vineyard, by lake and river-bed, across the broad
intolerable plain and the barren tops of Alps, down into forests
where wild beasts and barbarian tribes wander, along the marge of
Rhine or Elbe, and over frozen fens, in one perpetual straight
line, until the sea is reached and the road ends because it can go
no further. All the while, the iron wheel-rims of our chariot have
jarred upon imperishable paved work; there has been no stop nor
stay; <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg158" id=
"pg158">158</a></span> the visions of things beautiful and strange
and tedious have flown past; at the climax we look forth across a
waste of waves and tumbling wilderness of surf and foam, where the
storm sweeps and hurrying mists drive eastward close above our
heads. The want of any respite, breathing-space, or intermission in
the poem, helps to force this image of a Roman journey on our mind.
From the first line to the last there is no turning-point, no pause
of thought, scarcely a comma, and the whole breaks off:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i4">rixantes potius quam corpora desererentur:</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>as though a scythe-sweep from the arm of Death had cut the
thread of singing short.</p>

<p>Is, then, this poem truly song? Indeed it is. The brazen voice
of Rome becomes tunable; a majestic rhythm sustains the progress of
the singer, who, like Milton's Satan,</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i1">O'er bog or steep, through strait, rough, dense, or
rare,</div>

<div class="i1">With head, hands, wings or feet, pursues his
way,</div>

<div class="i1">And swims, or sinks, or wades, or creeps, or
flies.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>It is only because, being so much a Roman, he insists on moving
ever onward with unwavering march, that Lucretius is often
wearisome and rough. He is too disdainful to care to mould the
whole stuff of his poem to one quality. He is too truth-loving to
condescend to rhetoric. The scori&aelig;, the grit, the dross, the
quartz, the gold, the jewels of his thought are hurried onward in
one mighty lava-flood, that has the force to bear them all with
equal ease&mdash;not altogether unlike that hurling torrent of the
world painted by Tintoretto in his picture of the Last Day, which
carries on its breast cities and forests and men with all their
works, to plunge them in a bottomless abyss.</p>

<p>Poems of the perfect Hellenic type may be compared to bronze
statues, in the material of which many divers metals <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg159" id="pg159">159</a></span> have been
fused. Silver and tin and copper and lead and gold are there: each
substance adds a quality to the mass; yet the whole is bronze. The
furnace of the poet's will has so melted and mingled all these
ores, that they have run together and filled the mould of his
imagination. It is thus that Virgil chose to work. He made it his
glory to realise artistic harmony, and to preserve a Greek balance
in his style. Not so Lucretius. In him the Roman spirit,
disdainful, uncompromising, and forceful, had full sway. We can
fancy him accosting the Greek masters of the lyre upon Parnassus,
deferring to none, conceding nought, and meeting their arguments
with proud indifference:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i1">tu regere imperio populos Romane memento.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>The Roman poet, swaying the people of his thoughts, will stoop
to no persuasion, adopt no middle course. It is not his business to
please, but to command; he will not wait upon the
&kappa;&alpha;&iota;&rho;&#972;&sigmaf;, or court opportunity;
Greeks may surprise the Muses in relenting moods, and seek out
'mollia tempora fandi;' all times and seasons must serve him; the
terrible, the discordant, the sublime, and the magnificent shall
drag his thundering car-wheels, as he lists, along the road of
thought.</p>

<p>At the very outset of the poem we feel ourselves within the
grasp of the Roman imagination. It is no Aphrodite, risen from the
waves and white as the sea-foam, that he invokes:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i2">&AElig;neadum genetrix, hominum divomque voluptas,
alma Venus.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>This Venus is the mother of the brood of Rome, and at the same
time an abstraction as wide as the universe. See her in the arms of
Mavors:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i5"><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg160" id=
"pg160">160</a></span> in gremium qui s&aelig;pe tuum se</div>

<div class="i2">reicit &aelig;terno devictus volnere amoris,</div>

<div class="i2">atque ita suspiciens tereti cervice reposta</div>

<div class="i2">pascit amore avidos inhians in te, dea,
visus,</div>

<div class="i2">eque tuo pendet resupini spiritus ore.</div>

<div class="i2">hunc tu, diva, tuo recubantem corpore sancto</div>

<div class="i2">circumfusa super, suavis ex ore loquelas</div>

<div class="i2">funde petens placidam Romanis, incluta,
pacem.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>In the whole Lucretian treatment of love there is nothing really
Greek. We do not hear of Eros, either as the mystic mania of Plato,
or as the winged boy of Meleager. Love in Lucretius is something
deeper, larger, and more elemental than the Greeks conceived; a
fierce and overmastering force, a natural impulse which men share
in common with the world of things.<a name="FNanchor_1_40" id=
"FNanchor_1_40" /><a href="#Footnote_1_40" class=
"fnanchor">[1]</a> Both the pleasures and the pains of love are
conceived on a gigantic scale, and described with an irony that has
the growl of a roused lion mingled with its laughter:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i2">ulcus enim vivescit et inveterascit alendo</div>

<div class="i2">inque dies gliscit furor atque aerumna
gravescit.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>The acts of love and the insanities of passion are viewed from
no standpoint of sentiment or soft emotion, but always in relation
to philosophical ideas, or as the manifestation of something
terrible in human life. Yet they lose nothing thereby in the
voluptuous impression left upon the fancy:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i2">sic in amore Venus simulacris ludit amantis,</div>

<div class="i2">nec satiare queunt spectando corpora coram</div>

<div class="i2">nec manibus quicquam teneris abradere membris</div>

<div class="i2">possunt errantes incerti corpore toto.</div>

<div class="i2"><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg161" id=
"pg161">161</a></span> denique cum membris conlatis flore
fruuntur</div>

<div class="i2">&aelig;tatis, iam cum pr&aelig;sagit gaudia
corpus</div>

<div class="i2">atque in eost Venus ut muliebria conserat
arva,</div>

<div class="i2">adfigunt avide corpus iunguntque salivas</div>

<div class="i2">oris et inspirant pressantes dentibus ora,</div>

<div class="i2">nequiquam, quoniam nil inde abradere possunt</div>

<div class="i2">nec penetrare et abire in corpus corpore
toto.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>The master-word in this passage is <i>nequiquam</i>. 'To desire
the impossible,' says the Greek proverb, 'is a disease of the
soul.' Lucretius, who treats of physical desire as a torment,
asserts the impossibility of its perfect satisfaction. There is
something almost tragic in these sighs and pantings and
pleasure-throes, and incomplete fruitions of souls pent up within
their frames of flesh. We seem to see a race of men and women such
as have never lived, except perhaps in Rome or in the thought of
Michel Angelo,<a name="FNanchor_2_41" id="FNanchor_2_41" /><a href=
"#Footnote_2_41" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> meeting in
leonine embracements that yield pain, whereof the climax is, at
best, relief from rage and respite for a moment from consuming
fire. There is a life d&aelig;monic rather than human in those
mighty limbs; and the passion that bends them on the marriage bed
has in it the stress of storms, the rampings and the roarings of
leopards at play. Or, take again this single line:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i2">et Venus in silvis iungebat corpora amantum.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>What a picture of primeval breadth and vastness! The <i>vice
&eacute;grillard</i> of Voltaire, the coarse animalism of Rabelais,
even the large comic sexuality of Aristophanes, are in another
region: for the forest is the world, and the bodies of the lovers
are things natural and unashamed, and Venus is the tyrannous
instinct that controls the blood in spring. Only a Roman poet could
have conceived of passion so mightily and <span class="pagenum"><a
name="pg162" id="pg162">162</a></span> so impersonally, expanding
its sensuality to suit the scale of Titanic existences, and purging
from it both sentiment and spirituality as well as all that makes
it mean.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_40" id="Footnote_1_40" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_40"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> A
fragment preserved from the <i>Danaides</i> of &AElig;schylus has
the thought of Aphrodite as the mistress of love in earth and sky
and sea and cloud; and this idea finds a philosophical expression
in Empedocles. But the tone of these Greek poets is as different
from that of Lucretius as a Greek Hera is from a Roman Juno.</p>
</div>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_2_41" id="Footnote_2_41" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_2_41"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> See,
for instance, his meeting of Ixion with the phantom of Juno, or his
design for Leda and the Swan.</p>
</div>

<p>In like manner, the Lucretian conception of Ennui is wholly
Roman:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i2">Si possent homines, proinde ac sentire
videntur</div>

<div class="i1">pondus inesse animo quod se gravitate
fatiget,</div>

<div class="i1">e quibus id fiat causis quoque noscere et
unde</div>

<div class="i1">tanta mali tamquam moles in pectore constet,</div>

<div class="i1">haut ita vitam agerent, ut nunc plerumque
videmus</div>

<div class="i1">quid sibi quisque velit nescire et qu&aelig;rere
semper</div>

<div class="i1">commutare locum quasi onus deponere possit.</div>

<div class="i1">exit s&aelig;pe foras magnis ex &aelig;dibus
ille,</div>

<div class="i1">esse domi quem pert&aelig;sumst, subitoque
revertit,</div>

<div class="i1">quippe foris nilo melius qui sentiat esse.</div>

<div class="i1">currit agens mannos ad villam
pr&aelig;cipitanter,</div>

<div class="i1">auxilium tectis quasi ferre ardentibus
instans;</div>

<div class="i1">oscitat extemplo, tetigit cum limina
vill&aelig;,</div>

<div class="i1">aut abit in somnum gravis atque oblivia
qu&aelig;rit,</div>

<div class="i1">aut etiam properans urbem petit atque
revisit,</div>

<div class="i1">hoc se quisque modo fugit (at quem scilicet, ut
fit,</div>

<div class="i1">effugere haut potis est, ingratis h&aelig;ret) et
odit</div>

<div class="i1">propterea, morbi quia causam non tenet
&aelig;ger;</div>

<div class="i1">quam bene si videat, iam rebus quisque
relictis</div>

<div class="i1">naturam primum studeat cognoscere rerum,</div>

<div class="i1">temporis &aelig;terni quoniam, non unius
hor&aelig;,</div>

<div class="i1">ambigitur status, in quo sit mortalibus omnis</div>

<div class="i1">&aelig;tas, post mortem qu&aelig; restat cumque
manenda.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>Virgil would not have written these lines. A Greek poet could
not have conceived them: unless we imagine to ourselves what
&AElig;schylus or Pindar, oppressed by long illness, and forgetful
of the gods, might possibly have felt. In its sense of spiritual
vacancy, when the world and all its uses have become flat, stale,
unprofitable, and the sentient soul oscillates like a pendulum
between weariful extremes, seeking repose in restless movement, and
hurling the ruins of a life into the gulf of its exhausted
cravings, we perceive already the symptoms of that unnamed <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg163" id="pg163">163</a></span> malady
which was the plague of imperial Rome. The tyrants and the suicides
of the Empire expand before our eyes a pageant of their lassitude,
relieved in vain by festivals of blood and orgies of unutterable
lust. It is not that <i>ennui</i> was a specially Roman disease.
Under certain conditions it is sure to afflict all overtaxed
civilisation; and for the modern world no one has expressed its
nature better than the slight and feminine De Musset.<a name=
"FNanchor_1_42" id="FNanchor_1_42" /><a href=
"#Footnote_1_42" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> Indeed, the Latin
language has no one phrase denoting Ennui;&mdash;<i>livor</i> and
<i>fastidium</i>, and even <i>t&aelig;dium vit&aelig;</i>, meaning
something more specific and less all-pervasive as a moral agency.
This in itself is significant, since it shows the unconsciousness
of the race at large, and renders the intuition of Lucretius all
the more remarkable. But in Rome there were the conditions
favourable to its development&mdash;imperfect culture, vehement
passions unabsorbed by commerce or by political life, the
habituation to extravagant excitement in war and in the circus, and
the fermentation of an age foredestined to give birth to new
religious creeds. When the infinite but ill-assured power of the
Empire was conferred on semi-madmen, Ennui in Rome assumed colossal
proportions. Its victims sought for palliatives in cruelty and
crime elsewhere unknown, except perhaps in Oriental courts.
Lucretius, in the last days of the Republic, had discovered its
deep significance for human nature. To all the pictures of Tacitus
it forms a solemn tragic background, enhancing, as it were, by
spiritual gloom the carnival of passions which gleam so brilliantly
upon his canvas. In the person of Caligula, Ennui sat supreme upon
the throne of the terraqueous globe. The insane desires and the
fantastic deeds of the autocrat who wished one head for humanity
that he might cut it off, sufficiently reveal the extent to which
his spirit had been gangrened by this ulcer. There <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg164" id="pg164">164</a></span> is a simple
paragraph in Suetonius which lifts the veil from his imperial
unrest more ruthlessly than any legend:&mdash;'Incitabatur
insomniis maxime; neque enim plus tribus horis nocturnis
quiescebat, ac ne his quidem placid&acirc; quiete, at pavid&acirc;,
miris rerum imaginibus ... ideoque magn&acirc; parte noctis,
vigili&aelig; cubandique t&aelig;dio, nunc toro residens, nunc per
longissimas porticus vagus, invocare identidem atque expectare
lucem consueverat.' This is the very picture of Ennui that has
become mortal disease. Nor was Nero different. 'N&eacute;ron,' says
Victor Hugo, 'cherche tout simplement une distraction. Po&euml;te,
com&eacute;dien, chanteur, cocher, &eacute;puisant la
f&eacute;rocit&eacute; pour trouver la volupt&eacute;, essayant le
changement de sexe, &eacute;poux de l'eunuque Sporus et
&eacute;pouse de l'esclave Pythagore, et se promenant dans les rues
de Rome entre sa femme et son mari; ayant deux plaisirs: voir le
peuple se jeter sur les pi&egrave;ces d'or, les diamants et les
perles, et voir les lions se jeter sur le peuple; incendiaire par
curiosit&eacute; et parricide par d&eacute;soeuvrement.' Nor need
we stop at Nero. Over Vitellius at his banquets, over Hadrian in
his Tiburtine villa calling in vain on Death, over Commodus in the
arena, and Heliogabalus among the rose-leaves, the same livid
shadow of imperial Ennui hangs. We can even see it looming behind
the noble form of Marcus Aurelius, who, amid the ruins of empire
and the revolutions of belief, penned in his tent among the Quadi
those maxims of endurance which were powerless to regenerate the
world.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_42" id="Footnote_1_42" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_42"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> See the
prelude to <i>Les Confessions d'un Enfant du Si&egrave;cle</i> and
<i>Les Nuits</i>.</p>
</div>

<p>Roman again, in the true sense of the word, is the Lucretian
philosophy of Conscience. Christianity has claimed the celebrated
imprecation of Persius upon tyrants for her own, as though to her
alone belonged the secret of the soul-tormenting sense of guilt.
Yet it is certain that we owe to the Romans that conception of sin
bearing its own fruit of torment which the Latin
Fathers&mdash;Augustine and Tertullian&mdash; <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg165" id="pg165">165</a></span> imposed with
such terrific force upon the medi&aelig;val consciousness. There is
no need to conclude that Persius was a Christian because he
wrote&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i4">Magne pater divum, s&aelig;vos punire tyrannos,
etc.,</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>when we know that he had before his eyes that passage in the
third book of the 'De Rerum Natur&acirc;,' (978-1023) which reduces
the myths of Tityos and Sisyphus and Cerberus and the Furies to
facts of the human soul:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i4">sed metus in vita poenarum pro male factis</div>

<div class="i4">est insignibus insignis, scelerisque luella,</div>

<div class="i4">carcer et horribilis de saxo iactu' deorsum,</div>

<div class="i4">verbera carnifices robur pix lammina
t&aelig;d&aelig;;</div>

<div class="i4">qu&aelig; tamen etsi absunt, at mens sibi conscia
facti</div>

<div class="i4">pr&aelig;metuens adhibet stimulos terretque
flagellis</div>

<div class="i4">nec videt interea qui terminus esse malorum</div>

<div class="i4">possit nec qu&aelig; sit poenarum denique
finis</div>

<div class="i4">atque eadem metuit magis h&aelig;c ne in morte
gravescant.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>The Greeks, by personifying those secret terrors, had removed
them into a region of existences separate from man. They became
dread goddesses, who might to some extent be propitiated by
exorcisms or expiatory rites. This was in strict accordance with
the mythopoeic and artistic quality of the Greek intellect. The
stern and somewhat prosaic rectitude of the Roman broke through
such figments of the fancy, and exposed the sore places of the soul
itself. The theory of the Conscience, moreover, is part of the
Lucretian polemic against false notions of the gods and the
pernicious belief in hell.</p>

<p>Positivism and Realism were qualities of Roman as distinguished
from Greek culture. There was no self-delusion in
Lucretius&mdash;no attempt, however unconscious, to compromise
unpalatable truth, or to invest philosophy with the charm of myth.
A hundred illustrations might be chosen to prove his method of
setting forth thought with unadorned simplicity. These, however,
are familiar to any one who has but opened <span class="pagenum"><a
name="pg166" id="pg166">166</a></span> the 'De Rerum Natur&acirc;.'
It is more profitable to trace this Roman ruggedness in the poet's
treatment of the subject which more than any other seems to have
preoccupied his intellect and fascinated his imagination&mdash;that
is Death. His poem has been called by a great critic the 'poem of
Death.' Shakspere's line&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i4">And Death once dead, there's no more dying
then,</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>might be written as a motto on the title-page of the book, which
is full of passages like this:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i4">scire licet nobis nil esse in morte timendum</div>

<div class="i4">nec miserum fieri qui non est posse neque
hilum</div>

<div class="i4">differre anne ullo fuerit iam tempore natus,</div>

<div class="i4">mortalem vitam mors cum immortalis ademit.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>His whole mind was steeped in the thought of death; and though
he can hardly be said to have written 'the words that shall make
death exhilarating,' he devoted his genius, in all its energy, to
removing from before men the terror of the doom that waits for all.
Sometimes, in his attempt at consolation, he adduces images which,
like the Delphian knife, are double-handled, and cut both
ways:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i4">hinc indignatur se mortalem esse creatum</div>

<div class="i4">nec videt in vera nullum fore morte alium se</div>

<div class="i4">qui possit vivus sibi se lugere peremptum</div>

<div class="i4">stansque iacentem se lacerari urive dolere.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>This suggests, by way of contrast, Blake's picture of the soul
that has just left the body and laments her separation. As we read,
we are inclined to lay the book down, and wonder whether the
argument is, after all, conclusive. May not the spirit, when she
has quitted her old house, be forced to weep and wring her hands,
and stretch vain shadowy arms to the limbs that were so dear? No
one has felt more profoundly than Lucretius the pathos of the dead.
The intensity with <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg167" id=
"pg167">167</a></span> which he realised what we must lose in dying
and what we leave behind of grief to those who loved us, reaches a
climax of restrained passion in this well-known
paragraph:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i4">'iam iam non domus accipiet te l&aelig;ta, neque
uxor</div>

<div class="i4">optima nec dulces occurrent oscula nati</div>

<div class="i4">pr&aelig;ripere et tacita pectus dulcedine
tangent.</div>

<div class="i4">non poteris factis florentibus esse, tuisque</div>

<div class="i4">pr&aelig;sidium. misero misere' aiunt 'omnia
ademit</div>

<div class="i4">una dies infesta tibi tot pr&aelig;mia
vit&aelig;.'</div>

<div class="i4">illud in his rebus non addunt 'nec tibi earum</div>

<div class="i4">iam desiderium rerum super insidet una.'</div>

<div class="i4">quod bene si videant animo dictisque
sequantur,</div>

<div class="i4">dissoluant animi magno se angore metuque.</div>

<div class="i4">'tu quidem ut es leto sopitus, sic eris
&aelig;vi</div>

<div class="i4">quod superest cunctis privatu' doloribus
&aelig;gris.</div>

<div class="i4">at nos horrifico cinefactum te prope busto</div>

<div class="i4">insatiabiliter deflevimus, &aelig;ternumque</div>

<div class="i4">nulla dies nobis m&aelig;rorem e pectore
demet.'</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>Images, again, of almost medi&aelig;val grotesqueness, rise in
his mind when he contemplates the universality of Death. Simonides
had dared to say: 'One horrible Charybdis waits for all.' That was
as near a discord as a Greek could venture on. Lucretius describes
the open gate and 'huge wide-gaping maw' which must devour heaven,
earth, and sea, and all that they contain:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i4">haut igitur leti pr&aelig;clusa est ianua
c&aelig;lo</div>

<div class="i4">nec soli terr&aelig;que neque altis &aelig;quoris
undis,</div>

<div class="i4">sed patet immani et vasto respectat hiatu.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>The ever-during battle of life and death haunts his imagination.
Sometimes he sets it forth in philosophical array of argument.
Sometimes he touches on the theme with elegiac pity:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i12">miscetur funere vagor</div>

<div class="i4">quem pueri tollunt visentis luminis oras;</div>

<div class="i4">nec nox ulla diem neque noctem aurora
secutast</div>

<div class="i4">qu&aelig; non audierit mixtos vagitibus
&aelig;gris</div>

<div class="i4">ploratus mortis comites et funeris atri.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg168" id="pg168">168</a></span>
Then again he returns, with obstinate persistence, to describe how
the dread of death, fortified by false religion, hangs like a pall
over humanity, and how the whole world is a cemetery overshadowed
by cypresses. The most sustained, perhaps, of these passages is at
the beginning of the third book (lines 31 to 93). The most
profoundly melancholy is the description of the new-born child (v.
221):&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i9">quare mors immatura vagatur?</div>

<div class="i4">tum porro puer, ut s&aelig;vis proiectus ab
undis</div>

<div class="i4">navita, nudus humi iacet, infans, indigus
omni</div>

<div class="i4">vitali auxilio, cum primum in luminis oras</div>

<div class="i4">nixibus ex alvo matris natura profudit,</div>

<div class="i4">vagituque locum lugubri complet, ut
&aelig;cumst</div>

<div class="i4">cui tantum in vita restet transire malorum.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>Disease and old age, as akin to Death, touch his imagination
with the same force. He rarely alludes to either without some lines
as terrible as these (iii. 472, 453):&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i4">nam dolor ac morbus leti fabricator
uterquest.</div>

<div class="i4">claudicat ingenium, delirat lingua, labat
mens.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>Another kindred subject affects him with an equal pathos. He
sees the rising and decay of nations, age following after age, like
waves hurrying to dissolve upon a barren shore, and writes (ii.
75):&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i10">sic rerum summa novatur</div>

<div class="i4">semper, et inter se mortales mutua vivunt,</div>

<div class="i4">augescunt ali&aelig; gentes, ali&aelig;
minuuntur,</div>

<div class="i4">inque brevi spatio mutantur s&aelig;cla
animantum</div>

<div class="i4">et quasi cursores vitai lampada tradunt.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>Although the theme is really the procession of life through
countless generations, it obtains a tone of sadness from the sense
of intervenient decay and change. No Greek had the heart thus to
dilate his imagination with the very element of death. What the
Greeks commemorated when they spoke of Death was the loss of the
lyre and the hymeneal chaunt, and <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg169" id="pg169">169</a></span> the passage across dim waves to a
sunless land. Nor indeed does Lucretius, like the modern poet of
Democracy, ascend into the regions of ecstatic trance:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i4">Lost in the loving, floating ocean of thee,</div>

<div class="i4">Laved in the flood of thy bliss, O Death.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>He keeps his reason cool, and sternly contemplates the thought
of the annihilation which awaits all perishable combinations of
eternal things. Like Milton, Lucretius delights in giving the life
of his imagination to abstractions. Time, with his retinue of ages,
sweeps before his vision, and he broods in fancy over the
illimitable ocean of the universe. The fascination of the infinite
is the quality which, more than any other, separates Lucretius as a
Roman poet from the Greeks.</p>

<p>Another distinctive feature of his poetry Lucretius inherited as
part of his birthright. This is the sense of Roman greatness. It
pervades the poem, and may be felt in every part; although to
Athens, and the Greek sages, Democritus, Empedocles, Anaxagoras,
Heraclitus, and Epicurus, as the fountain-heads of soul-delivering
culture, he reserves his most magnificent periods of panegyric. Yet
when he would fain persuade his readers that the fear of death is
nugatory, and that the future will be to them even as the past, it
is the shock of Rome with Carthage that he dwells upon as the
critical event of the world's history (iii. 830):&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i5">Nil igitur mors est ad nos neque pertinet
hilum,</div>

<div class="i4">quandoquidem natura animi mortalis habetur.</div>

<div class="i4">et velut anteacto nil tempore sensimus
&aelig;gri,</div>

<div class="i4">ad confligendum venientibus undique Poenis,</div>

<div class="i4">omnia cum belli trepido concussa tumultu</div>

<div class="i4">horrida contremuere sub altis &aelig;theris
oris,</div>

<div class="i4"><i>in dubioque fuere utrorum ad regna
cadendum</i></div>

<div class="i4"><i>omnibus humanis esset terraque
marique</i>,</div>

<div class="i4">sic:</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>The lines in italics could have been written by none but a <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg170" id="pg170">170</a></span> Roman
conscious that the conflict with Carthage had decided the absolute
empire of the habitable world. In like manner the description of a
military review (ii. 323) is Roman: so, too, is that of the
amphitheatre (iv. 75):&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i4">et volgo faciunt id lutea russaque vela</div>

<div class="i4">et ferrugina, cum magnis intenta theatris</div>

<div class="i4">per malos volgata trabesque trementia
flutant.</div>

<div class="i4">namque ibi consessum caveai supter et omnem</div>

<div class="i4">sc&aelig;nai speciem, patrum coetumque
decorum</div>

<div class="i4">inficiunt coguntque suo fluitare colore.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>The imagination of Lucretius, however, was habitually less
affected by the particular than by the universal. He loved to dwell
upon the large and general aspects of things&mdash;on the
procession of the seasons, for example, rather than upon the
landscape of the Campagna in spring or autumn. Therefore it is only
occasionally and by accident that we find in his verse touches
peculiarly characteristic of the manners of his country. Therefore,
again, it has happened that modern critics have detected a lack of
patriotic interest in this most Roman of all Latin poets. Also may
it here be remembered, that the single line which sums up all the
history of Rome in one soul-shaking hexameter, is not Lucretian but
Virgilian:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i2">Tant&aelig; molis erat Romanam condere
gentem.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>The custode of the Baths of Titus, when he lifts his torch to
explore those ruined arches, throws the wan light upon one place
where a Roman hand has scratched that verse in gigantic letters on
the cement. The colossal genius of Rome seems speaking to us, an
oracle no lapse of time can render dumb.</p>

<p>But Lucretius is not only the poet <i>par excellence</i> of
Rome. He will always rank also among the first philosophical poets
of the world: and here we find a second standpoint for inquiry. The
question how far it is practicable to express <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg171" id="pg171">171</a></span> philosophy in
verse, and to combine the accuracy of scientific language with the
charm of rhythm and the ornaments of the fancy, is one which
belongs rather to modern than to ancient criticism. In the progress
of culture there has been an ever-growing separation between the
several spheres of intellectual activity. What Livy said about the
Roman Empire is true now of knowledge: <i>magnitudine laborat
su&acirc;</i>; so that the labour of specialising and
distinguishing has for many centuries been all-important. Not only
do we disbelieve in the desirability of smearing honey upon the lip
of the medicine-glass through which the draught of erudition has to
be administered; but we know for certain that it is only at the
meeting-points between science and emotion that the philosophic
poet finds a proper sphere. Whatever subject-matter can be
permeated or penetrated with strong human feeling is fit for verse.
Then the rhythms and the forms of poetry to which high passions
naturally move, become spontaneous. The emotion is paramount, and
the knowledge conveyed is valuable as supplying fuel to the fire of
feeling. There are, were, and always will be high imaginative
points of vantage commanding the broad fields of knowledge, upon
which the poet may take his station to survey the world and all
that it contains. But it has long ceased to be his function to set
forth, in any kind of metre, systems of speculative thought or
purely scientific truths. This was not the case in the old world.
There was a period in the development of the intellect when the
abstractions of logic appeared like intuitions, and guesses about
the structure of the universe still wore the garb of fancy. When
physics and metaphysics were scarcely distinguished from mythology,
it was natural to address the Muses at the outset of a treatise of
ontology, and to cadence a theory of elemental substances in
hexameter verse. Thus the philosophical poems of Xenophanes,
Parmenides, and <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg172" id=
"pg172">172</a></span> Empedocles belonged essentially to a
transitional stage of human culture.</p>

<p>There is a second species of poetry to which the name of
philosophical may be given, though it better deserves that of
mystical. Pantheism occupies a middle place between a scientific
theory of the universe and a form of religious enthusiasm. It
supplies an element in which the poetic faculty can move with
freedom: for its conclusions, in so far as they pretend to
philosophy, are large and general, and the emotions which it
excites are co-extensive with the world. Therefore, Pantheistic
mysticism, from the Bhagavadgita of the far East, through the
Persian Soofis, down to the poets of our own century, Goethe, and
Shelley, and Wordsworth, and Whitman, and many more whom it would
be tedious to enumerate, has generated a whole tribe of philosophic
singers.</p>

<p>Yet a third class may be mentioned. Here we have to deal with
what are called didactic poems. These, like the metaphysical epic,
began to flourish in early Greece at the moment when exact thought
was dividing itself laboriously from myths and fancies. Hesiod with
his poem on the life of man leads the way; and the writers of moral
sentences in elegiac verse, among whom Solon and Theognis occupy
the first place, follow. Latin literature contributes highly
artificial specimens of this kind in the 'Georgics' of Virgil, the
stoical diatribes of Persius, and the 'Ars Poetica' of Horace.
Didactic verse had a special charm for the genius of the Latin
race. The name of such poems in the Italian literature of the
Renaissance is legion. The French delighted in the same style under
the same influences; nor can we fail to attribute the 'Essay on
Man' and the 'Essay on Criticism' of our own Pope to a similar
revival in England of Latin forms of art. The taste for didactic
verse has declined. Yet in its stead another sort of philosophical
poetry has grown up in this century, which, for <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg173" id="pg173">173</a></span> the want of a
better term, may be called psychological. It deserves this title,
inasmuch as the motive-interest of the art in question is less the
passion or the action of humanity than the analysis of the same.
The 'Faust' of Goethe, the 'Prelude' and 'Excursion' of Wordsworth,
Browning's 'Sordello' and Mrs. Browning's 'Aurora Leigh,' together
with the 'Musings' of Coleridge and the 'In Memoriam' of Tennyson,
may be roughly reckoned in this class. It will be noticed that
nothing has been said about professedly religious poetry, much of
which attaches itself to mysticism, while some, like the 'Divine
Comedy' of Dante, is philosophic in the truest sense of the
word.</p>

<p>Where, then, are we to place Lucretius? He was a Roman, imbued
with the didactic predilections of the Latin race; and the didactic
quality of the 'De Rerum Natur&acirc;' is unmistakable. Yet it
would be uncritical to place this poem in the class which derives
from Hesiod. It belongs really to the succession of Xenophanes,
Parmenides, and Empedocles. As such it was an anachronism. The
specific moment in the development of thought at which the
Parmenidean Epic was natural has been already described. The Romans
of the age of Lucretius had advanced far beyond it. The idealistic
metaphysics of the Socratic school, the positive ethics of the
Stoics, and the profound materialism of Epicurus, had accustomed
the mind to habits of exact and subtle thinking, prolonged from
generation to generation upon the same lines of speculative
inquiry. Philosophy expressed in verse was out of date. Moreover,
the very myths had been rationalised. Euhemerus had even been
translated into Latin by Ennius, and his prosaic explanations of
Greek legend had found acceptance with the essentially positive
Roman intellect. Lucretius himself, it may be said in passing,
thought it worth while to offer a philosophical explanation of the
Greek mythology. The Cybele of the poets <span class="pagenum"><a
name="pg174" id="pg174">174</a></span> is shown in one of his
sublimest passages (ii. 600-645) to be Earth. To call the sea
Neptune, corn Ceres, and wine Bacchus, seems to him a simple folly
(ii. 652-657). We have already seen how he reduces the fiends and
spectres of the Greek Hades to facts of moral subjectivity (iii.
978-1023). In another place he attacks the worship of Phoebus and
the stars (v. 110); in yet another he upsets the belief in the
Centaurs, Scylla, and Chim&aelig;ra (v. 877-924) with a gravity
which is almost comic. Such arguments formed a necessary element in
his polemic against foul religion (foeda religio&mdash;turpis
religio); to deliver men from which (i. 62-112), by establishing
firmly in their minds the conviction that the gods exist far away
from this world in unconcerned tranquillity (ii. 646), and by
substituting the notion of Nature for that of deity (ii. 1090), was
the object of his scientific demonstration.</p>

<p>Lucretius, therefore, had outgrown mythology, was hostile to
religion, and burned with unsurpassable enthusiasm to indoctrinate
his Roman readers with the weighty conclusions of systematised
materialism. Yet he chose the vehicle of hexameter verse, and
trammelled his genius with limitations which Empedocles, four
hundred years before, must have found almost intolerable. It needed
the most ardent intellectual passion and the loftiest inspiration
to sustain on his far flight a poet who had forged a hoplite's
panoply for singing robes. Both passion and inspiration were
granted to Lucretius in full measure. And just as there was
something contradictory between the scientific subject-matter and
the poetical form of his masterpiece, so the very sources of his
poetic strength were such as are usually supposed to depress the
soul. His passion was for death, annihilation, godlessness. It was
not the eloquence, but the force of logic in Epicurus that roused
his enthusiasm:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i4">ergo vivida vis animi pervicit et extra</div>

<div class="i4">processit longe flammantia moenia mundi.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg175" id="pg175">175</a></span>
No other poet who ever lived in any age, or any shore, drew
inspiration from founts more passionless and more impersonal.</p>

<p>The 'De Rerum Natur&acirc;' is therefore an attempt, unique in
its kind, to combine philosophical exposition and poetry in an age
when the requirements of the former had already outgrown the
resources of the latter. Throughout the poem we trace a discord
between the matter and the form. The frost of reason and the fire
of fancy war in deadly conflict; for the Lucretian system destroyed
nearly everything with which the classical imagination loved to
play. It was only in some high ethereal region, before the majestic
thought of Death or the new Myth of Nature, that the two faculties
of the poet's genius met for mutual support. Only at rare intervals
did he allow himself to make artistic use of mere mythology, as in
the celebrated exordium of the first book, or the description of
the Seasons in the fifth book (737-745). For the most part reason
and fancy worked separately: after long passages of scientific
explanation, Lucretius indulged his readers with those pictures of
unparalleled sublimity and grace which are the charm of the whole
poem; or dropping the phraseology of atoms, void, motion, chance,
he spoke at times of Nature as endowed with reason and a will (v.
186, 811, 846).</p>

<p>It would be beyond the scope of this essay to discuss the
particular form given by Lucretius to the Democritean philosophy.
He believed the universe to be composed of atoms, infinite in
number, and variable, to a finite extent, in form, which drift
slantingly through an infinite void. Their combinations under the
conditions of what we call space and time are transitory, while
they remain themselves imperishable. Consequently, as the soul
itself is corporeally constituted, and as thought and sensation
depend on mere material idola, men may divest themselves of any
fear of the hereafter. There is no such thing as providence, nor do
the <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg176" id="pg176">176</a></span>
gods concern themselves with the kaleidoscopic medley of atoms in
transient combination which we call our world. The latter were
points of supreme interest to Lucretius. He seems to have cared for
the cosmology of Epicurus chiefly as it touched humanity through
ethics and religion. To impartial observers, the identity or the
divergence of the forms assumed by scientific hypothesis at
different periods of the world's history is not a matter of much
importance. Yet a peculiar interest has of late been given to the
Lucretian materialism by the fact that physical speculation has
returned to what is substantially the same ground. The most modern
theories of evolution and of molecular structure may be stated in
language which, allowing for the progress made by exact thought
during the last twenty centuries, is singularly like that of
Lucretius. The Roman poet knew fewer facts than are familiar to our
men of science, and was far less able to analyse one puzzle into a
whole group of unexplained phenomena. He had besides but a feeble
grasp upon those discoveries which subserve the arts of life and
practical utility. But as regards <i>absolute
knowledge</i>&mdash;knowledge, that is to say, of what the universe
really is, and of how it became what it seems to us to
be&mdash;Lucretius stood at the same point of ignorance as we,
after the labours of Darwin and of Spencer, of Helmholtz and of
Huxley, still do. Ontological speculation is as barren now as then,
and the problems of existence still remain insoluble. The chief
difference indeed between him and modern investigators is that they
have been lessoned by the experience of the last two thousand years
to know better the depths of human ignorance, and the directions in
which it is possible to sound them.</p>

<p>It may not be uninteresting to collect a few passages in which
the Roman poet has expressed in his hexameters the lines of thought
adopted by our most advanced theorists. <span class="pagenum"><a
name="pg177" id="pg177">177</a></span> Here is the general
conception of Nature, working by her own laws toward the
achievement of that result which we apprehend through the medium of
the senses (ii. 1090):&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i5">Qu&aelig; bene cognita si teneas, natura
videtur</div>

<div class="i4">libera continuo dominis privata superbis</div>

<div class="i4">ipsa sua per se sponte omnia dis agere
expers.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>Here again is a demonstration of the absurdity of supposing that
the world was made for the use of men (v. 156):&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i4">dicere porro hominum causa voluisse parare</div>

<div class="i4">pr&aelig;claram mundi naturam proptereaque</div>

<div class="i4">adlaudabile opus divom laudare decere</div>

<div class="i4">&aelig;ternumque putare atque inmortale
futurum</div>

<div class="i4">nec fas esse, deum quod sit ratione vetusta</div>

<div class="i4">gentibus humanis fundatum perpetuo &aelig;vo,</div>

<div class="i4">sollicitare suis ulla vi ex sedibus umquam</div>

<div class="i4">nec verbis vexare et ab imo evertere summa,</div>

<div class="i4">cetera de genere hoc adfingere et addere,
Memmi</div>

<div class="i4">desiperest.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>A like cogent rhetoric is directed against the arguments of
toleology (iv. 823):&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i5">Illud in his rebus vitium vementer avessis</div>

<div class="i4">effugere, errorem vitareque
pr&aelig;metuenter,</div>

<div class="i4">lumina ne facias oculorum clara creata,</div>

<div class="i4">prospicere ut possemus, et ut proferre
queamus</div>

<div class="i4">proceros passus, ideo fastigia posse</div>

<div class="i4">surarum ac feminum pedibus fundata plicari,</div>

<div class="i4">bracchia tum porro validis ex apta lacertis</div>

<div class="i4">esse manusque datas utraque ex parte
ministras,</div>

<div class="i4">ut facere ad vitam possemus qu&aelig; foret
usus.</div>

<div class="i4">cetera de genere hoc inter qu&aelig;cumque
pretantur</div>

<div class="i4">omnia perversa pr&aelig;postera sunt ratione,</div>

<div class="i4">nil ideo quoniam natumst in corpore ut uti</div>

<div class="i4">possemus, sed quod natumst id procreat usum.</div>

<div class="i4">nec fuit ante videre oculorum lumina nata</div>

<div class="i4">nec dictis orare prius quam lingua creatast,</div>

<div class="i4">sed potius longe lingu&aelig; pr&aelig;cessit
origo</div>

<div class="i4">sermonem multoque creat&aelig; sunt prius
aures</div>

<div class="i4"><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg178" id=
"pg178">178</a></span> quam sonus est auditus, et omnia denique
membra</div>

<div class="i4">ante fuere, ut opinor, eorum quam foret usus.</div>

<div class="i4">haud igitur potuere utendi crescere causa.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>The ultimate dissolution and the gradual decay of the
terrestrial globe is set forth in the following luminous passage
(ii. 1148):&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i2">Sic igitur magni quoque circum moenia mundi</div>

<div class="i2">expugnata dabunt labem putrisque ruinas.</div>

<div class="i2">iamque adeo fracta est &aelig;tas effetaque
tellus</div>

<div class="i2">vix animalia parva creat qu&aelig; cuncta
creavit</div>

<div class="i2">s&aelig;cla deditque ferarum ingentia corpora
partu.<a name="FNanchor_1_43" id="FNanchor_1_43" /><a href=
"#Footnote_1_43" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></div>
</div>
</div>

<p>The same mind which recognised these probabilities knew also
that our globe is not single, but that it forms one among an
infinity of sister orbs (ii. 1084):&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i2">quapropter c&aelig;lum simili ratione
fatendumst</div>

<div class="i2">terramque et solem lunam mare, cetera qu&aelig;
sunt</div>

<div class="i2">non esse unica, sed numero magis innumerali.<a
name="FNanchor_2_44" id="FNanchor_2_44" /><a href=
"#Footnote_2_44" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></div>
</div>
</div>

<p>When Lucretius takes upon himself to describe the process of
becoming which made the world what it now is, he seems to incline
to a theory not at all dissimilar to that of unassisted evolution
(v. 419):&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i4">nam certe neque consilio primordia rerum</div>

<div class="i4">ordine se suo qu&aelig;que sagaci mente
locarunt</div>

<div class="i4">nec quos qu&aelig;que darent motus pepigere
profecto,</div>

<div class="i4">sed quia multa modis multis primordia rerum</div>

<div class="i4">ex infinito iam tempore percita plagis</div>

<div class="i4">ponderibusque suis consuerunt concita ferri</div>

<div class="i4">omnimodisque coire atque omnia pertemptare,</div>

<div class="i4">qu&aelig;cumque inter se possent congressa
creare,</div>

<div class="i4">propterea fit uti magnum volgata per
&aelig;vom</div>

<div class="i4">omne genus coetus et motus experiundo</div>

<div class="i4"><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg179" id=
"pg179">179</a></span> tandem conveniant ea qu&aelig; convecta
repente</div>

<div class="i4">magnarum rerum fiunt exordia s&aelig;pe,</div>

<div class="i4">terrai maris et c&aelig;li generisque
animantum.</div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_43" id="Footnote_1_43" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_43"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Compare
book v. 306-317 on the evidences of decay continually at work in
the fabric of the world.</p>
</div>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_2_44" id="Footnote_2_44" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_2_44"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> The
same truth is insisted on with even greater force of language in
vi. 649-652.</p>
</div>

<p>Entering into the details of the process, he describes the many
ill-formed, amorphous beginnings of organised life upon the globe,
which came to nothing, 'since nature set a ban upon their increase'
(v. 837-848); and then proceeds to explain how, in the struggle for
existence, the stronger prevailed over the weaker (v. 855-863).
What is really interesting in this exposition is that Lucretius
ascribes to nature the volition ('convertebat ibi natura foramina
terr&aelig;;' 'quoniam natura absterruit auctum') which has
recently been attributed by materialistic speculators to the same
maternal power.</p>

<p>To press these points, and to neglect the gap which separates
Lucretius from thinkers fortified by the discoveries of modern
chemistry, astronomy, physiology, and so forth, would be childish.
All we can do is to point to the fact that the circumambient
atmosphere of human ignorance, with reference to the main matters
of speculation, remains undissipated. The mass of experience
acquired since the age of Lucretius is enormous, and is infinitely
valuable; while our power of tabulating, methodising, and extending
the sphere of experimental knowledge seems to be unlimited. Only
ontological deductions, whether negative or affirmative, remain
pretty much where they were then.</p>

<p>The fame of Lucretius, however, rests not on this foundation of
hypothesis. In his poetry lies the secret of a charm which he will
continue to exercise as long as humanity chooses to read Latin
verse. No poet has created a world of larger and nobler images,
designed with the <i>sprezzatura</i> of indifference to mere
gracefulness, but all the more fascinating because of the artist's
negligence. There is something monumental in the effect produced by
his large-sounding single <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg180" id=
"pg180">180</a></span> epithets and simple names. We are at home
with the d&aelig;monic life of nature when he chooses to bring Pan
and his following before our eyes (iv. 580). Or, again, the Seasons
pass like figures on some frieze of Mantegna, to which, by divine
accident, has been added the glow of Titian's colouring<a name=
"FNanchor_1_45" id="FNanchor_1_45" /><a href=
"#Footnote_1_45" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> (v.
737):&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i4">it ver et Venus, et veris pr&aelig;nuntius
ante</div>

<div class="i4">pennatus graditur zephyrus, vestigia propter</div>

<div class="i4">Flora quibus mater pr&aelig;spargens ante
viai</div>

<div class="i4">cuncta coloribus egregiis et odoribus opplet.</div>

<div class="i4">inde loci sequitur calor aridus et comes una</div>

<div class="i4">pulverulenta Ceres et etesia flabra
aquilonum,</div>

<div class="i4">inde antumnus adit, graditur simul Eubius
Euan,</div>

<div class="i4">inde ali&aelig; tempestates ventique
secuntur,</div>

<div class="i4">altitonans Volturnus et auster fulmine
pollens.</div>

<div class="i4">tandem bruma nives adfert pigrumque rigorem,</div>

<div class="i4">prodit hiemps, sequitur crepitans hanc dentibus
algor.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>With what a noble style, too, are the holidays of the primeval
pastoral folk described (v. 1379-1404). It is no mere celebration
of the <i>bell' et&agrave; dell' oro</i>: but we see the woodland
glades, and hear the songs of shepherds, and feel the hush of
summer among rustling forest trees, while at the same time all is
far away, in a better, simpler, larger age. The sympathy of
Lucretius for every form of country life was very noticeable. It
belonged to that which was most deeply and sincerely poetic in the
Latin genius, whence Virgil drew his sweetest strain of melancholy,
and Horace his most unaffected pictures, and Catullus the
tenderness of his best lines on Sirmio. No Roman surpassed the
pathos with which <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg181" id=
"pg181">181</a></span> Lucretius described the separation of a cow
from her calf (ii. 352-365). The same note indeed was touched by
Virgil in his lines upon the forlorn nightingale, and in the
peroration to the third 'Georgic.' But the style of Virgil is more
studied, the feeling more artistically elaborated. It would be
difficult to parallel such Lucretian passages in Greek poetry. The
Greeks lacked an undefinable something of rusticity which dignified
the Latin race. This quality was not altogether different from what
we call homeliness. Looking at the busts of Romans, and noticing
their resemblance to English country gentlemen, I have sometimes
wondered whether the Latin genius, just in those points where it
differed from the Greek, was not approximated to the English.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_45" id="Footnote_1_45" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_45"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> The
elaborate illustration of the first four lines of this passage,
painted by Botticelli (in the Florence Academy of Fine Arts),
proves Botticelli's incapacity or unwillingness to deal with the
subject in the spirit of the original. It is graceful and 'subtle'
enough, but not Lucretian.</p>
</div>

<p>All subjects needing a large style, brief and rapid, but at the
same time luminous with imagination, were sure of the right
treatment from Lucretius. This is shown by his enumeration of the
celestial signs (v. 1188):&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i4">in c&aelig;loque deum sedes et templa
locarunt,</div>

<div class="i4">per c&aelig;lum volvi quia nox et luna
videtur,</div>

<div class="i4">luna dies et nox et noctis signa severa</div>

<div class="i4">noctivag&aelig;que faces c&aelig;li flamm&aelig;que
volantes,</div>

<div class="i4">nubila sol imbres nix venti fulmina grando</div>

<div class="i4">et rapidi fremitus et murmura magna minarum.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>Again, he never failed to rise to an occasion which required the
display of fervid eloquence. The Roman eloquence, which in its
energetic volubility was the chief force of Juvenal, added a tidal
strength and stress of storm to the quick gathering thoughts of the
greater poet. The exordia to the first and second books, the
analysis of Love in the fourth, the praises of Epicurus in the
third and fifth, the praises of Empedocles and Ennius in the first,
the elaborate passage on the progress of civilisation in the fifth,
and the description of the plague at <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg182" id="pg182">182</a></span> Athens which closes the sixth,
are noble instances of the sublimest poetry sustained and hurried
onward by the volume of impassioned improvisation. It is difficult
to imagine that Lucretius wrote slowly. The strange word
<i>vociferari</i>, which he uses so often, and which the Romans of
the Augustan age almost dropped from their poetic vocabulary, seems
exactly made to suit his utterance. Yet at times he tempers the
full torrent of resonant utterance with divine tranquillity, and
leaves upon our mind that sense of powerful aloofness from his
subject, which only belongs to the mightiest poets in their most
majestic moments. One instance of this rare felicity of style shall
end the list of our quotations (v. 1194):&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i4">O genus infelix humanum, talia divis</div>

<div class="i4">cum tribuit facta atque iras adiunxit
acerbas!</div>

<div class="i4">quantos tum gemitus ipsi sibi, quantaque
nobis</div>

<div class="i4">volnera, quas lacrimas peperere minoribu'
nostris!</div>

<div class="i4">nec pietas ullast velatum s&aelig;pe videri</div>

<div class="i4">vertier ad lapidem atque omnis accedere ad
aras</div>

<div class="i4">nec procumbere humi prostratum et pandere
palmas</div>

<div class="i4">ante deum delubra nec aras sanguine multo</div>

<div class="i4">spargere quadrupedum nec votis nectere vota,</div>

<div class="i4">sed mage pacata posse omnia mente tueri.</div>

<div class="i4">nam cum suspicimus magni c&aelig;lestia mundi</div>

<div class="i4">ellisque micantibus &aelig;thera fixum,</div>

<div class="i4">et venit in mentem solis lun&aelig;que
viarum,</div>

<div class="i4">tunc aliis oppressa malis in pectora cura</div>

<div class="i4">illa quoque expergefactum caput erigere
infit,</div>

<div class="i4">ne qu&aelig; forte deum nobis inmensa
potestas</div>

<div class="i4">sit, vario motu qu&aelig; candida sidera
verset.</div>

<div class="i4">temptat enim dubiam mentem rationis egestas,</div>

<div class="i4">ecqu&aelig;nam fuerit mundi genitalis origo,</div>

<div class="i4">et simul ecqu&aelig; sit finis, quoad moenia
mundi</div>

<div class="i4">solliciti motus hunc possint ferre laborem,</div>

<div class="i4">an divinitus &aelig;terna donata salute</div>

<div class="i4">perpetuo possint &aelig;vi labentia tractu</div>

<div class="i4">inmensi validas &aelig;vi contemnere viris.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>It would be impossible to adduce from any other poet a <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg183" id="pg183">183</a></span> passage
in which the deepest doubts and darkest terrors and most vexing
questions that beset the soul, are touched with an eloquence more
stately and a pathos more sublime. Without losing the sense of
humanity, we are carried off into the infinite. Such poetry is as
imperishable as the subject of which it treats.</p>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg184" id=
"pg184">184</a></span></p>

<h3><a name="ANTINOUS" id="ANTINOUS" /><i>ANTINOUS</i></h3>

<p>Visitors to picture and sculpture galleries are haunted by the
forms of two handsome young men&mdash;Sebastian and Antinous. Both
were saints: the one of decadent Paganism, the other of
mythologising Christianity. According to the popular beliefs to
which they owed their canonisation, both suffered death in the
bloom of earliest manhood for the faith that burned in them. There
is, however, this difference between the two&mdash;that whereas
Sebastian is a shadowy creature of the pious fancy, Antinous
preserves a marked and unmistakable personality. All his statues
are distinguished by unchanging characteristics. The pictures of
Sebastian vary according to the ideal of adolescent beauty
conceived by each successive artist. In the frescoes of Perugino
and Luini he shines with the pale pure light of saintliness. On the
canvas of Sodoma he reproduces the voluptuous charm of youthful
Bacchus, with so much of anguish in his martyred features as may
serve to heighten his d&aelig;monic fascination. On the richer
panels of the Venetian masters he glows with a flame of earthly
passion aspiring heavenward. Under Guido's hand he is a model of
mere carnal comeliness. And so forth through the whole range of the
Italian painters. We know Sebastian only by his arrows. The case is
very different with Antinous. Depicted under diverse
attributes&mdash;as Hermes of the wrestling-ground, as
Arist&aelig;us or Vertumnus, as Dionysus, as Ganymede, as Herakles,
or as a god of ancient Egypt&mdash;his individuality is always
prominent. No metamorphosis of <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg185" id="pg185">185</a></span> divinity can change the
lineaments he wore on earth. And this difference, so marked in the
artistic presentation of the two saints, is no less striking in
their several histories. The legend of Sebastian tells us nothing
to be relied upon, except that he was a Roman soldier converted to
the Christian faith, and martyred. In spite of the perplexity and
mystery that involve the death of Antinous in impenetrable gloom,
he is a true historic personage, no phantom of myth, but a man as
real as Hadrian, his master.</p>

<p>Antinous, as he appears in sculpture, is a young man of eighteen
or nineteen years, almost faultless in his form. His beauty is not
of a pure Greek type. Though perfectly proportioned and developed
by gymnastic exercises to the true athletic fulness, his limbs are
round and florid, suggesting the possibility of early
over-ripeness. The muscles are not trained to sinewy firmness, but
yielding and elastic; the chest is broad and singularly swelling;
and the shoulders are placed so far back from the thorax that the
breasts project beyond them in a massive arch. It has been asserted
that one shoulder is slightly lower than the other. Some of the
busts seem to justify this statement; but the appearance is due
probably to the different position of the two arms, one of which,
if carried out, would be lifted and the other be depressed. The
legs and arms are modelled with exquisite grace of outline; yet
they do not show that readiness for active service which is
noticeable in the statues of the Meleager, the Apoxyomenos, or the
Belvedere Hermes. The whole body combines Greek beauty of structure
with something of Oriental voluptuousness. The same fusion of
diverse elements may be traced in the head. It is not too large,
though more than usually broad, and is nobly set upon a massive
throat, slightly inclined forwards, as though this posture were
habitual; the hair lies thick in clusters, which only form curls at
the tips. The forehead <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg186" id=
"pg186">186</a></span> is low and somewhat square; the eyebrows are
level, of a peculiar shape, and very thick, converging so closely
as almost to meet above the deep-cut eyes. The nose is straight,
but blunter than is consistent with the Greek ideal. Both cheeks
and chin are delicately formed, but fuller than a severe taste
approves: one might trace in their rounded contours either a
survival of infantine innocence and immaturity, or else the sign of
rapidly approaching over-bloom. The mouth is one of the loveliest
ever carved; but here again the blending of the Greek and Oriental
types is visible. The lips, half parted, seem to pout; and the
distance between mouth and nostrils is exceptionally short. The
undefinable expression of the lips, together with the weight of the
brows and slumberous half-closed eyes, gives a look of sulkiness or
voluptuousness to the whole face. This, I fancy, is the first
impression which the portraits of Antinous produce; and Shelley has
well conveyed it by placing the two following phrases, 'eager and
impassioned tenderness' and 'effeminate sullenness,' in close
juxtaposition.<a name="FNanchor_1_46" id="FNanchor_1_46" /><a href=
"#Footnote_1_46" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> But, after longer
familiarity with the whole range of Antinous's portraits, and after
study of his life, we are brought to read the peculiar expression
of his face and form somewhat differently. A prevailing melancholy,
sweetness of temperament overshadowed by resignation, brooding
reverie, the innocence of youth, touched and saddened by a calm
resolve or an accepted doom&mdash;such are the sentences we form to
give distinctness to a still vague and uncertain impression. As we
gaze, Virgil's lines upon the young Marcellus recur to our mind:
what seemed sullen, becomes mournful; the unmistakable
voluptuousness is transfigured in tranquillity.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_46" id="Footnote_1_46" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_46"><span class="label">[1]</span></a>
Fragment, <i>The Coliseum</i>.</p>
</div>

<p>After all is said and written, the statues of Antinous do not
render up their secret. Like some of the Egyptian gods with whom he
was associated, he remains for us a sphinx, <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg187" id="pg187">187</a></span> secluded in the
shade of a 'mild mystery.' His soul, like the Harpocrates he
personated, seems to hold one finger on closed lips, in token of
eternal silence. One thing, however, is certain. We have before us
no figment of the artistic imagination, but a real youth of
incomparable beauty, just as nature made him, with all the
inscrutableness of undeveloped character, with all the pathos of a
most untimely doom, with the almost imperceptible imperfections
that render choice reality more permanently charming than the
ideal. It has been disputed whether the Antinous statues are
portraits or idealised works of inventive art; and it is usually
conceded that the sculptors of Hadrian's age were not able to
produce a new ideal type. Critics, therefore, like Helbig and
Overbeck, arrive at the conclusion that Antinous was one of
nature's masterpieces, modelled in bronze, marble, and granite with
almost flawless technical dexterity. Without attaching too much
weight to this kind of criticism, it is well to find the decisions
of experts in harmony with the instincts of simple observers.
Antinous is as real as any man who ever sat for his portrait to a
modern sculptor.</p>

<p>But who was Antinous, and what is known of him? He was a native
of Bithynium or Claudiopolis, a Greek town claiming to have been a
colony from Arcadia, which was situated near the Sangarius, in the
Roman province of Bithynia; therefore he may have had pure Hellenic
blood in his veins, or, what is more probable, his ancestry may
have been hybrid between the Greek immigrants and the native
populations of Asia Minor. Antinous was probably born in the first
decade of the second century of our era. About his youth and
education we know nothing. He first appears upon the scene of the
world's history as Hadrian's friend. Whether the Emperor met with
him during his travels in Asia Minor, whether he found him among
the students of the University at <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg188" id="pg188">188</a></span> Athens, or whether the boy had
been sent to Rome in his childhood, must remain matter of the
merest conjecture. We do not even know for certain whether Antinous
was free or a slave. The report that he was one of the Emperor's
pages rests upon the testimony of Hegesippus, quoted by a Christian
Father, and cannot therefore be altogether relied upon. It
receives, however, some confirmation from the fact that Antinous is
more than once represented in the company of Hadrian and Trajan in
a page's hunting dress upon the basreliefs which adorn the Arch of
Constantine. The so-called Antinous-Castor of the Villa Albani is
probably of a similar character. Winckelmann, who adopted the
tradition as trustworthy, pointed out the similarity between the
portraits of Antinous and some lines in Ph&aelig;drus, which
describe a curly-haired <i>atriensis</i>. If Antinous took the rank
of <i>atriensis</i> in the imperial <i>p&aelig;dagogium</i>, his
position would have been, to say the least, respectable; for to
these upper servants was committed the charge of the <i>atrium</i>,
where the Romans kept their family archives, portraits, and works
of art. Yet he must have quitted this kind of service some time
before his death, since we find him in the company of Hadrian upon
one of those long journeys in which an <i>atriensis</i> would have
had no <i>atrium</i> to keep. By the time of Hadrian's visit to
Egypt, Antinous had certainly passed into the closest relationship
with his imperial master; and what we know of the Emperor's
inclination towards literary and philosophical society perhaps
justifies the belief that the youth he admitted to his friendship
had imbibed Greek culture, and had been initiated into those cloudy
metaphysics which amused the leisure of semi-Oriental thinkers in
the last age of decaying Paganism.</p>

<p>It was a moment in the history of the human mind when East and
West were blending their traditions to form the husk of Christian
creeds and the fantastic visions of neo-Platonism. <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg189" id="pg189">189</a></span> Rome herself
had received with rapture the strange rites of Nilotic and of
Syrian superstition. Alexandria was the forge of fanciful
imaginations, the majority of which were destined to pass like
vapours and leave not a wrack behind, while a few fastened with the
force of dogma on the conscience of awakening Christendom. During
Hadrian's reign it was still uncertain which among the many hybrid
products of that motley age would live and flourish; and the
Emperor, we know, dreamed fondly of reviving the cults and
restoring the splendour of degenerate Hellas. At the same time he
was not averse to the more mystic rites of Egypt: in his villa at
Tivoli he built a Serapeum, and named one of its quarters Canopus.
What part Antinous may have taken in the projects of his friend and
master we know not; yet, when we come to consider the circumstances
of his death, it may not be superfluous to have thus touched upon
the intellectual conditions of the world in which he lived. The
mixed blood of the boy, born and bred in a Greek city near the
classic ground of Dindymean rites, and his beauty, blent of
Hellenic and Eastern qualities, may also not unprofitably be
remembered. In such a youth, nurtured between Greece and Asia,
admitted to the friendship of an emperor for whom neo-Hellenism was
a life's dream in the midst of grave state-cares, influenced by the
dark and symbolical creeds of a dimly apprehended East, might there
not have lurked some spark of enthusiasm combining the impulses of
Atys and Aristogeiton, pathetic even in its inefficiency when
judged by the light of modern knowledge, but heroic at that moment
in its boundless vista of great deeds to be accomplished?</p>

<p>After journeying through Greece, Asia Minor, Syria, Palestine,
and Arabia, Hadrian, attended by Antinous, came to Egypt. He there
restored the tomb of Pompey, near Pelusium, with great
magnificence, and shortly afterwards <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg190" id="pg190">190</a></span> embarked from Alexandria upon the
Nile, proceeding on his journey through Memphis into the
Theba&iuml;d. When he had arrived near an ancient city named Besa,
on the right bank of the river, he lost his friend. Antinous was
drowned in the Nile. He had thrown himself, it was believed, into
the water; seeking thus by a voluntary death to substitute his own
life for Hadrian's, and to avert predicted perils from the Roman
Empire. What these perils were, and whether Hadrian was ill, or
whether an oracle had threatened him with approaching calamity, we
do not know. Even supposition is at fault, because the date of the
event is still uncertain; some authorities placing Hadrian's
Egyptian journey in the year 122, and others in the year 130 A.D.
Of the two dates, the second seems the more probable. We are left
to surmise that, if the Emperor was in danger, the recent
disturbances which followed a new discovery of Apis, may have
exposed him to fanatical conspiracy. The same doubt affects an
ingenious conjecture that rumours which reached the Roman court of
a new rising in Jud&aelig;a had disturbed the Emperor's mind, and
led to the belief that he was on the verge of a mysterious doom. He
had pacified the Empire and established its administration on a
solid basis. Yet the revolt of the indomitable Jews&mdash;more
dreaded since the days of Titus than any other perturbation of the
imperial economy&mdash;would have been enough, especially in Egypt,
to engender general uneasiness. However this may have been, the
grief of the Emperor, intensified either by gratitude or remorse,
led to the immediate canonisation of Antinous. The city where he
died was rebuilt, and named after him. His worship as a hero and as
a god spread far and wide throughout the provinces of the
Mediterranean. A new star, which appeared about the time of his
decease, was supposed to be his soul received into the company of
the immortals. Medals were struck in his honour, <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg191" id="pg191">191</a></span> and countless
works of art were produced to make his memory undying. Great cities
wore wreaths of red lotos on his feast-day in commemoration of the
manner of his death. Public games were celebrated in his honour at
the city Antino&euml;, and also in Arcadian Mantinea. This
canonisation may probably have taken place in the fourteenth year
of Hadrian's reign, A.D. 130.<a name="FNanchor_1_47" id=
"FNanchor_1_47" /><a href="#Footnote_1_47" class=
"fnanchor">[1]</a> Antinous continued to be worshipped until the
reign of Valentinian.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_47" id="Footnote_1_47" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_47"><span class="label">[1]</span></a>
Overbeck, Hausrath, and Mommsen, following apparently the
conclusions arrived at by Flemmer in his work on Hadrian's
journeys, place it in 130 A.D. This would leave an interval of only
eight years between the deaths of Antinous and Hadrian. It may here
be observed that two medals of Antinous, referred by Rasche with
some hesitation to the Egyptian series, bear the dates of the
eighth and ninth years of Hadrian's reign. If these coins are
genuine, and if we accept Flemmer's conclusions, they must have
been struck in the lifetime of Antinous. Neither of them represents
Antinous with the insignia of deity: one gives the portrait of
Hadrian upon the reverse.</p>
</div>

<p>Thus far I have told a simple story, as though the details of
the youth's last days were undisputed. Still we are as yet but on
the threshold of the subject. All that we have any right to take
for uncontested is that Antinous passed from this life near the
city of Besa, called thereafter Antinoopolis or Antino&euml;.
Whether he was drowned by accident, whether he drowned himself in
order to save Hadrian by vicarious suffering, or whether Hadrian
sacrificed him in order to extort the secrets of fate from
blood-propitiated deities, remains a question buried in the deepest
gloom. With a view to throwing such light as is possible upon the
matter, we must proceed to summon in their order the most
trustworthy authorities among the ancients.</p>

<p>Dion Cassius takes precedence. In compiling his life of Hadrian,
he had beneath his eyes the Emperor's own 'Commentaries,' published
under the name of the freedman Phlegon. We therefore learn from him
at least what the <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg192" id=
"pg192">192</a></span> friend of Antinous wished the world to know
about his death; and though this does not go for much, since
Hadrian is himself an accused person in the suit before us, yet the
whole Roman Empire may be said to have accepted his account, and
based on it a pious cult that held its own through the next three
centuries of growing Christianity. Dion, in the abstract of his
history compiled by Xiphilinus, speaks then to this effect: 'In
Egypt he also built the city named after Antinous. Now Antinous was
a native of Bithynium, a city of Bithynia, which we also call
Claudiopolis. He was Hadrian's favourite, and he died in Egypt:
whether by having fallen into the Nile, as Hadrian writes, or by
having been sacrificed, as the truth was. For Hadrian, as I have
said, was in general over-much given to superstitious subtleties,
and practised all kinds of sorceries and magic arts. At any rate he
so honoured Antinous, whether because of the love he felt for him,
or because he died voluntarily, since a willing victim was needed
for his purpose, that he founded a city in the place where he met
this fate, and called it after him, and dedicated statues, or
rather images, of him in, so to speak, the whole inhabited world.
Lastly, he affirmed that a certain star which he saw was the star
of Antinous, and listened with pleasure to the myths invented by
his companions about this star having really sprung from the soul
of his favourite, and having then for the first time appeared. For
which things he was laughed at.'</p>

<p>We may now hear what Spartian, in his 'Vita Hadriani,' has to
say: 'He lost his favourite, Antinous, while sailing on the Nile,
and lamented him like a woman. About Antinous reports vary, for
some say that he devoted his life for Hadrian, while others hint
what his condition seems to prove, as well as Hadrian's excessive
inclination to luxury. Some Greeks, at the instance of Hadrian,
canonised him, asserting that oracles were <span class="pagenum"><a
name="pg193" id="pg193">193</a></span> given by him, which Hadrian
himself is supposed to have made up.'</p>

<p>In the third place comes Aurelius Victor: 'Others maintain that
this sacrifice of Antinous was both pious and religious; for when
Hadrian was wishing to prolong his life, and the magicians required
a voluntary vicarious victim, they say that, upon the refusal of
all others, Antinous offered himself.'</p>

<p>These are the chief authorities. In estimating them we must
remember that, though Dion Cassius wrote less than a century after
the event narrated, he has come down to us merely in fragments and
in the epitome of a Byzantine of the twelfth century, when
everything that could possibly be done to discredit the worship of
Antinous, and to blacken the memory of Hadrian, had been attempted
by the Christian Fathers. On the other hand, Spartianus and
Aurelius Victor compiled their histories at too distant a date to
be of first-rate value. Taking the three reports together, we find
that antiquity differed about the details of Antinous's death.
Hadrian himself averred that his friend was drowned; and it was
surmised that he had drowned himself in order to prolong his
master's life. The courtiers, however, who had scoffed at Hadrian's
fondness for his favourite, and had laughed to see his sorrow for
his death, somewhat illogically came to the conclusion that
Antinous had been immolated by the Emperor, either because a victim
was needed to prolong his life, or because some human sacrifice was
required in order to complete a dark mysterious magic rite. Dion,
writing not very long after the event, believed that Antinous had
been immolated for some such purpose with his own consent.
Spartian, who wrote at the distance of more than a century, felt
uncertain about the question of self-devotion; but Aurelius Victor,
following after the interval of another century, unhesitatingly
adopted Dion's view, and gave it a fresh colour. This opinion he
summarised in a <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg194" id=
"pg194">194</a></span> compact, authoritative form, upon which we
may perhaps found an assumption that the belief in Antinous, as a
self-devoted victim, had been gradually growing through two
centuries.</p>

<p>There are therefore three hypotheses to be considered. The first
is that Antinous died an accidental death by drowning; the second
is, that Antinous, in some way or another, gave his life willingly
for Hadrian's; the third is, that Hadrian ordered his immolation in
the performance of magic rites.</p>

<p>For the first of the three hypotheses we have the authority of
Hadrian himself, as quoted by Dion. The simple words
&epsilon;&#7984;&sigmaf; &tau;&omicron;&nu;
&Nu;&epsilon;&iota;&lambda;&omicron;&nu;
&epsilon;&kappa;&pi;&epsilon;&sigma;&#8060;&nu; imply no more than
accidental death; and yet, if the Emperor had believed the story of
his favourite's self-devotion, it is reasonable to suppose that he
would have recorded it in his 'Memoirs.' Accepting this view of the
case, we must refer the deification of Antinous wholly to Hadrian's
affection; and the tales of his <i>devotio</i> may have been
invented partly to flatter the Emperor's grief, partly to explain
its violence to the Roman world. This hypothesis seems, indeed, by
far the most natural of the three; and if we could strip the
history of Antinous of its mysterious and mythic elements, it is
rational to believe that we should find his death a simple
accident. Yet our authorities prove that writers of history among
the ancients wavered between the two other theories of (i)
Self-Devotion and (ii) Immolation, with a bias toward the latter.
These, then, have now to be considered with some attention. Both,
it may parenthetically be observed, relieve Antinous from a moral
stigma, since in either case a pure untainted victim was
required.</p>

<p>If we accept the former of the two remaining hypotheses, we can
understand how love and gratitude, together with sorrow, led
Hadrian to canonise Antinous. If we accept the latter, Hadrian's
sorrow itself becomes inexplicable; and we <span class="pagenum"><a
name="pg195" id="pg195">195</a></span> must attribute the
foundation of Antino&euml; and the deification of Antinous to
remorse. It may be added, while balancing these two solutions of
the problem, that cynical sophists, like Hadrian's Gr&aelig;culi,
were likely to have put the worst construction on the Emperor's
passion, and to have invented the worst stories concerning the
favourite's death. To perpetuate these calumnious reports was the
real interest of the Christian apologists, who not unnaturally
thought it scandalous that a handsome page should be deified. Thus,
at first sight, the balance of probability inclines toward the
former of the two solutions, while the second may be rejected as
based upon court-gossip and religious animosity. Attention may also
again be called to the fact that Hadrian ventured to publish an
account of Antinous quite inconsistent with what Dion chose to call
the truth, and that virtuous Emperors like the Antonines did not
interfere with a cult, which, had it been paid to the mere victim
of Hadrian's passion and his superstition, would have been an
infamy even in Rome. Moreover, that cult was not, like the
creations of the impious emperors, forgotten or destroyed by public
acclamation. It took root and flourished apparently, as we shall
see, because it satisfied some craving of the popular religious
sense, and because the people believed that this man had died for
his friend. It will not, however, do to dismiss the two hypotheses
so lightly.</p>

<p>The alternative of self-devotion presents itself under a double
aspect. Antinous may either have committed suicide by drowning with
the intention of prolonging the Emperor's life, or he may have
offered himself as a voluntary victim to the magicians, who
required a sacrifice for a similar purpose. Spartian's brief
phrase, <i>aliis eum devotum pro Hadriano</i>, may seem to point to
the first form of self-devotion; the testimony of Aurelius Victor
clearly supports the second: yet it does not much matter which of
the two explanations we adopt. <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg196" id="pg196">196</a></span> The point is whether Antinous
gave his life willingly to save the Emperor's, or whether he was
murdered for the satisfaction of some superstitious curiosity. It
was absolutely necessary that the vicarious victim should make a
free and voluntary oblation of himself. That the notion of
vicarious suffering was familiar to the ancients is sufficiently
attested by the phrases
&alpha;&nu;&tau;&#943;&psi;&upsilon;&chi;&omicron;&iota;,
&alpha;&nu;&tau;&alpha;&nu;&delta;&rho;&omicron;&iota;, and
<i>hostia succidanea</i>. We find traces of it in the legend of
Alcestis, who died for Admetus, and of Cheiron, who took the place
of Prometheus in Hades. Suetonius records that in the first days of
Caligula's popularity, when he was labouring under dangerous
illness, many Romans of both sexes vowed their lives for his
recovery in temples of the gods. That this superstition retained a
strong hold on the popular imagination in the time of Hadrian is
proved by the curious affirmation of Aristides, a contemporary of
that Emperor. He says that once, when he was ill, a certain
Philumene offered her soul for his soul, her body for his body, and
that, upon his own recovery, she died. On the same testimony it
appears that her brother Hermeas had also died for Aristides. This
faith in the efficacy of substitution is persistent in the human
race. Not long ago a Christian lady was supposed to have vowed her
own life for the prolongation of that of Pope Pius IX., and good
Catholics inclined to the belief that the sacrifice had been
accepted. We shall see that in the first centuries of Christendom
the popular conviction that Antinous had died for Hadrian brought
him into inconvenient rivalry with Christ, whose vicarious
suffering was the cardinal point of the new creed.</p>

<p>The alternative of immolation has next to be considered. The
question before us here is, Did Hadrian sacrifice Antinous for the
satisfaction of a superstitious curiosity, and in the performance
of magic rites? Dion Cassius uses the word
&#7985;&epsilon;&rho;&omicron;&upsilon;&rho;&gamma;&eta;&theta;&epsilon;&iota;&sigmaf;,
and explains it by saying that Hadrian needed a voluntary <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg197" id="pg197">197</a></span> human
victim for the accomplishment of an act of divination in which he
was engaged. Both Spartian and Dion speak emphatically of the
Emperor's proclivities to the black art; and all antiquity agreed
about this trait in his character. Ammianus Marcellinus spoke of
him as '<i>futurorum sciscitationi nimi&aelig; deditum</i>.'
Tertullian described him as '<i>curiositatum omnium
exploratorem</i>.' To multiply such phrases would, however, be
superfluous, for they are probably mere repetitions from the text
of Dion. That human victims were used by the Romans of the Empire
seems certain. Lampridius, in the 'Life of Heliogabalus,' records
his habit of slaying handsome and noble youths, in order that he
might inspect their entrails. Eusebius, in his 'Life of Maxentius,'
asserts the same of that Emperor. <i>Quum inspiceret exta
puerilia</i>, &nu;&epsilon;&omicron;&gamma;&nu;&omicron;&nu;
&sigma;&pi;&lambda;&#940;&gamma;&chi;&nu;&alpha;
&beta;&rho;&#941;&phi;&omega;&nu;
&delta;&iota;&epsilon;&rho;&epsilon;&upsilon;&nu;&omicron;&mu;&#941;&nu;&omicron;&upsilon;,
are the words used by Lampridius and Eusebius. Justin Martyr speaks
of
&epsilon;&pi;&omicron;&pi;&tau;&epsilon;&#973;&sigma;&epsilon;&iota;&sigmaf;
&pi;&alpha;&#943;&delta;&omega;&nu;
&alpha;&delta;&iota;&alpha;&phi;&theta;&#972;&rho;&omicron;&nu;.
Caracalla and Julian are credited with similar bloody sacrifices.
Indeed, it may be affirmed in general that tyrants have ever been
eager to foresee the future and to extort her secrets from Fate,
stopping short at no crime in the attempt to quiet a corroding
anxiety for their own safety. What we read about Italian
despots&mdash;Ezzelino da Romano, Sigismondo Malatesta, Filippo
Maria Visconti, and Pier Luigi Farnese&mdash;throws light upon the
practice of their Imperial predecessors; while the mysterious
murder of the beautiful Astorre Manfredi by the Borgias in
Hadrian's Mausoleum has been referred by modern critics of
authority to the same unholy curiosity. That Hadrian laboured under
this moral disease, and that he deliberately used the body of
Antinous for <i>extispicium</i>, is, I think, Dion's opinion. But
are we justified in reckoning Hadrian among these tyrants? That
must depend upon our view of his character.</p>

<p>Hadrian was a man in whom the most conflicting qualities <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg198" id="pg198">198</a></span> were
blent. In his youth and through his whole life he was passionately
fond of hunting; hardy, simple in his habits, marching bareheaded
with his legions through German frost and Nubian heat, sharing the
food of his soldiers, and exercising the most rigid military
discipline. At the same time he has aptly been described as 'the
most sumptuous character of antiquity.' He filled the cities of the
empire with showy buildings, and passed his last years in a kind of
classic Munich, where he had constructed imitations of every
celebrated monument in Europe. He was so far fond of nature that,
anticipating the most recently developed of modern tastes, he
ascended Mount &AElig;tna and the Mons Casius, in order to enjoy
the spectacle of sunrise. In his villa at Tivoli he indulged a
trivial fancy by christening one garden Tempe and another the
Elysian Fields; and he had his name carved on the statue of the
vocal Memnon with no less gusto than a modern tourist: <i>audivi
voces divinas</i>. His memory was prodigious, his eloquence in the
Latin language studied and yet forcible, his knowledge of Greek
literature and philosophy far from contemptible. He enjoyed the
society of Sophists and distinguished rhetoricians, and so far
affected authorship as to win the unenviable title of
<i>Gr&aelig;culus</i> in his own lifetime: yet he never neglected
state affairs. Owing to his untiring energy and vast capacity for
business, he not only succeeded in reorganising every department of
the empire, social, political, fiscal, military, and municipal; but
he also held in his own hands the threads of all its complicated
machinery. He was strict in matters of routine, and appears to have
been almost a martinet among his legions: yet in social intercourse
he lived on terms of familiarity with inferiors, combining the
graces of elegant conversation with the <i>bonhomie</i> of boon
companionship, displaying a warm heart to his friends, and using
magnificent generosity. He restored the <span class="pagenum"><a
name="pg199" id="pg199">199</a></span> domestic as well as the
military discipline of the Roman world; and his code of laws lasted
till Justinian. Among many of his useful measures of reform he
issued decrees restricting the power of masters over their slaves,
and depriving them of their old capital jurisdiction. His
biographers find little to accuse him of beyond a singular avidity
for fame, addiction to magic arts and luxurious vices: yet they
adduce no proof of his having, at any rate before the date of his
final retirement to his Tiburtine villa, shared the crimes of a
Nero or a Commodus. On the whole, we must recognise in Hadrian a
nature of extraordinary energy, capacity for administrative
government, and mental versatility. A certain superficiality,
vulgarity, and commonplaceness seems to have been forced upon him
by the circumstances of his age, no less than by his special
temperament. This quality of the immitigable commonplace is clearly
written on his many portraits. Their chief interest consists in a
fixed expression of fatigue&mdash;as though the man were weary with
much seeking and with little finding. In all things, he was
somewhat of a dilettante; and the Nemesis of that sensibility to
impressions which distinguishes the dilettante, came upon him ere
he died. He ended his days in an appalling and persistent paroxysm
of <i>ennui</i>, desiring the death which would not come to his
relief.</p>

<p>The whole creative and expansive force of Hadrian's century lay
concealed in the despised Christian sect. Art was expiring in a
sunset blaze of gorgeous imitation, tasteless grandeur, technical
elaboration. Philosophy had become sophistical or mystic; its real
life survived only in the phrase 'entbehren sollst du, sollst
entbehren' of the Stoics. Literature was repetitive and scholastic.
Tacitus, Suetonius, Plutarch, and Juvenal indeed were living; but
their works formed the last great literary triumph of the age.
Religion <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg200" id=
"pg200">200</a></span> had degenerated under the twofold influences
of scepticism and intrusive foreign cults. It was, in truth, an age
in which, for a sound heart and manly intellect, there lay no
proper choice except between the stoicism of Marcus Aurelius and
the Christianity of the Catacombs. All else had passed into shams,
unrealities, and visions. Now Hadrian was neither stoical nor
Christian, though he so far coquetted with Christianity as to build
temples dedicated to no Pagan deity, which passed in after times
for unfinished churches. He was a <i>Gr&aelig;culus</i>. In that
contemptuous epithet, stripping it of its opprobrious significance,
we find the real key to his character. In a failing age he lived a
restless-minded, many-sided soldier-prince, whose inner hopes and
highest aspirations were for Hellas. Hellas, her art, her history,
her myths, her literature, her lovers, her young heroes filled him
with enthusiasm. To rebuild her ruined cities, to restore her
deities, to revive her golden life of blended poetry and science,
to reconstruct her spiritual empire as he had re-organised the
Roman world, was Hadrian's dream. It was indeed a dream; one which
a far more creative genius than Hadrian's could not have
realised.</p>

<p>But now, returning to the two alternatives regarding his
friend's death: was this philo-Hellenic Emperor the man to have
immolated Antinous for <i>extispicium</i> and then deified him?
Probably not. The discord between this bloody act and subsequent
hypocrisy upon the one hand, and Hadrian's Greek sympathies upon
the other, must be reckoned too strong for even such a dipsychic
character as his. There is nothing in either Spartian or Dion to
justify the opinion that he was naturally cruel or fantastically
deceitful. On the other hand, Hadrian's philo-Hellenic,
splendour-loving, somewhat tawdry, fame-desiring nature was
precisely of the sort to jump eagerly at the deification of a
favourite who had either died a <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg201" id="pg201">201</a></span> natural death or killed himself
to save his master. Hadrian had loved Antinous with a Greek passion
in his lifetime. The Roman Emperor was half a god. He remembered
how Zeus had loved Ganymede, and raised him to Olympus; how
Achilles had loved Patroclus, and performed his funeral rites at
Troy; how the demi-god Alexander had loved Heph&aelig;stion, and
lifted him into a hero's seat on high. He, Hadrian, would do the
like, now that death had robbed him of his comrade. The Roman, who
surrounded himself at Tivoli with copies of Greek temples, and who
called his garden Tempe, played thus at being Zeus, Achilles,
Alexander; and the civilised world humoured his whim. Though the
Sophists scoffed at his real grief and honourable tears, they
consecrated his lost favourite, found out a star for him, carved
him in breathing brass, and told tales about his sacred flower.
Pancrates was entertained in Alexandria at the public cost for his
fable of the lotos; and the lyrist Mesomedes received so liberal a
pension for his hymn to Antinous that Antoninus Pius found it
needful to curtail it.</p>

<p>After weighing the authorities, considering the circumstances of
the age, and estimating Hadrian's character, I am thus led to
reject the alternative of immolation. Spartian's own words, <i>quem
muliebriter flevit</i>, as well as the subsequent acts of the
Emperor and the acquiescence of the whole world in the new deity,
prove to my mind that in the suggestion of <i>extispicium</i> we
have one of those covert calumnies which it is impossible to set
aside at this distance of time, and which render the history of
Roman Emperors and Popes almost impracticable.</p>

<p>The case, then, stands before us thus. Antinous was drowned in
the Nile, near Besa, either by accident or by voluntary suicide to
save his master's life. Hadrian's love for him had been unmeasured,
so was his grief. Both of <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg202" id=
"pg202">202</a></span> them were genuine; but in the nature of the
man there was something artificial. He could not be content to love
and grieve alone; he must needs enact the part of Alexander, and
realise, if only by a sort of makebelieve, a portion of his Greek
ideal. Antinous, the beautiful servant, was to take the place of
Ganymede, of Patroclus, of Heph&aelig;stion; never mind if Hadrian
was a Roman and his friend a Bithynian, and if the love between
them, as between an emperor of fifty and a boy of nineteen, had
been less than heroic. The opportunity was too fair to be missed;
the <i>r&ocirc;le</i> too fascinating to be rejected. The world, in
spite of covert sneers, lent itself to the sham, and Antinous
became a god.</p>

<p>The uniformly contemptuous tone of antique authorities almost
obliges us to rank this deification of Antinous, together with the
Tiburtine villa and the dream of a Hellenic Renaissance, among the
part-shams, part-enthusiasms of Hadrian's 'sumptuous' character.
Spartian's account of the consecration, and his hint that Hadrian
composed the oracles delivered at his favourite's tomb; Arrian's
letter to the Emperor describing the island Leuk&egrave; and
flattering him by an adroit comparison with Achilles; the poem by
Pancrates mentioned in the 'Deipnosophist&aelig;,' which furnished
the myth of a new lotos dedicated to Antinous; the invention of the
star, and Hadrian's conversations with his courtiers on this
subject&mdash;all converge to form the belief that something of
consciously unreal mingled with this act of apotheosis by Imperial
decree. Hadrian sought to assuage his grief by paying his favourite
illustrious honours after death; he also desired to give the memory
of his own love the most congenial and poetical environment, to
feed upon it in the daintiest places, and to deck it with the
prettiest flowers of fancy. He therefore canonised Antinous, and
took measures for disseminating his cult throughout the world,
careless of the element of imposture <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg203" id="pg203">203</a></span> which might seem to mingle with
the consecration of his true affection. Hadrian's superficial taste
was not offended by the gimcrack quality of the new god; and
Antinous was saved from being a merely pinchbeck saint by his own
charming personality.</p>

<p>This will not, however, wholly satisfy the conditions of the
problem; and we are obliged to ask ourselves whether there was not
something in the character of Antinous himself, something divinely
inspired and irradiate with spiritual beauty, apparent to his
fellows and remembered after his mysterious death, which justified
his canonisation, and removed it from the region of Imperial
makebelieve. If this was not the case, if Antinous died like a
flower cropped from the seraglio garden of the court-pages, how
should the Emperor in the first place have bewailed him with
'unhusbanded passion,' and the people afterwards have received him
as a god? May it not have been that he was a youth of more than
ordinary promise, gifted with intellectual enthusiasms proportioned
to his beauty and endowed with something of Phoebean inspiration,
who, had he survived, might have even inaugurated a new age for the
world, or have emulated the heroism of Hypatia in a hopeless cause?
Was the link between him and Hadrian formed less by the boy's
beauty than by his marvellous capacity for apprehending and his
fitness for realising the Emperor's Greek dreams? Did the spirit of
neo-Platonism find in him congenial incarnation? At any rate, was
there not enough in the then current beliefs about the future of
the soul, as abundantly set forth in Plutarch's writings, to
justify a conviction that after death he had already passed into
the lunar sphere, awaiting the final apotheosis of purged spirits
in the sun? These questions may be asked&mdash;indeed, they must be
asked&mdash;for, without suggesting them, we leave the worship of
Antinous an almost <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg204" id=
"pg204">204</a></span> inexplicable scandal, an almost
unintelligible blot on human nature. Unless we ask them, we must be
content to echo the coarse and violent diatribes of Clemens
Alexandrinus against the vigils of the deified <i>exoletus</i>. But
they cannot be answered, for antiquity is altogether silent about
him; only here and there, in the indignant utterance of a Christian
Father, stung to the quick by Pagan parallels between Antinous and
Christ, do we catch a perverted echo of the popular emotion upon
which his cult reposed, which recognised his godhood or his
vicarious self-sacrifice, and which paid enduring tribute to the
sublimity of his young life untimely quenched.</p>

<p>The <i>senatus consultum</i> required for the apotheosis of an
Emperor was not, so far as we know, obtained in the case of
Antinous. Hadrian's determination to exalt his favourite sufficed;
and this is perhaps one of the earliest instances of those informal
deifications which became common in the later Roman period.
Antinous was canonised according to Greek ritual and by Greek
priests: <i>Gr&aelig;ci quidam volente Hadriano eum
consecraverunt</i>. How this was accomplished we know not; but
forms of canonisation must have been in common usage, seeing that
emperors and members of the Imperial family received the honour in
due course. The star which was supposed to have appeared soon after
his death, and which represented his soul admitted to Olympus, was
somewhere near the constellation Aquila, according to Ptolemy, but
not part of it. I believe the letters
&eta;.&theta;.&iota;.&kappa;.&lambda;. of Aquila now bear the name
of Antinous; but this appropriation dates only from the time of
Tycho Brahe. It was also asserted that as a new star had appeared
in the skies, so a new flower had blossomed on the earth, at the
moment of his death. This was the lotos, of a peculiar red colour,
which the people of Lower Egypt used to wear in wreaths upon his
festival. It received the name Antinoeian; and the Alexandrian
sophist, Pancrates, seeking <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg205"
id="pg205">205</a></span> to pay a double compliment to Hadrian and
his favourite, wrote a poem in which he pretended that this lily
was stained with the blood of a Libyan lion slain by the Emperor.
As Arrian compared his master to Achilles, so Pancrates flattered
him with allusions to Herakles. The lotos, it is well known, was a
sacred flower in Egypt. Both as a symbol of the all-nourishing
moisture of the earth and of the mystic marriage of Isis and
Osiris, and also as an emblem of immortality, it appeared on all
the sacred places of the Egyptians, especially on tombs and funeral
utensils. To dignify Antinous with the lotos emblem was to
consecrate him; to find a new species of the revered blossom and to
wear it in his honour, calling it by his name, was to exalt him to
the company of gods. Nothing, as it seems, had been omitted that
could secure for him the patent of divinity.</p>

<p>He met his death near the city Besa, an ancient Egyptian town
upon the eastern bank of the Nile, almost opposite to Hermopolis.
Besa was the name of a local god, who gave oracles and predicted
future events. But of this Besa we know next to nothing. Hadrian
determined to rebuild the city, change its name, and let his
favourite take the place of the old deity. Accordingly, he raised a
splendid new town in the Greek style; furnished it with temples,
agora, hippodrome, gymnasium, and baths; filled it with Greek
citizens; gave it a Greek constitution, and named it Antino&euml;.
This new town, whether called Antino&euml;, Antinoopolis, Antinous,
Antinoeia, or even Besantinous (for its titles varied), continued
long to flourish, and was mentioned by Ammianus Marcellinus,
together with Copton and Hermopolis, as one of the three most
distinguished cities of the Theba&iuml;d. In the age of Julian
these three cities were perhaps the only still thriving towns of
Upper Egypt. It has even been maintained on Ptolemy's authority
that Antino&euml; was the metropolis <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg206" id="pg206">206</a></span> of a nome, called Antinoeitis;
but this is doubtful, since inscriptions discovered among the ruins
of the town record no name of nomarch or strategus, while they
prove the government to have consisted of a Boul&egrave; and a
Prytaneus, who was also the Eponymous Magistrate. Strabo reckons
it, together with Ptolemais and Alexandria, as governed after the
Greek municipal system.</p>

<p>In this city Antinous was worshipped as a god. Though a Greek
god, and the eponym of a Greek city, he inherited the place and
functions of an Egyptian deity, and was here represented in the
hieratic style of Ptolemaic sculpture. A fine specimen of this
statuary is preserved in the Vatican, showing how the neo-Hellenic
sculptors had succeeded in maintaining the likeness of Antinous
without sacrificing the traditional manner of Egyptian piety. The
sacred emblems of Egyptian deities were added: we read, for
instance, in one passage, that his shrine contained a boat. This
boat, like the mystic egg of Er&ocirc;s or the cista of Dionysos,
symbolised the embryo of cosmic life. It was specially appropriated
to Osiris, and suggested collateral allusions doubtless to
immortality and the soul's journey in another world. Antinous had a
college of priests appointed to his service; and oracles were
delivered from the cenotaph inside his temple. The people believed
him to be a genius of warning, gracious to his suppliants, but
terrible to evil-doers, combining the qualities of the avenging and
protective deities. Annual games were celebrated in Antino&euml; on
his festival, with chariot races and gymnastic contests; and the
fashion of keeping his day seems, from Athen&aelig;us's testimony,
to have spread through Egypt. An inscription in Greek characters
discovered at Rome upon the Campus Martius entitles Antinous a
colleague of the gods in Egypt&mdash;</p>

<div class="center">
&Alpha;&Nu;&Tau;&Iota;&Nu;&Omicron;&Omega;&Iota;
&Sigma;&Upsilon;&Nu;&Theta;&Rho;&Omicron;&Nu;&Omega;&Iota;
&Tau;&Omega;&Nu; &Epsilon;&Nu;
&Alpha;&Iota;&Gamma;&Upsilon;&Eta;&Tau;&Omega;&Iota;
&Theta;&Epsilon;&Omega;&Nu;.</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg207" id="pg207">207</a></span>
The worship of Antinous spread rapidly through the Greek and Asian
provinces, especially among the cities which owed debts of
gratitude to Hadrian or expected from him future favours. At
Athens, for example, the Emperor, attended perhaps by Antinous, had
presided as Archon during his last royal progress, had built a
suburb called after his name, and raised a splendid temple to
Olympian Jove. The Athenians, therefore, founded games and a
priesthood in honour of the new divinity. Even now, in the
Dionysiac theatre, among the chairs above the orchestra assigned to
priests of elder deities and more august tradition, may be found
one bearing the name of
Antinous&mdash;&Iota;&Epsilon;&Rho;&Epsilon;&Omega;&Sigma;
&Alpha;&Nu;&Tau;&Iota;&Nu;&Omicron;&Omicron;&Upsilon;. A marble
tablet has also been discovered inscribed with the names of
agonothetai for the games celebrated in honour of Antinous; and a
stele exists engraved with the crown of these contests together
with the crowns of Severus, Commodus, and Antoninus. It appears
that the games in honour of Antinous took place both at Eleusis and
at Athens; and that the agonothetai, as also the priest of the new
god, were chosen from the Ephebi. The Corinthians, the Argives, the
Achaians, and the Epirots, as we know from coins issued by the
priests of Antinous, adopted his cult;<a name="FNanchor_1_48" id=
"FNanchor_1_48" /><a href="#Footnote_1_48" class=
"fnanchor">[1]</a> but the region of Greece proper where it
flourished most was Arcadia, the mother state of his Bithynian
birthplace. Pausanias, who lived contemporaneously with Antinous,
and might have seen him, though he tells us that he had not chanced
to meet the youth alive, mentions the temple of Antinous at
Mantinea as the newest in that city. 'The Mantineans,' he says,
'reckon Antinous among their gods.' He then describes the yearly
festival and mysteries connected <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg208" id="pg208">208</a></span> with his cult, the quinquennial
games established in his honour, and his statues. The gymnasium had
a cell dedicated to Antinous, adorned with pictures and fair
stone-work. The new god was in the habit of Dionysus.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_48" id="Footnote_1_48" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_48"><span class="label">[1]</span></a>For
example:</p>
</div>

<div class="blockquotwide">
&Omicron;&Sigma;&Tau;&Iota;&Lambda;&Iota;&Omicron;&Sigma;
&Mu;&Alpha;&Rho;&Kappa;&Epsilon;&Lambda;&Lambda;&Omicron;&Sigma;&Omicron;
&Iota;&Epsilon;&Rho;&Epsilon;&Upsilon;&Sigma;&Tau;&Omicron;&Upsilon;
&Alpha;&Nu;&Tau;&Iota;&Omicron;&Omicron;&Upsilon;
&Alpha;&Nu;&Epsilon;&Theta;&Eta;&Kappa;&Epsilon;
&Tau;&Omicron;&Iota;&Sigma;
&Alpha;&Chi;&Alpha;&Iota;&Omicron;&Iota;&Sigma; and a similar
inscription for Corinth.</div>

<p>As was natural, his birthplace paid him special observance.
Coins dedicated by the province of Bithynia, as well as by the town
Bithynium, are common, with the epigraphs,
&Alpha;&Nu;&Tau;&Iota;&Omicron;&Omicron;&Upsilon; &Eta;
&Pi;&Alpha;&Tau;&Rho;&Iota;&Sigma; and
&Alpha;&Nu;&Tau;&Iota;&Nu;&Omicron;&Omicron;&Nu;
&Theta;&Epsilon;&Omicron;&Nu; &Eta;
&Pi;&Alpha;&Tau;&Rho;&Iota;&Sigma;. Among the cities of Asia Minor
and the vicinity the new cult seems to have been widely spread.
Adramyttene in Mysia, Alabanda, Ancyra in Galatia, Chalcedon, Cuma
in &AElig;olis, Cyzicum in Mysia, the Ciani, the
Hadrianotherit&aelig; of Bithynia, Hierapolis in Phrygia,
Nicomedia, Philadelphia, Sardis, Smyrna, Tarsus, the Tianians of
Paphlagonia, and a town Rhes&aelig;na in Mesopotamia, all furnish
their quota of medals. On the majority of these medals he is
entitled Her&ocirc;s, but on others he has the higher title of god;
and he seems to have been associated in each place with some deity
of local fame.</p>

<p>Being essentially a Greek hero, or divinised man received into
the company of immortals and worshipped with the attributes of god,
his cult took firmer root among the neo-Hellenic provinces of the
empire than in Italy. Yet there are signs that even in Italy he
found his votaries. Among these may first be mentioned the
comparative frequency of his name in Roman inscriptions, which have
no immediate reference to him, but prove that parents gave it to
their children. The discovery of his statues in various cities of
the Roman Campagna shows that his cult was not confined to one or
two localities. Naples in particular, which remained in all
essential points a Greek city, seems to have received him with
acclamation. A quarter of the town was called after his name, and a
phratria of priests was founded in connection with his worship. The
Neapolitans owed much to the patronage of Hadrian, and they repaid
him <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg209" id="pg209">209</a></span>
after this fashion. At the beginning of the last century Raffaello
Fabretti discovered an inscription near the Porta S. Sebastiano at
Rome, which throws some light on the matter. It records the name of
a Roman knight, Sufenas, who had held the office of Lupercus and
had been a fellow of the Neapolitan phratria of
Antinous&mdash;<i>fretriaco Neapoli Antinoiton et Eunostidon</i>.
Eunostos was a hero worshipped at Tanagra in Boeotia, where he had
a sacred grove no female foot might enter; and the wording of the
inscription leaves it doubtful whether the Eunostid&aelig; and
Antinoit&aelig; of Naples were two separate colleges; or whether
the heroes were associated as the common patrons of one
brotherhood.</p>

<p>A valuable inscription discovered in 1816 near the Baths at
Lanuvium or Lavigna shows that Antinous was here associated with
Diana as the saint of a benefit club. The rules of the
confraternity prescribe the payments and other contributions of its
members, provide for their assembling on the feast days of their
patrons, fix certain fines, and regulate the ceremonies and
expenses of their funerals. This club seems to have resembled
modern burial societies, as known to us in England; or still more
closely to have been formed upon the same model as Italian
confraternit&egrave; of the Middle Ages. The Lex, or table of
regulations, was drawn up in the year 133 A.D. It fixes the
birthday of Antinous as v.k. Decembr., and alludes to the temple of
Antinous&mdash;<i>Tetrastylo Antinoi</i>. Probably we cannot build
much on the birthday as a genuine date, for the same table gives
the birthday of Diana; and what was wanted was not accuracy in such
matters, but a settled anniversary for banquets and pious
celebrations. When we come to consider the divinity of Antinous, it
will be of service to remember that at Lanuvium, together with
Diana of the nether world, he was reckoned among the saints of
sepulture. Could this thought have penetrated the imagination of
his worshippers: that since <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg210"
id="pg210">210</a></span> Antinous had given his life for his
friend, since he had faced death and triumphed over it, winning
immortality and godhood for himself by sacrifice, the souls of his
votaries might be committed to his charge and guidance on their
journey through the darkness of the tomb? Could we venture to infer
thus much from his selection by a confraternity existing for the
purpose of securing decent burial or pious funeral rites, the date
of its formation, so soon after his death, would confirm the
hypothesis that he was known to have devoted his life for
Hadrian.</p>

<p>While speaking of Antinous as a divinised man, adscript to the
gods of Egypt, accepted as hero and as god in Hellas, Italy, and
Asia Minor, we have not yet considered the nature of his deity. The
question is not so simple as it seems at first sight: and the next
step to take, with a view to its solution, is to consider the
various forms under which he was adored&mdash;the phases of his
divinity. The coins already mentioned, and the numerous works of
glyptic art surviving in the galleries of Europe, will help us to
place ourselves at the same point of view as the least enlightened
of his antique votaries. Reasoning upon these data by the light of
classic texts, may afterwards enable us to assign him his true
place in the Pantheon of decadent and uninventive Paganism.</p>

<p>In Egypt, as we have already seen, Antinous was worshipped by
the neo-Hellenes of Antinoopolis as their Eponymous Hero; but he
took the place of an elder native god, and was represented in art
according to the traditions of Egyptian sculpture. The marble
statue of the Vatican is devoid of hieratic emblems. Antinous is
attired with the Egyptian head-dress and waistband: he holds a
short truncheon firmly clasped in each hand; and by his side is a
palm-stump, such as one often finds in statues of the Greek Hermes.
Two colossal statues of red granite discovered in the ruins of
Hadrian's villa, at Tivoli, represent him in like manner with the
usual Egyptian <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg211" id=
"pg211">211</a></span> head-dress. They seem to have been designed
for pillars supporting the architrave of some huge portal; and the
wands grasped firmly in both hands are supposed to be symbolical of
the genii called Dii Averrunci. Von Levezow, in his monograph upon
Antinous in art, catalogues five statues of a similar description
to the three already mentioned. From the indistinct character of
all of them, it would appear that Antinous was nowhere identified
with any one of the great Egyptian deities, but was treated as a
D&aelig;mon powerful to punish and protect. This designation
corresponds to the contemptuous rebuke addressed by Origen to
Celsus, where he argues that the new saint was only a malignant and
vengeful spirit. His Egyptian medals are few and of questionable
genuineness: the majority of them seem to be purely Hellenic; but
on one he bears a crown like that of Isis, and on another a lotos
wreath. The dim records of his cult in Egypt, and the remnants of
Gr&aelig;co-Egyptian art, thus mark him out as one of the
Averruncan deities, associated perhaps with Kneph or the
Agathod&aelig;mon of Hellenic mythology, or approximated to Anubis,
the Egyptian Hermes. Neither statues nor coins throw much light
upon his precise place among those gods of Nile whose throne he is
said to have ascended. Egyptian piety may not have been so
accommodating as that of Hellas.</p>

<p>With the Gr&aelig;co-Roman world the case is different. We
obtain a clearer conception of the Antinous divinity, and recognise
him always under the mask of youthful gods already honoured with
fixed ritual. To worship even living men under the names and
attributes of well-known deities was no new thing in Hellas. We may
remember the Ithyphallic hymn with which the Athenians welcomed
Demetrius Poliork&ecirc;tes, the marriage of Anthony as Dionysus to
Athen&egrave;, and the deification of Mithridates as Bacchus. The
Roman Emperors had already been represented in art with the
characteristics <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg212" id=
"pg212">212</a></span> of gods&mdash;Nero, for example, as Phoebus,
and Hadrian as Mars. Such compliments were freely paid to Antinous.
On the Achaian coins we find his portrait on the obverse, with
different types of Hermes on the reverse, varied in one case by the
figure of a ram, in another by the representation of a temple, in a
third by a nude hero grasping a spear. One Mysian medal, bearing
the epigraph 'Antinous Iacchus,' represents him crowned with ivy,
and exhibits Demeter on the reverse. A single specimen from Ancyra,
with the legend 'Antinous Her&ocirc;s,' depicts the god Lunus
carrying a crescent moon upon his shoulder. The Bithynian coins
generally give youthful portraits of Antinous upon the obverse,
with the title of 'Her&ocirc;s' or 'Theos;' while the reverse is
stamped with a pastoral figure, sometimes bearing the talaria,
sometimes accompanied by a feeding ox or a boar or a star. This
youth is supposed to be Philesius, the son of Hermes. In one
specimen of the Bithynian series the reverse yields a head of
Proserpine crowned with thorns. A coin of Chalcedon ornaments the
reverse with a griffin seated near a naked figure. Another, from
Corinth, bears the sun-god in a chariot; another, from Cuma,
presents an armed Pallas. Bulls, with the crescent moon, occur in
the Hadrianotheritan medals: a crescent moon in that of Hierapolis:
a ram and star, a female head crowned with towers, a standing bull,
and Harpocrates placing one finger on his lips, in those of
Nicomedia; a horned moon and star in that of Epirot Nicopolis. One
Philadelphian coin is distinguished by Antinous in a temple with
four columns; another by an Aphrodite in her cella. The Sardian
coins give Zeus with the thunderbolt, or Phoebus with the lyre;
those of Smyrna are stamped with a standing ox, a ram, and the
caduceus, a female panther and the thyrsus, or a hero reclining
beneath a plane-tree; those of Tarsus with the Dionysian cista, the
Phoebean tripod, the <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg213" id=
"pg213">213</a></span> river Cydnus, and the epigraphs 'Neos
Puthios,' 'Neos Iacchos;' those of the Tianians with Antinous as
Bacchus on a panther, or, in one case, as Poseid&ocirc;n.</p>

<p>It would be unsafe to suppose that the emblems of the reverse in
each case had a necessary relation to Antinous, whose portrait is
almost invariably represented on the obverse. They may refer, as in
the case of the Tarsian river-god, to the locality in which the
medal was struck. Yet the frequent occurrence of the well-known
type with the attributes and sacred animals of various deities, and
the epigraphs 'Neos Puthios' or 'Neos Iacchos,' justify us in
assuming that he was associated with divinities in vogue among the
people who accepted his cult&mdash;especially Apollo, Dionysus, and
Hermes. On more than one coin he is described as Antinous-Pan,
showing that his Arcadian compatriots of Peloponnese and Bithynia
paid him the compliment of placing him beside their great local
deity. In a Latin inscription discovered at Tibur, he is connected
with the sun-god of Noricia, Pannonia and Illyria, who was
worshipped under the title of Belenus:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i2">Antinoo et Beleno par &aelig;tas famaque par
est;</div>

<div class="i3">Cur non Antinous sit quoque qui Belenus?8261</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>This couplet sufficiently explains the ground of his adscription
to the society of gods distinguished for their beauty. Both Belenus
and Antinous are young and beautiful: why, therefore, should not
Antinous be honoured equally with Belenus? The same reasoning would
apply to all his impersonations. The pious imagination or the
&aelig;sthetic taste tricked out this favourite of fortune in
masquerade costumes, just as a wealthy lover may amuse himself by
dressing his mistress after the similitude of famous beauties. The
analogy of statues confirms this assumption. A considerable
majority represent him as Dionysus Kisseus: in some of the best he
is conceived as Hermes of the Pal&aelig;stra or a simple hero: in
one he is probably <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg214" id=
"pg214">214</a></span> Dionysus Antheus; in another Vertumnus or
Arist&aelig;us; yet again he is the Agathos Daimon: while a fine
specimen preserved in England shows him as Ganymede raising a
goblet of wine: a little statue in the Louvre gives him the
attributes of youthful Herakles; a basrelief of somewhat doubtful
genuineness in the Villa Albani exhibits him with Romanised
features in the character perhaps of Castor. Again, I am not sure
whether the Endymion in the celebrated basrelief of the Capitol
does not yield a portrait of Antinous.</p>

<p>This rapid enumeration will suffice to show that Antinous was
universally conceived as a young deity in bloom, and that
preference was given to Phoebus and Iacchus, the gods of divination
and enthusiasm, for his associates. In some cases he appears to
have been represented as a simple hero without the attributes of
any deity. Many of his busts, and the fine nude statues of the
Capitol and the Neapolitan Museum, belong to this class, unless we
recognise the two last as Antinous under the form of a young
Hercules, or of the gymnastic Hermes. But when he comes before us
with the title of Puthios, or with the attributes of Dionysus,
distinct reference is probably intended in the one case to his
oracular quality, in the other to the enthusiasm which led to his
death. Allusions to Harpocrates, Lunus, Arist&aelig;us, Philesius,
Vertumnus, Castor, Herakles, Ganymedes, show how the divinising
fancy played around the beauty of his youth, and sought to connect
him with myths already honoured in the pious conscience. Lastly,
though it would be hazardous to strain this point, we find in his
chief impersonations a Chthonian character, a touch of the mystery
that is shrouded in the world beyond the grave. The double nature
of his Athenian cult may perhaps confirm this view. But, over and
above all these symbolic illustrations, one artistic motive of
immortal loveliness pervades and animates the series.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg215" id="pg215">215</a></span>
It becomes at this point of some moment to determine what was the
relation of Antinous to the gods with whom he blended, and whose
attributes he shared. It seems tolerably certain that he had no
special legend which could be idealised in art. The mythopoeic
fancy invented no fable for him. His cult was parasitic upon elder
cults. He was the colleague of greater well-established deities,
from whom he borrowed a pale and evanescent lustre. Speaking
accurately, he was a hero or divinised mortal, on the same grade as
Helen immortalised for her beauty, as Achilles for his prowess, or
as Herakles for his great deeds. But having no poet like Homer to
sing his achievements, no myth fertile in emblems, he dwelt beneath
the shadow of superior powers, and crept into a place with them.
What was this place worth? What was the meaning attached by his
votaries to the title
&sigma;&#973;&nu;&theta;&rho;&omicron;&nu;&omicron;&sigmaf; or
&pi;&#940;&rho;&epsilon;&delta;&rho;&omicron;&sigmaf;
&theta;&epsilon;&#972;&sigmaf;? According to the simple meaning of
both epithets, he occupied a seat together with or by the side of
the genuine Olympians. In this sense Pindar called Dionysus the
&pi;&#940;&rho;&epsilon;&delta;&rho;&omicron;&sigmaf; of Demeter,
because the younger god had been admitted to her worship on equal
terms at Eleusis. In this sense Sophocles spoke of Himeros as
&pi;&#940;&rho;&epsilon;&delta;&rho;&omicron;&sigmaf; of the
eternal laws, and of Justice as
&sigma;&#973;&nu;&omicron;&iota;&kappa;&omicron;&sigmaf; with the
Chthonian deities. In this sense Euripides makes Helen
&zeta;&#973;&nu;&theta;&alpha;&kappa;&omicron;&sigmaf; her
brethren, the Dioscuri. In this sense the three chief Archons at
Athens were said to have two
&pi;&#940;&rho;&epsilon;&delta;&rho;&omicron;&iota; apiece. In this
sense, again, Heph&aelig;stion was named a
&theta;&epsilon;&omicron;&sigmaf;
&pi;&alpha;&rho;&epsilon;&delta;&rho;&omicron;&sigmaf;, and
Alexander in his lifetime was voted a thirteenth in the company of
the twelve Olympians. The divinised emperors were
&pi;&#940;&rho;&epsilon;&delta;&rho;&omicron;&iota; or
&sigma;&#973;&nu;&theta;&rho;&omicron;&nu;&omicron;&iota; nor did
Virgil hesitate to flatter Augustus by questioning into which
college of the immortals he would be adscript after
death&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i2">Tuque adeo, quem mox qu&aelig; sint habitura
deorum</div>

<div class="i2">Concilia, incertum est.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg216" id="pg216">216</a></span>
Conscript deities of this heroic order were supposed to avert evils
from their votaries, to pursue offenders with calamity, to inspire
prophetic dreams, and to appear, as the phantom of Achilles
appeared to Apollonius of Tyana, and answer questions put to them.
They corresponded very closely and exactly to the saints of
medi&aelig;valism, acting as patrons of cities, confraternities,
and persons, and interposing between the supreme powers of heaven
and their especial devotees. As a
&pi;&#940;&rho;&epsilon;&delta;&rho;&omicron;&sigmaf; of this
exalted quality, Antinous was the associate of Phoebus, Bacchus,
and Hermes among the Olympians, and a colleague with the gods of
Nile. The principal difficulty of grasping his true rank consists
in the variety of his emblems and divine disguises.</p>

<p>It must here be mentioned that the epithet
&pi;&#940;&rho;&epsilon;&delta;&rho;&omicron;&sigmaf; had a
secondary and inferior signification. It was applied by later
authors to the demons or familiar spirits who attended upon
enchanters like Simon Magus or Apollonius; and such satellites were
believed to be supplied by the souls of innocent young persons
violently slain. Whether this secondary meaning of the title
indicates a degeneration of the other, and forms the first step of
the process whereby classic heroes were degraded into the foul
fiends of medi&aelig;val fancy, or whether we find in it a wholly
new application of the word, is questionable. I am inclined to
believe that, while
&pi;&#940;&rho;&epsilon;&delta;&rho;&omicron;&sigmaf;
&theta;&epsilon;&omicron;&sigmaf; in the one case means an associate
of the Olympian gods,
&pi;&#940;&omicron;&epsilon;&delta;&rho;&omicron;&sigmaf;
&delta;&alpha;&#943;&mu;&omega;&nu; in the other means a
fellow-agent and assessor of the wizard. In other words, however
they may afterwards have been confounded, the two uses of the same
epithet were originally distinct: so that not every
&pi;&#940;&rho;&epsilon;&delta;&rho;&omicron;&sigmaf;
&theta;&epsilon;&omicron;&sigmaf;, Achilles, or Heph&aelig;stion or
Antinous, was supposed to haunt and serve a sorcerer, but only some
inferior spirit over whom his black art gave him authority. The
&pi;&#940;&rho;&epsilon;&delta;&rho;&omicron;&sigmaf;
&theta;&epsilon;&omicron;&sigmaf; was so called because he sat with
the great gods. The
&pi;&#940;&rho;&epsilon;&delta;&rho;&omicron;&sigmaf;
&delta;&alpha;&#943;&mu;&omicron;&nu; was so <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg217" id="pg217">217</a></span> called because
he sat beside the magician. At the same time there seems sufficient
evidence that the two meanings came to be confounded; and as the
divinities of Hellas, with all their lustrous train, paled before
the growing splendour of Christ, they gradually fell beneath the
necromantic ferule of the witch.</p>

<p>Returning from this excursion, and determining that Antinous was
a hero or divinised mortal, adscript to the college of the greater
gods, and invested with many of their attributes, we may next ask
the question, why this artificial cult, due in the first place to
imperial passion and caprice, and nourished by the adulation of
fawning provinces, was preserved from the rapid dissolution to
which the flimsy products of court-flattery are subject. The
mythopoetic faculty was extinct, or in its last phase of decadent
vitality. There was nothing in the life of Antinous to create a
legend or to stimulate the sense of awe; and yet this worship
persisted long after the fear of Hadrian had passed away, long
after the benefits to be derived by humouring a royal fancy had
been exhausted, long after anything could be gained by playing out
the farce. It is clear, from a passage in Clemens Alexandrinus,
that the sacred nights of Antinous were observed, at least a
century after the date of his deification, with an enthusiasm that
roused the anger of the Christian Father. Again, it is worthy of
notice that, while many of the noblest works of antiquity have
perished, the statues of Antinous have descended to us in fair
preservation and in very large numbers. From the contemptuous
destruction which erased the monuments of base men in the Roman
Empire they were safe; and the state in which we have them shows
how little they had suffered from neglect. The most rational
conclusion seems to be that Antinous became in truth a popular
saint, and satisfied some new need in Paganism, for which none of
the elder and more respectable deities sufficed. The novelty of his
cult had, no doubt, <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg218" id=
"pg218">218</a></span> something to do with the fascination it
exercised; and something may be attributed to the impulse art
received from the introduction of so rare and original a type of
beauty into the exhausted cycle of mythical subjects. The blending
of Greek and Egyptian elements was also attractive to an age
remarkable for its eclecticism. But after allowing for the many
adventitious circumstances which concurred to make Antinous the
fashion, it is hardly unreasonable to assume that the spirit of
poetry in the youth's story, the rumour of his self-devoted death,
kept him alive in the memory of the people. It is just that element
of romance in the tale of his last hours, that preservative
association with the pathos of self-sacrifice, which forms the
interest we still feel for him.</p>

<p>The deified Antinous was therefore for the Roman world a
charming but dimly felt and undeveloped personality, made perfect
by withdrawal into an unseen world of mystery. The belief in the
value of vicarious suffering attached itself to his beautiful and
melancholy form. His sorrow borrowed something of the universal
world-pain, more pathetic than the hero-pangs of Herakles, the
anguish of Prometheus, or the passion of Iacchus-Zagreus, because
more personal and less suggestive of a cosmic mystery. The ancient
cries of Ah Linus, Ah Adonis, found in him an echo. For votaries
ready to accept a new god as simply as we accept a new poet, he was
the final manifestation of an old-world mystery, the rejuvenescence
of a well-known incarnation, the semi-Oriental realisation of a
recurring Avatar. And if we may venture on so bold a surmise, this
last flower of antique mythology had taken up into itself a portion
of the blood outpoured on Calvary. Planted in the conservatory of
semi-philosophical yearnings, faintly tinctured with the colours of
misapprehended Christianity, without inherent stamina, without the
powerful nutrition which the earlier heroic fables had derived from
the spiritual vigour <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg219" id=
"pg219">219</a></span> of a truly mythopoeic age, the cult of
Antinous subsisted as an echo, a reflection, the last serious
effort of deifying but no longer potent Paganism, the last
reverberation of its oracles, an &aelig;sthetic rather than a
religious product, viewed even in its origin with sarcasm by the
educated, and yet sufficiently attractive to enthral the minds of
simple votaries, and to survive the circumstances of its first
creation. It may be remembered that the century which witnessed the
canonisation of Antinous, produced the myth of Cupid and
Psyche&mdash;or, if this be too sweeping an assertion, gave it
final form, and handed it, in its suggestive beauty, to the modern
world. Thus at one and the same moment the dying spirit of Hellas
seized upon those doctrines of self-devotion and immortality which,
through the triumph of Christian teaching, were gaining novel and
incalculable value for the world. According to its own laws of
inspiration, it stamped both legends of Love victorious over Death,
with beautiful form in myth and poem and statuary.</p>

<p>That we are not altogether unjustified in drawing this
conclusion may be gathered from the attitude assumed by the
Christian apologists toward Antinous. There is more than the mere
hatred of a Pagan hero, more than the bare indignation at a public
scandal, in their acrimony. Accepting the calumnious insinuations
of Dion Cassius, these gladiators of the new faith found a terrible
rhetorical weapon ready to their hands in the canonisation of a
court favourite. Prudentius, Clemens Alexandrinus, Tertullian,
Eusebius, Justin Martyr, Athanasius, Tatian&mdash;all inveigh, in
nearly the same terms, against the Emperor's Ganymede, exalted to
the skies, and worshipped with base fear and adulation by abject
slaves. But in Origen, arguing with Celsus, we find a somewhat
different keynote struck. Celsus, it appears, had told the story of
Antinous, and had compared his cult with that of Christ. Origen
replies justly, that there <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg220"
id="pg220">220</a></span> was nothing in common between the lives
of Antinous and of Christ, and that his supposed divinity is a
fiction. We can discern in this response an echo of the faith which
endeared Antinous to his Pagan votaries. Antinous was hated by the
Christians as a rival; insignificant, it is true, and unworthy, but
still of sufficient force to be regarded and persecuted. If
Antinous had been utterly contemptible, if he had not gained some
firm hold upon the piety of Gr&aelig;co-Roman Paganism, Celsus
could hardly have ventured to rest an argument upon his worship,
nor would Origen have chosen to traverse that argument with solid
reasoning, instead of passing it by in rhetorical silence. Nothing
is more difficult than to understand the conditions of that age or
to sympathise with its dominant passions. Educated as we have been
in the traditions of the finally triumphant Christian faith, warmed
through and through as we are by its summer glow and autumn
splendour, believing as we do in the adequacy of its spirit to
satisfy the cravings of the human heart, how can we comprehend a
moment in its growth when the divinised Antinous was not merely an
object offensive to the moral sense, but also a parody dangerous to
the pure form of Christ?</p>

<p>It remains to say somewhat of Antinous as he appears in art. His
place in classic sculpture corresponds to his position in antique
mythology. The Antinous statues and coins are reflections of
earlier artistic masterpieces, executed with admirable skill, but
lacking original faculty for idealisation in the artists. Yet there
is so much personal attraction in his type, his statues are so
manifestly faithful portraits, and we find so great a charm of
novelty in his delicately perfect individuality, that the
life-romance which they reveal, as through a veil of mystery, has
force enough to make them rank among the valuable heirlooms of
antiquity. We could almost believe that, while so many gods and
heroes of Greece have perished, <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg221" id="pg221">221</a></span> Antinous has been preserved in
all his forms and phases for his own most lovely sake; as though,
according to Ghiberti's exquisite suggestion, gentle souls in the
first centuries of Christianity had spared this blameless youth,
and hidden him away with tender hands, in quiet places, from the
fury of iconoclasts. Nor is it impossible that the great vogue of
his worship was due among the Pagan laity to this same fascination
of pure beauty. Could a more graceful temple of the body have been
fashioned, after the Platonic theory, for the habitation of a
guileless, god-inspired, enthusiastic soul? The personality of
Antinous, combined with the suggestion of his self-devoted death,
made him triumphant in art as in the affections of the pious.</p>

<p>It would be an interesting task to compose a <i>catalogue
raisonn&eacute;</i> of Antinous statues and basreliefs, and to
discuss the question of their mythological references. This is,
however, not the place for such an inquiry. And yet I cannot quit
Antinous without some retrospect upon the most important of his
portraits. Among the simple busts, by far the finest, to my
thinking, are the colossal head of the Louvre, and the ivy-crowned
bronze at Naples. The latter is not only flawless in its execution,
but is animated with a pensive beauty of expression. The former,
though praised by Winckelmann, as among the two or three most
precious masterpieces of antique art, must be criticised for a
certain vacancy and lifelessness. Of the heroic statues, the two
noblest are those of the Capitol and Naples. The identity of the
Capitoline Antinous has only once, I think, been seriously
questioned; and yet it may be reckoned more than doubtful. The head
is almost certainly not his. How it came to be placed upon a body
presenting so much resemblance to the type of Antinous I do not
know. Careful comparison of the torso and the arms with an
indubitable portrait will even raise the question whether this fine
<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg222" id="pg222">222</a></span>
statue is not a Hermes or a hero of an earlier age. Its attitude
suggests Narcissus or Adonis; and under either of these forms
Antinous may properly have been idealised. The Neapolitan marble,
on the contrary, yields the actual Antinous in all the exuberant
fulness of his beauty. Head, body, pose, alike bring him vividly
before us, forming an undoubtedly authentic portrait. The same
personality, idealised, it is true, but rather suffering than
gaining by the process, is powerfully impressed upon the colossal
Dionysus of the Vatican. What distinguishes this great work is the
inbreathed spirit of divinity, more overpowering here than in any
other of the extant
&alpha;&nu;&delta;&rho;&iota;&#940;&nu;&tau;&epsilon;&sigmaf;
&kappa;&alpha;&iota;
&alpha;&gamma;&#940;&lambda;&mu;&alpha;&tau;&alpha; The basrelief
of the Villa Albani, restored to suit the conception of a
Vertumnus, has even more of florid beauty; but whether the
restoration was wisely made may be doubted. It is curious to
compare this celebrated masterpiece of technical dexterity with
another basrelief in the Villa Albani, representing Antinous as
Castor. He is standing, half clothed with the chlamys, by a horse.
His hair is close-cropped, after the Roman fashion, cut straight
above the forehead, but crowned with a fillet of lotos-buds. The
whole face has a somewhat stern and frowning Roman look of
resolution, contrasting with the mild benignity of the Bacchus
statues, and the almost sulky voluptuousness of the busts. In the
Lateran Museum Antinous appears as a god of flowers, holding in his
lap a multitude of blossoms, and wearing on his head a wreath. The
conception of this statue provokes comparison with the Flora of the
Neapolitan Museum. I should like to recognise in it a Dionysus
Antheus, rather than one of the more prosy Roman gods of
horticulture. Not unworthy to rank with these first-rate portraits
of Antinous is a Ganymede, engraved by the Dilettante Society,
which represents him standing alert, in one hand holding the
wine-jug and in the other lifting a cup aloft. It will be seen from
even this brief enumeration of a <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg223" id="pg223">223</a></span> few among the statues of
Antinous, how many and how various they are. One, however, remains
still to be discussed, which, so far as concerns the story of
Antinous, is by far the most interesting of all. As a work of art,
to judge by photographs, it is inferior to others in execution and
design. Yet could we but understand its meaning clearly, the
mystery of Antinous would be solved: the key to the whole matter
probably lies here; but, alas! we know not how to use it. I speak
of the Ildefonso Group at Madrid.<a name="FNanchor_1_49" id=
"FNanchor_1_49" /><a href="#Footnote_1_49" class=
"fnanchor">[1]</a></p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_49" id="Footnote_1_49" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_49"><span class="label">[1]</span></a><a href=
"images/ildefonso.jpg">See Frontispiece.</a></p>
</div>

<p>On one pedestal there are three figures in white marble. To the
extreme right of the spectator stands a little female statue of a
goddess, in archaistic style, crowned with the calathos, and
holding a sphere, probably of pomegranate fruit, to her breast. To
the left of this image are two young men, three times the height of
the goddess, quite naked, standing one on each side of a low altar.
Both are crowned with a wreath of leaves and berries&mdash;laurel
or myrtle. The youth to the right, next the image, holds a torch in
either hand: with the right he turns the flaming point downwards,
till it lies upon the altar; with the left he lifts the other torch
aloft, and rests it on his shoulder. He has a beautiful
Gr&aelig;co-Roman face, touched with sadness or ineffable
reflection. The second youth leans against his comrade, resting his
left arm across the other's back, and this hand is lightly placed
upon the shoulder, close to the lifted torch. His right arm is
bent, and so placed that the hand just cuts the line of the pelvis
a little above the hip. The weight of his body is thrown
principally upon the right leg; the left foot is drawn back, away
from the altar. It is the attitude of the Apollo Sauroctonos. His
beautiful face, bent downward, is intently gazing with a calm,
collected, serious, and yet sad cast of earnest meditation. His
eyes seem fixed on something beyond him and beneath <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg224" id="pg224">224</a></span> him&mdash;as it
were on an inscrutable abyss; and in this direction also looks his
companion. The face is unmistakably the face of Antinous; yet the
figure, and especially the legs, are not characteristic. They seem
modelled after the conventional type of the Greek Ephebus. Parts of
the two torches and the lower half of the right arm of Antinous are
restorations.</p>

<p>Such is the Ildefonso marble; and it may be said that its
execution is hard and rough&mdash;the arms of both figures are
carelessly designed; the hands and fingers are especially angular,
elongated, and ill-formed. But there is a noble feeling in the
whole group, notwithstanding. F. Tieck, the sculptor and brother of
the poet, was the first to suggest that we have here Antinous, the
Genius of Hadrian, and Persephone.<a name="FNanchor_1_50" id=
"FNanchor_1_50" /><a href="#Footnote_1_50" class=
"fnanchor">[1]</a> He also thought that the self-immolation of
Antinous was indicated by the loving, leaning attitude of the
younger man, and by his melancholy look of resolution. The same
view, in all substantial points, is taken by Friedrichs, author of
a work on Gr&aelig;co-Roman sculpture. But Friedrichs, while
admitting the identity of the younger figure with Antinous, and
recognising Persephone in the archaic image, is not prepared to
accept the elder as the Genius of Hadrian; and it must be confessed
that this face does not bear any resemblance to the portraits of
the Emperor. According to his interpretation, the D&aelig;mon is
kindling the fire upon the sacrificial altar with the depressed
torch; and the second or lifted torch must be supposed to have been
needed for the performance of some obscure rite of immolation. What
Friedrichs fails to elucidate is the trustful attitude of Antinous,
who could scarcely have been conceived as thus affectionately <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg225" id="pg225">225</a></span> reclining
on the shoulder of a merely sacrificial d&aelig;mon; nor is there
anything upon the altar to kindle. It must, however, be conceded
that the imperfection of the marble at this point leaves the
restoration of the altar and the torch upon it doubtful.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_50" id="Footnote_1_50" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_50"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> See the
article on Antinous, by Victor Rydberg, in the <i>Svensk Tidskrift
f&ouml;r Litteratur, Politik, och Ekonomi</i>. 1875, Stockholm.
Also Karl B&ouml;tticher, <i>K&ouml;nigliches Museum,
Erkl&auml;rendes Verzeichniss</i>. Berlin, 1871.</p>
</div>

<p>Charles B&ouml;tticher started a new solution of the principal
problem. According to him, it was executed in the lifetime of
Antinous; and it represents not a sacrifice of death, but a
sacrifice of fidelity on the part of the two friends, Hadrian and
Antinous, who have met together before Persephone to ratify a vow
of love till death. He suggests that the wreaths are of
stephanotis, that large-leaved myrtle, which was sacred to the
Chthonian goddesses after the liberation of Semele from Hades by
her son Dionysus. With reference to such ceremonies between Greek
comrades, B&ouml;tticher cites a vase upon which Theseus and
Peirithous are sacrificing in the temple of Persephone; and he
assumes that there may have existed Athenian groups in marble
representing similar vows of friendship, from which Hadrian had
this marble copied. He believes that the Genius of Hadrian is
kindling one torch at the sacred fire, which he will reach to
Antinous, while he holds the other in readiness to kindle for
himself. This explanation is both ingenious and beautiful. It has
also the great merit of explaining the action of the right arm of
Antinous. Yet it is hardly satisfactory. It throws no light upon
the melancholy and solemnity of both figures, which irresistibly
suggest a funereal rather than a joyous rite. Antinous is not even
looking at the altar, and the meditative curves of his beautiful
reclining form indicate anything rather than the spirited alacrity
with which a friend would respond to his comrade's call at such a
moment. Besides, why should not the likeness of Hadrian have been
preserved as well as that of Antinous, if the group commemorated an
act of their joint <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg226" id=
"pg226">226</a></span> will? On the other hand, we must admit that
the altar itself is not dressed for a funereal sacrifice.</p>

<p>It has been pointed out that in the British Museum there exists
a basrelief of Homer's apotheosis where we notice a figure holding
two torches. Is it, then, possible that the Ildefonso marble may
express, not the sacrifice, but the apotheosis of Antinous, and
that the Genius who holds the two torches is conferring on him
immortality? The lifted torch would symbolise his new life, and the
depressed torch would stand for the life he had devoted. According
to this explanation, the sorrowful expression of Antinous must
indicate the agony of death through which he passed into the
company of the undying. Against this interpretation is the fact
that we have no precise authority for the symbolism of the torches,
except only the common inversion of the life-brand by the Genius of
Death.</p>

<p>Yet another solution may be suggested. Assuming that we have
before us a sacrificial ceremony, and that the group was executed
after the self-devotion of Antinous had passed into the popular
belief, we may regard the elder youth as either the Genius of the
Emperor, separate in spirit from Hadrian himself and presiding over
his destinies, who accepts the offer of Antinous with solemn
calmness suited to so great a gift; or else as the Genius of the
Roman people, witnessing the same act in the same majestic spirit.
This view finds some support in the abstract ideality of the
torch-bearer, who is clearly no historical personage as Antinous
himself is, but rather a power controlling his fate. The
interpretation of the two torches remains very difficult. In the
torch flung down upon the flameless and barren altar we might
recognise a symbol of Hadrian's life upon the point of extinction,
but not yet extinguished; and in the torch lifted aloft we might
find a metaphor of life resuscitated and exalted. Nor is it <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg227" id="pg227">227</a></span> perhaps
without significance that the arm of the self-immolating youth
meets the upraised torch, as though to touch the life which he will
purchase with his death. There is, however, the objection stated
above to this bold use of symbolism.</p>

<p>In support of any explanation which ascribes this group to a
period later than the canonisation of Antinous, it may be repeated
that the execution is inferior to that of almost all the other
statues of the hero. Is it possible, then, that it belongs to a
subsequent date, when art was further on the wane, but when the
self-devotion of Antinous had become a dogma of his cult?</p>

<p>After all is said, the Ildefonso marble, like the legend of
Antinous, remains a mystery. Only hypotheses, more or less
ingenious, more or less suited to our sympathies, varying between
Casaubon's coarse vilification and Rydberg's roseate vision, are
left us.</p>

<p>As a last note on the subject of Antinous let me refer to
Raphael's statue of Jonah in the Chigi Chapel of S. Maria del
Popolo at Rome. Raphael, who handled the myth of Cupid and Psyche
so magnificently in the Villa Farnesina of his patron Agostino
Chigi, dedicated a statue of Antinous&mdash;the only statue he ever
executed in marble&mdash;under the title of a Hebrew prophet in a
Christian sanctuary. The fact is no less significant than strange.
During the early centuries of Christianity, as is amply proved by
the sarcophagi in the Lateran Museum, Jonah symbolised
self-sacrifice and immortality. He was a type of Christ, an emblem
of the Christian's hope beyond the grave. During those same
centuries Antinous represented the same ideas, however
inadequately, however dimly, for the unlettered laity of Paganism.
It could scarcely have been by accident, or by mere admiration for
the features of Antinous, that Raphael, in his marble, blent the
Christian <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg228" id=
"pg228">228</a></span> and the Pagan traditions. To unify and to
transcend the double views of Christianity and Paganism in a work
of pure art was Raphael's instinctive, if not his conscious, aim.
Nor is there a more striking instance of this purpose than the
youthful Jonah with the head of Hadrian's favourite. Leonardo's
Dionysus-John-the-Baptist seems but a careless <i>jeu d'esprit</i>
compared with this profound and studied symbol of renascent
humanism. Thus to regard the Jonah-Antinous of the Cappella Chigi
as a type of immortality and self-devotion, fusing Christian and
Gr&aelig;co-Roman symbolism in one work of modern art, is the most
natural interpretation; but it would not be impossible to trace in
it a metaphor of the resurgent Pagan spirit also&mdash;as though,
leaving Jonah and his Biblical associations in the background, the
artist had determined that from the mouth of the monstrous grave
should issue not a bearded prophet, but the victorious youth who
had captivated with his beauty and his heroism the sunset age of
the classic world. At any rate, whatever may have been Raphael's
intention, the legend of Antinous, that last creation of antique
mythology, shines upon us in this marble, just as the tale of Hero
and Leander, that last blossom of antique literature, flowers
afresh in the verses of our Marlowe. It would appear as though the
Renaissance poets, hastening to meet the classic world with arms of
welcome, had embraced its latest saints, as nearest to them, in the
rapture of their first enthusiasm.</p>

<p>Over all these questions, over all that concerns Antinous, there
rests a cloud of darkness and impenetrable doubt. To pierce that
cloud is now impossible. The utmost we can do is to indulge our
fancy in dreams of greater or less probability, and to mark out
clearly the limitations of the subject. It is indeed something to
have shown that the stigma of slavery and disgrace attaching to his
name has no solid historical justification, and something to have
suggested plausible reasons <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg229"
id="pg229">229</a></span> for conjecturing that his worship had a
genuine spiritual basis. Yet the sincere critic, at the end of the
whole inquiry, will confess that he has only cast a plummet into
the unfathomable sea of ignorance. What remains, immortal,
indestructible, victorious, is Antinous in art. Against the gloomy
background of doubt, calumny, contention, terrible surmise, his
statues are illuminated with the dying glory of the classic
genius&mdash;even as the towers and domes of a marble city shine
forth from the purple banks of a thunder-cloud in sunset light.
Here and here only does reality emerge from the chaos of
conflicting phantoms. Front to front with them, it is allowed us to
forget all else but the beauty of one who died young because the
gods loved him. But when we question those wonderful mute features
and beg them for their secret, they return no answer. There is not
even a smile upon the parted lips. So profound is the mystery, so
insoluble the enigma, that from its most importunate interrogation
we derive nothing but an attitude of deeper reverence. This in
itself, however, is worth the pains of study.<a name=
"FNanchor_1_51" id="FNanchor_1_51" /><a href=
"#Footnote_1_51" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_51" id="Footnote_1_51" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_51"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> I must
here express my indebtedness to my friend H.F. Brown for a large
portion of the materials used by me in this essay on Antinous,
which I had no means at Davos Platz of accumulating for myself, and
which he unearthed from the libraries of Florence in the course of
his own work, and generously placed at my disposal.</p>
</div>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg230" id=
"pg230">230</a></span></p>

<h3><a name="WANDERINGS" id="WANDERINGS" /><i>SPRING
WANDERINGS</i></h3>

<div class="center">
<div class="smcap">Ana-Capri</div>
</div>

<p>The storm-clouds at this season, though it is the bloom of May,
are daily piled in sulky or menacing masses over Vesuvius and the
Abruzzi, frothing out their curls of moulded mist across the bay,
and climbing the heavens with toppling castle towers and domes of
alabaster.</p>

<p>We made the most of a tranquil afternoon, when there was an
armistice of storm, to climb the bluff of Mount Solaro. A ruined
fort caps that limestone bulwark; and there we lay together,
drinking the influences of sea, sun, and wind. Immeasurably deep
beneath us plunged the precipices, deep, deep descending to a bay
where fisher boats were rocking, diminished to a scale that made
the fishermen in them invisible. Low down above the waters wheeled
white gulls, and higher up the hawks and ospreys of the cliff
sailed out of sunlight into shadow. Immitigable strength is in the
moulding of this limestone, and sharp, clear definiteness marks yon
clothing of scant brushwood where the fearless goats are browsing.
The sublime of sculpturesque in crag structure is here, refined and
modulated by the sweetness of sea distances. For the air came pure
and yielding to us over the unfooted sea; and at the basement of
those fortress-cliffs the sea was dreaming in its caves; and far
away, to east and south and west, soft light was blent with mist
upon the surface of the shimmering waters.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg231" id="pg231">231</a></span>
The distinction between prospects viewed from a mountain
overlooking a great plain, or viewed from heights that, like this,
dominate the sea, principally lies in this: that while the former
only offer cloud shadows cast upon the fields below our feet, in
the latter these shadows are diversified with cloud reflections.
This gives superiority in qualities of colour, variety of tone, and
luminous effect to the sea, compensating in some measure for the
lack of those associations which render the outlook over a wide
extent of populated land so thrilling. The emergence of towered
cities into sunlight at the skirts of moving shadows, the liquid
lapse of rivers half disclosed by windings among woods, the
upturned mirrors of unruffled lakes, are wanting to the sea. For
such episodes the white sails of vessels, with all their
wistfulness of going to and fro on the mysterious deep, are but a
poor exchange. Yet the sea-lover may justify his preference by
appealing to the beauty of empurpled shadows, toned by amethyst or
opal, or shining with violet light, reflected from the clouds that
cross and find in those dark shields a mirror. There are
suggestions, too, of immensity, of liberty, of action, presented by
the boundless horizons and the changeful changeless tracts of ocean
which no plain possesses.</p>

<p>It was nigh upon sunset when we descended to Ana-Capri. That
evening the clouds assembled suddenly. The armistice of storm was
broken. They were terribly blue, and the sea grew dark as steel
beneath them, till the moment when the sun's lip reached the last
edge of the waters. Then a courier of rosy flame sent forth from
him passed swift across the gulf, touching, where it trod, the
waves with accidental fire. The messenger reached Naples; and in a
moment, as by some diabolical illumination, the sinful city kindled
into light like glowing charcoal. From Posilippo on the left, along
the palaces of the Chiaja, up to S. Elmo on the hill, past Santa
<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg232" id="pg232">232</a></span>
Lucia, down on the Marinella, beyond Portici, beyond Torre del
Greco, where Vesuvius towered up aloof, an angry mount of
amethystine gloom, the conflagration spread and reached Pompeii,
and dwelt on Torre dell' Annunziata. Stationary, lurid, it
smouldered while the day died slowly. The long, densely populated
sea-line from Pozzuoli to Castellammare burned and smoked with
intensest incandescence, sending a glare of fiery mist against the
threatening blue behind, and fringing with pomegranate-coloured
blots the water where no light now lingered. It is difficult to
bend words to the use required. The scene, in spite of natural
suavity and grace, had become like Dante's first glimpse of the
City of Dis&mdash;like Sodom and Gomorrah when fire from heaven
descended on their towers before they crumbled into dust.</p>

<div class="center">
<div class="smcap">From Capri to Ischia</div>
</div>

<p>After this, for several days, Libeccio blew harder. No boats
could leave or come to Capri. From the piazza parapet we saw the
wind scooping the surface of the waves, and flinging spray-fleeces
in sheets upon the churning water. As they broke on Cape
Campanella, the rollers climbed in foam&mdash;how many
feet?&mdash;and blotted out the olive-trees above the headland. The
sky was always dark with hanging clouds and masses of low-lying
vapour, very moist, but scarcely raining&mdash;lightning without
thunder in the night.</p>

<p>Such weather is unexpected in the middle month of May,
especially when the olives are blackened by December storms, and
the orange-trees despoiled of foliage, and the tendrils of the
vines yellow with cold. The walnut-trees have shown no sign of
making leaves. Only the figs seem to have suffered little.</p>

<p>It had been settled that we should start upon the first <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg233" id="pg233">233</a></span> seafaring
dawn for Ischia or Sorrento, according as the wind might set; and I
was glad when, early one morning, the captain of the <i>Serena</i>
announced a moderate sirocco. When we reached the little quay we
found the surf of the Libeccio still rolling heavily into the gulf.
A gusty south-easter crossed it, tearing spray-crests from the
swell as it went plunging onward. The sea was rough enough; but we
made fast sailing, our captain steering with a skill which it was
beautiful to watch, his five oarsmen picturesquely grouped beneath
the straining sail. The sea slapped and broke from time to time on
our windward quarter, drenching the boat with brine; and now and
then her gunwale scooped into the shoulder of a wave as she shot
sidling up it. Meanwhile enormous masses of leaden-coloured clouds
formed above our heads and on the sea-line; but these were always
shifting in the strife of winds, and the sun shone through them
petulantly. As we climbed the rollers, or sank into their trough,
the outline of the bay appeared in glimpses, shyly revealed,
suddenly withdrawn from sight; the immobility and majesty of
mountains contrasted with the weltering waste of water round
us&mdash;now blue and garish where the sunlight fell, now shrouded
in squally rain-storms, and then again sullen beneath a vaporous
canopy. Each of these vignettes was photographed for one brief
second on the brain, and swallowed by the hurling drift of billows.
The painter's art could but ill have rendered that changeful colour
in the sea, passing from tawny cloud-reflections and surfaces of
glowing violet to bright blue or impenetrable purple flecked with
boiling foam, according as a light-illuminated or a shadowed facet
of the moving mass was turned to sight.</p>

<p>Halfway across the gulf the sirocco lulled; the sail was
lowered, and we had to make the rest of the passage by rowing.
Under the lee of Ischia we got into comparatively quiet <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg234" id="pg234">234</a></span> water;
though here the beautiful Italian sea was yellowish green with
churned-up sand, like an unripe orange. We passed the castle on its
rocky island, with the domed church which has been so often painted
in <i>gouache</i> pictures through the last two centuries, and soon
after noon we came to Casamicciola.</p>

<div class="center">
<div class="smcap">La Piccola Sentinella</div>
</div>

<p>Casamicciola is a village on the north side of the island, in
its centre, where the visitors to the mineral baths of Ischia
chiefly congregate. One of its old-established inns is called La
Piccola Sentinella. The first sight on entrance is an open gallery,
with a pink wall on which bloom magnificent cactuses, sprays of
thick-clustering scarlet and magenta flowers. This is a rambling
house, built in successive stages against a hill, with terraces and
verandahs opening on unexpected gardens to the back and front.
Beneath its long irregular fa&ccedil;ade there spreads a wilderness
of orange-trees and honeysuckles and roses, verbenas, geraniums and
mignonette, snapdragons, gazanias and stocks, exceeding bright and
fragrant, with the green slopes of Monte Epomeo for a background
and Vesuvius for far distance. There are wonderful bits of detail
in this garden. One dark, thick-foliaged olive, I remember, leaning
from the tufa over a lizard-haunted wall, feathered waist-high in
huge acanthus leaves. The whole rich orchard ground of Casamicciola
is dominated by Monte Epomeo, the extinct volcano which may be
called the <i>raison d'&ecirc;tre</i> of Ischia; for this island is
nothing but a mountain lifted by the energy of fire from the
sea-basement. Its fantastic peaks and ridges, sulphur-coloured,
dusty grey, and tawny, with brushwood in young leaf upon the cloven
flanks, form a singular pendant to the austere but more
artistically modelled limestone crags of Capri. No two islands that
I know, within so <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg235" id=
"pg235">235</a></span> short a space of sea, offer two pictures so
different in style and quality of loveliness. The inhabitants are
equally distinct in type. Here, in spite of what De Musset wrote
somewhat affectedly about the peasant girls&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i5">Ischia! c'est l&agrave; qu'on a des yeux,</div>

<div class="i5">C'est l&agrave; qu'un corsage amoureux</div>

<div class="i11">Serre la hanche.</div>

<div class="i5">Sur un bas rouge bien tir&eacute;</div>

<div class="i5">Brille, sous le jupon dor&eacute;,</div>

<div class="i11">La mule blanche&mdash;</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>in spite of these lines I did not find the Ischian women
eminent, as those of Capri are, for beauty. But the young men have
fine, loose, faun-like figures, and faces that would be strikingly
handsome but for too long and prominent noses. They are a singular
race, graceful in movement.</p>

<p>Evening is divine in Ischia. From the topmost garden terrace of
the inn one looks across the sea towards Terracina, Gaeta, and
those descending mountain buttresses, the Phlegr&aelig;an plains,
and the distant snows of the Abruzzi. Rain-washed and luminous, the
sunset sky held Hesper trembling in a solid green of beryl.
Fireflies flashed among the orange blossoms. Far away in the
obscurity of eastern twilight glared the smouldering cone of
Vesuvius&mdash;a crimson blot upon the darkness&mdash;a Cyclops'
eye, bloodshot and menacing.</p>

<p>The company in the Piccola Sentinella, young and old, were
decrepit, with an odd, rheumatic, shrivelled look upon them. The
dining-room reminded me, as certain rooms are apt to do, of a
ship's saloon. I felt as though I had got into the cabin of the
<i>Flying Dutchman</i>, and that all these people had been sitting
there at meat a hundred years, through storm and shine, for ever
driving onward over immense waves in an enchanted calm.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg236" id=
"pg236">236</a></span></p>

<div class="center">
<div class="smcap">Ischia and Forio</div>
</div>

<p>One morning we drove along the shore, up hill, and down, by the
Porto d'Ischia to the town and castle. This country curiously
combines the qualities of Corfu and Catania. The near distance, so
richly cultivated, with the large volcanic slopes of Monte Epomeo
rising from the sea, is like Catania. Then, across the gulf, are
the bold outlines and snowy peaks of the Abruzzi, recalling
Albanian ranges. Here, as in Sicily, the old lava is overgrown with
prickly pear and red valerian. Mesembrianthemums&mdash;I must be
pardoned this word; for I cannot omit those fleshy-leaved creepers,
with their wealth of gaudy blossoms, shaped like sea anemones,
coloured like strawberry and pineapple
cream-ices&mdash;mesembrianthemums, then, tumble in torrents from
the walls, and large-cupped white convolvuluses curl about the
hedges. The Castle Rock, with Capri's refined sky-coloured outline
relieving its hard profile on the horizon, is one of those
exceedingly picturesque objects just too theatrical to be artistic.
It seems ready-made for a back scene in 'Masaniello,' and cries out
to the chromo-lithographer, 'Come and make the most of me!' Yet
this morning all things, in sea, earth, and sky, were so delicately
tinted and bathed in pearly light that it was difficult to be
critical.</p>

<p>In the afternoon we took the other side of the island, driving
through Lacca to Forio. One gets right round the bulk of Epomeo,
and looks up into a weird region called Le Falange, where white
lava streams have poured in two broad irregular torrents among
broken precipices. Forio itself is placed at the end of a flat
headland, boldly thrust into the sea; and its furthest promontory
bears a pilgrimage church, intensely white and glaring.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg237" id="pg237">237</a></span>
There is something arbitrary in the memories we make of places
casually visited, dependent as they are upon our mood at the
moment, or on an accidental interweaving of impressions which the
<i>genius loci</i> blends for us. Of Forio two memories abide with
me. The one is of a young woman, with very fair hair, in a light
blue dress, standing beside an older woman in a garden. There was a
flourishing pomegranate-tree above them. The whiteness and the
dreamy smile of the young woman seemed strangely out of tune with
her strong-toned southern surroundings. I could have fancied her a
daughter of some moist north-western isle of Scandinavian seas. My
other memory is of a lad, brown, handsome, powerfully featured,
thoughtful, lying curled up in the sun upon a sort of ladder in his
house-court, profoundly meditating. He had a book in his hand, and
his finger still marked the place where he had read. He looked as
though a Columbus or a Campanella might emerge from his earnest,
fervent, steadfast adolescence. Driving rapidly along, and leaving
Forio in all probability for ever, I kept wondering whether those
two lives, discerned as though in vision, would meet&mdash;whether
she was destined to be his evil genius, whether posterity would
hear of him and journey to his birthplace in this world-neglected
Forio. Such reveries are futile. Yet who entirely resists them?</p>

<div class="center">
<div class="smcap">Monte Epomeo</div>
</div>

<p>About three on the morning which divides the month of May into
two equal parts I woke and saw the waning moon right opposite my
window, stayed in her descent upon the slope of Epomeo. Soon
afterwards Christian called me, and we settled to ascend the
mountain. Three horses and a stout black donkey, with their
inevitable grooms, were ordered; <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg238" id="pg238">238</a></span> and we took for guide a lovely
faun-like boy, goat-faced, goat-footed, with gentle manners and
pliant limbs swaying beneath the breath of impulse. He was called
Giuseppe.</p>

<p>The way leads past the mineral baths and then strikes uphill, at
first through lanes cut deep in the black lava. The trees meet
almost overhead. It is like Devonshire, except that one half hopes
to see tropical foxgloves with violet bells and downy leaves
sprouting among the lush grasses and sweet-scented ferns upon those
gloomy, damp, warm walls. After this we skirted a thicket of
arbutus, and came upon the long volcanic ridge, with divinest
outlook over Procida and Miseno toward Vesuvius. Then once more we
had to dive into brown sandstone gullies, extremely steep, where
the horses almost burst their girths in scrambling, and the grooms
screamed, exasperating their confusion with encouragements and
curses. Straight or bending as a willow wand, Giuseppe kept in
front. I could have imagined he had stepped to life from one of
Lionardo's fancy-sprighted studies.</p>

<p>After this fashion we gained the spine of mountain which
composes Ischia&mdash;the smooth ascending ridge that grows up from
those eastern waves to what was once the apex of fire-vomiting
Inarime, and breaks in precipices westward, a ruin of gulfed lava,
tortured by the violence of pent Typhoeus. Under a vast umbrella
pine we dismounted, rested, and saw Capri. Now the road skirts
slanting-wise along the further flank of Epomeo, rising by muddy
earth-heaps and sandstone hollows to the quaint pinnacles which
build the summit. There is no inconsiderable peril in riding over
this broken ground; for the soil crumbles away, and the ravines
open downward, treacherously masked with brushwood.</p>

<p>On Epomeo's topmost cone a chapel dedicated to S. Niccolo da
Bari, the Italian patron of seamen, has been <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg239" id="pg239">239</a></span> hollowed from
the rock. Attached to it is the dwelling of two hermits,
subterranean, with long dark corridors and windows opening on the
western seas. Church and hermitage alike are scooped, with slight
expenditure of mason's skill, from solid mountain. The windows are
but loopholes, leaning from which the town of Forio is seen, 2500
feet below; and the jagged precipices of the menacing Falange toss
their contorted horror forth to sea and sky. Through gallery and
grotto we wound in twilight under a monk's guidance, and came at
length upon the face of the crags above Casamicciola. A few steps
upward, cut like a ladder in the stone, brought us to the topmost
peak&mdash;a slender spire of soft, yellowish tufa. It reminded me
(with differences) of the way one climbs the spire at Strasburg,
and stands upon that temple's final crocket, with nothing but a
lightning conductor to steady swimming senses. Different indeed are
the views unrolled beneath the peak of Epomeo and the pinnacle of
Strasburg! Vesuvius, with the broken lines of Procida, Miseno, and
Lago Fusaro for foreground; the sculpturesque beauty of Capri,
buttressed in everlasting calm upon the waves; the Phlegr&aelig;an
plains and champaign of Volturno, stretching between smooth seas
and shadowy hills; the mighty sweep of Naples' bay; all merged in
blue; a&euml;rial, translucent, exquisitely frail. In this ethereal
fabric of azure the most real of realities, the most solid of
substances, seem films upon a crystal sphere.</p>

<p>The hermit produced some flasks of amber-coloured wine from his
stores in the grotto. These we drank, lying full-length upon the
tufa in the morning sunlight. The panorama of sea, sky, and
long-drawn lines of coast, breathless, without a ripple or a taint
of cloud, spread far and wide around us. Our horses and donkey
cropped what little grass, blent with bitter herbage, grew on that
barren summit. Their grooms <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg240"
id="pg240">240</a></span> helped us out with the hermit's wine, and
turned to sleep face downward. The whole scene was very quiet,
islanded in immeasurable air. Then we asked the boy, Giuseppe,
whether he could guide us on foot down the cliffs of Monte Epomeo
to Casamicciola. This he was willing and able to do; for he told me
that he had spent many months each year upon the hillside, tending
goats. When rough weather came, he wrapped himself in a blanket
from the snow that falls and melts upon the ledges. In summer time
he basked the whole day long, and slept the calm ambrosial nights
away. Something of this free life was in the burning eyes, long
clustering dark hair, and smooth brown bosom of the faun-like
creature. His graceful body had the brusque, unerring movement of
the goats he shepherded. Human thought and emotion seemed a-slumber
in this youth who had grown one with nature. As I watched his
careless incarnate loveliness I remembered lines from an old
Italian poem of romance, describing a dweller of the forest,
who</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i4">Haunteth the woodland aye 'neath verdurous
shade,</div>

<div class="i4">Eateth wild fruit, drinketh of running
stream;</div>

<div class="i4">And such-like is his nature, as 'tis said,</div>

<div class="i4">That ever weepeth he when clear skies gleam,</div>

<div class="i4">Seeing of storms and rain he then hath dread,</div>

<div class="i4">And feareth lest the sun's heat fail for him;</div>

<div class="i4">But when on high hurl winds and clouds
together,</div>

<div class="i4">Full glad is he and waiteth for fair weather.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>Giuseppe led us down those curious volcanic <i>balze</i>, where
the soil is soft as marl, with tints splashed on it of pale green
and rose and orange, and a faint scent in it of sulphur. They break
away into wild chasms, where rivulets begin; and here the narrow
watercourses made for us plain going. The turf beneath our feet was
starred with cyclamens and wavering anemones. At last we reached
the chestnut woods, and so <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg241"
id="pg241">241</a></span> by winding paths descended on the
village. Giuseppe told me, as we walked, that in a short time he
would be obliged to join the army. He contemplated this duty with a
dim and undefined dislike. Nor could I, too, help dreading and
misliking it for him. The untamed, gentle creature, who knew so
little but his goats as yet, whose nights had been passed from
childhood <i>&agrave; la belle &eacute;toile</i>, whose limbs had
never been cumbered with broadcloth or belt&mdash;for him to be
shut up in the barrack of some Lombard city, packed in white
conscript's sacking, drilled, taught to read and write, and
weighted with the knapsack and the musket! There was something
lamentable in the prospect. But such is the burden of man's life,
of modern life especially. United Italy demands of her children
that by this discipline they should be brought into that harmony
which builds a nation out of diverse elements.</p>

<div class="center">
<div class="smcap">From Ischia to Naples</div>
</div>

<p>Ischia showed a new aspect on the morning of our departure. A
sea-mist passed along the skirts of the island, and rolled in heavy
masses round the peaks of Monte Epomeo, slowly condensing into
summer clouds, and softening each outline with a pearly haze,
through which shone emerald glimpses of young vines and
fig-trees.</p>

<p>We left in a boat with four oarsmen for Pozzuoli. For about an
hour the breeze carried us well, while Ischia behind grew ever
lovelier, soft as velvet, shaped like a gem. The mist had become a
great white luminous cloud&mdash;not dense and alabastrine, like
the clouds of thunder; but filmy, tender, comparable to the
atmosphere of Dante's moon. Porpoises and sea-gulls played and
fished about our bows, dividing the <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg242" id="pg242">242</a></span> dark brine in spray. The mountain
distances were drowned in bluish vapour&mdash;Vesuvius quite
invisible. About noon the air grew clearer, and Capri reared her
fortalice of sculptured rock, a&euml;rially azure, into liquid
ether. I know not what effect of atmosphere or light it is that
lifts an island from the sea by interposing that thin edge of
lustrous white between it and the water. But this phenomenon to-day
was perfectly exhibited. Like a mirage on the wilderness, like Fata
Morgana's palace ascending from the deep, the pure and noble vision
stayed suspense 'twixt heaven and ocean. At the same time the
breeze failed, and we rowed slowly between Procida and Capo
Miseno&mdash;a space in old-world history athrong with
C&aelig;sar's navies. When we turned the point, and came in sight
of Bai&aelig;, the wind freshened and took us flying into Pozzuoli.
The whole of this coast has been spoiled by the recent upheaval of
Monte Nuovo with its lava floods and cindery deluges. Nothing
remains to justify its fame among the ancient Romans and the
Neapolitans of Boccaccio's and Pontano's age. It is quite wrecked,
beyond the power even of hendecasyllables to bring again its breath
of beauty:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i7">Mecum si sapies, Gravina, mecum</div>

<div class="i7">Baias, et placidos coles recessus,</div>

<div class="i7">Quos ips&aelig; et veneres colunt, et illa</div>

<div class="i7">Qu&aelig; mentes hominum regit voluptas.</div>

<div class="i7">Hic vina et chore&aelig; jocique regnant,</div>

<div class="i7">Regnant et charites faceti&aelig;que.</div>

<div class="i7">Has sedes amor, has colit cupido.</div>

<div class="i7">His passim juvenes puellul&aelig;que</div>

<div class="i7">Ludunt, et tepidis aquis lavantur,</div>

<div class="i7">Coenantque et dapibus leporibusque</div>

<div class="i7">Miscent delitias venustiores:</div>

<div class="i7">Miscent gaudia et osculationes,</div>

<div class="i7">Atque una sociis toris foventur,</div>

<div class="i7">Has te ad delitias vocant camoen&aelig;;</div>

<div class="i7">Invitat mare, myrteumque littus;</div>

<div class="i7"><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg243" id=
"pg243">243</a></span> Invitant volueres canor&aelig;, et
ipse</div>

<div class="i7">Gaurus pampineas parat corollas.<a name=
"FNanchor_1_52" id="FNanchor_1_52" /><a href=
"#Footnote_1_52" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_52" id="Footnote_1_52" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_52"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> These
verses are extracted from the second book of Pontano's
<i>Hendecasyllabi</i> (Aldus, 1513, p. 208). They so vividly paint
the amusements of a watering-place in the fifteenth century that I
have translated them:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i2">With me, let but the mind be wise, Gravina,</div>

<div class="i2">With me haste to the tranquil haunts of
Bai&aelig;,</div>

<div class="i2">Haunts that pleasure hath made her home, and she
who</div>

<div class="i2">Sways all hearts, the voluptuous Aphrodite.</div>

<div class="i2">Here wine rules, and the dance, and games and
laughter;</div>

<div class="i2">Graces reign in a round of mirthful madness;</div>

<div class="i2">Love hath built, and desire, a palace here
too,</div>

<div class="i2">Where glad youths and enamoured girls on all
sides</div>

<div class="i2">Play and bathe in the waves in sunny weather,</div>

<div class="i2">Dine and sup, and the merry mirth of banquets</div>

<div class="i2">Blend with dearer delights and love's
embraces,</div>

<div class="i2">Blend with pleasures of youth and honeyed
kisses,</div>

<div class="i2">Till, sport-tired, in the couch inarmed they
slumber.</div>

<div class="i2">Thee our Muses invite to these enjoyments;</div>

<div class="i2">Thee those billows allure, the myrtled
seashore,</div>

<div class="i2">Birds allure with a song, and mighty Gaurus</div>

<div class="i2">Twines his redolent wreath of vines and ivy.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>At Pozzuoli we dined in the Albergo del Ponte di Caligola
(Heaven save the mark!), and drank Falernian wine of modern and
indifferent vintage. Then Christian hired two open carriages for
Naples. He and I sat in the second. In the first we placed the two
ladies of our party. They had a large, fat driver. Just after we
had all passed the gate a big fellow rushed up, dragged the
corpulent coachman from his box, pulled out a knife, and made a
savage thrust at the man's stomach. At the same moment a
<i>guardia-porta</i>, with drawn cutlass, interposed and struck
between the combatants. They were separated. Their respective
friends assembled in two jabbering crowds, and the whole party,
uttering vociferous objurgations, marched off, as I imagined, to
the watch-house. A very shabby lazzarone, without more ado, <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg244" id="pg244">244</a></span> sprang on
the empty box, and we made haste for Naples. Being only anxious to
get there, and not at all curious about the squabble which had
deprived us of our fat driver, I relapsed into indifference when I
found that neither of the men to whose lot we had fallen was
desirous of explaining the affair. It was sufficient cause for
self-congratulation that no blood had been shed, and that the
Procuratore del R&egrave; would not require our evidence.</p>

<p>The Grotta di Posilippo was a sight of wonder, with the
afternoon sun slanting on its festoons of creeping plants above the
western entrance&mdash;the gas lamps, dust, huge carts, oxen, and
<i>contadini</i> in its subterranean darkness&mdash;and then the
sudden revelation of the bay and city as we jingled out into the
summery air again by Virgil's tomb.</p>

<div class="center">
<div class="smcap">Night at Pompeii</div>
</div>

<p>On to Pompeii in the clear sunset, falling very lightly upon
mountains, islands, little ports, and indentations of the bay.</p>

<p>From the railway station we walked above half a mile to the
Albergo del Sole under a lucid heaven of aqua-marine colour, with
Venus large in it upon the border line between the tints of green
and blue.</p>

<p>The Albergo del Sole is worth commemorating. We stepped, without
the intervention of courtyard or entrance hall, straight from the
little inn garden into an open, vaulted room. This was divided into
two compartments by a stout column supporting round arches. Wooden
gates furnished a kind of fence between the atrium and what an old
Pompeian would have styled the triclinium. For in the further part
a table was laid for supper and lighted with suspended lamps. And
here a party of artists and students drank and talked and <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg245" id="pg245">245</a></span> smoked. A
great live peacock, half asleep and winking his eyes, sat perched
upon a heavy wardrobe watching them. The outer chamber, where we
waited in armchairs of ample girth, had its <i>loggia</i> windows
and doors open to the air. There were singing-birds in cages; and
plants of rosemary, iris, and arundo sprang carelessly from holes
in the floor. A huge vase filled to overflowing with oranges and
lemons, the very symbol of generous prodigality, stood in the
midst, and several dogs were lounging round. The outer twilight,
blending with the dim sheen of the lamps, softened this pretty
scene to picturesqueness. Altogether it was a strange and
unexpected place. Much experienced as the nineteenth-century nomad
may be in inns, he will rarely receive a more powerful and
refreshing impression, entering one at evenfall, than here.</p>

<p>There was no room for us in the inn. We were sent, attended by a
boy with a lantern, through fields of dew-drenched barley and
folded poppies, to a farmhouse overshadowed by four spreading
pines. Exceedingly soft and grey, with rose-tinted weft of steam
upon its summit, stood Vesuvius above us in the twilight. Something
in the recent impression of the dimly lighted supper-room, and in
the idyllic simplicity of this lantern-litten journey through the
barley, suggested, by one of those inexplicable stirrings of
association which affect tired senses, a dim, dreamy thought of
Palestine and Bible stories. The feeling of the <i>cenacolo</i>
blent here with feelings of Ruth's cornfields, and the white square
houses with their flat roofs enforced the illusion. Here we slept
in the middle of a <i>contadino</i> colony. Some of the folk had
made way for us; and by the wheezing, coughing, and snoring of
several sorts and ages in the chamber next me, I imagine they must
have endured considerable crowding. My bed was large enough to have
<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg246" id="pg246">246</a></span>
contained a family. Over its bead there was a little shrine,
hollowed in the thickness of the wall, with several sacred emblems
and a shallow vase of holy water. On dressers at each end of the
room stood glass shrines, occupied by finely dressed Madonna dolls
and pots of artificial flowers. Above the doors S. Michael and S.
Francis, roughly embossed in low relief and boldly painted, gave
dignity and grandeur to the walls. These showed some sense for art
in the first builders of the house. But the taste of the
inhabitants could not be praised. There were countless gaudy prints
of saints, and exactly five pictures of the Bambino, very big, and
sprawling in a field alone. A crucifix, some old bottles, a gun,
old clothes suspended from pegs, pieces of peasant pottery and
china, completed the furniture of the apartment.</p>

<p>But what a view it showed when Christian next morning opened the
door! From my bed I looked across the red-tiled terrace to the
stone-pines with their velvet roofage and the blue-peaked hills of
Stabi&aelig;.</p>

<div class="center">
<div class="smcap">San Germano</div>
</div>

<p>No one need doubt about his quarters in this country town. The
Albergo di Pompeii is a truly sumptuous place. Sofas, tables, and
chairs in our sitting-room are made of buffalo horns, very cleverly
pieced together, but torturing the senses with suggestions of
impalement. Sitting or standing, one felt insecure. When would the
points run into us? when should we begin to break these
incrustations off? and would the whole fabric crumble at a touch
into chaotic heaps of horns?</p>

<p>It is market day, and the costumes in the streets are brilliant.
The women wear a white petticoat, a blue skirt made straight and
tightly bound above it, a white richly <span class="pagenum"><a
name="pg247" id="pg247">247</a></span> worked bodice, and the white
square-folded napkin of the Abruzzi on their heads. Their jacket is
of red or green&mdash;pure colour. A rug of striped red, blue,
yellow, and black protects the whole dress from the rain. There is
a very noble quality of green&mdash;sappy and gemmy&mdash;like some
of Titian's or Giorgione's&mdash;in the stuffs they use. Their
build and carriage are worthy of goddesses.</p>

<p>Rain falls heavily, persistently. We must ride on donkeys, in
waterproofs, to Monte Cassino. Mountain and valley, oak wood and
ilex grove, lentisk thicket and winding river-bed, are drowned
alike in soft-descending, soaking rain. Far and near the landscape
swims in rain, and the hillsides send down torrents through their
watercourses.</p>

<p>The monastery is a square, dignified building, of vast extent
and princely solidity. It has a fine inner court, with sumptuous
staircases of slabbed stone leading to the church. This public
portion of the edifice is both impressive and magnificent, without
sacrifice of religious severity to parade. We acknowledge a
successful compromise between the austerity of the order and the
grandeur befitting the fame, wealth, prestige, and power of its
parent foundation. The church itself is a tolerable structure of
the Renaissance&mdash;costly marble incrustations and mosaics,
meaningless Neapolitan frescoes. One singular episode in the
mediocrity of art adorning it, is the tomb of Pietro de' Medici.
Expelled from Florence in 1494, he never returned, but was drowned
in the Garigliano. Clement VII. ordered, and Duke Cosimo I.
erected, this marble monument&mdash;the handicraft, in part at
least, of Francesco di San Gallo&mdash;to their relative. It is
singularly stiff, ugly, out of place&mdash;at once obtrusive and
insignificant.</p>

<p>A gentle old German monk conducted Christian and me over the
convent&mdash;boys' school, refectory, printing press, <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg248" id="pg248">248</a></span> lithographic
workshop, library, archives. We then returned to the church, from
which we passed to visit the most venerable and sacred portion of
the monastery. The cell of S. Benedict is being restored and
painted in fresco by the Austrian Benedictines; a pious but
somewhat frigid process of re-edification. This so-called cell is a
many-chambered and very ancient building, with a tower which is now
embedded in the massive superstructure of the modern monastery. The
German artists adorning it contrive to blend the styles of Giotto,
Fra Angelico, Egypt, and Byzance, not without force and a kind of
intense frozen pietism. S. Mauro's vision of his master's
translation to heaven&mdash;the ladder of light issuing between two
cypresses, and the angels watching on the tower walls&mdash;might
even be styled poetical. But the decorative angels on the roof and
other places, being adapted from Egyptian art, have a strange,
incongruous appearance.</p>

<p>Monasteries are almost invariably disappointing to one who goes
in search of what gives virtue and solidity to human life; and even
Monte Cassino was no exception. This ought not to be otherwise,
seeing what a peculiar sympathy with the monastic institution is
required to make these cloisters comprehensible. The atmosphere of
operose indolence, prolonged through centuries and centuries,
stifles; nor can antiquity and influence impose upon a mind which
resents monkery itself as an essential evil. That Monte Cassino
supplied the Church with several potentates is incontestable. That
medi&aelig;val learning and morality would have suffered more
without this brotherhood cannot be doubted. Yet it is difficult to
name men of very eminent genius whom the Cassinesi claim as their
alumni; nor, with Boccaccio's testimony to their carelessness, and
with the evidence of their library before our eyes, can we rate
their services to <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg249" id=
"pg249">249</a></span> civilised erudition very highly. I longed to
possess the spirit, for one moment, of Montalembert. I longed for
what is called historical imagination, for the indiscriminate
voracity of those men to whom world-famous sites are in themselves
soul-stirring.</p>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg250" id=
"pg250">250</a></span></p>

<h3><a name="AMALFI" id="AMALFI"><i>AMALFI, P&AElig;STUM,
CAPRI</i></a></h3>

<p>The road between Vietri and Amalfi is justly celebrated as one
of the most lovely pieces of coast scenery in Italy. Its only
rivals are the roads from Castellammare to Sorrento, from Genoa to
Sestri, and from Nice to Mentone. Each of these has its own charm;
and yet their similarity is sufficient to invite comparison: under
the spell of each in turn, we are inclined to say, This then, at
all events, is the most beautiful. On first quitting Vietri,
Salerno is left low down upon the sea-shore, nestling into a little
corner of the bay which bears its name, and backed up by gigantic
mountains. With each onward step these mountain-ranges expand in
long a&euml;rial line, revealing reaches of fantastic peaks, that
stretch away beyond the plain of P&aelig;stum, till they end at
last in mist and sunbeams shimmering on the sea. On the left hand
hangs the cliff above the deep salt water, with here and there a
fig-tree spreading fanlike leaves against the blue beneath. On the
right rises the hillside, clothed with myrtle, lentisk, cistus, and
pale yellow coronilla&mdash;a tangle as sweet with scent as it is
gay with blossom. Over the parapet that skirts the precipice lean
heavy-foliaged locust-trees, and the terraces in sunny nooks are
set with lemon-orchards. There are but few olives, and no pines.
Meanwhile each turn in the road brings some change of
scene&mdash;now a village with its little beach of grey sand,
lapped by clearest sea-waves, where bare-legged fishermen mend
their nets, and naked boys bask like lizards in the <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg251" id="pg251">251</a></span> sun&mdash;now
towering bastions of weird rock, broken into spires and pinnacles
like those of Skye, and coloured with bright hues of red and
orange&mdash;then a ravine, where the thin thread of a mountain
streamlet seems to hang suspended upon ferny ledges in the
limestone&mdash;or a precipice defined in profile against sea and
sky, with a lad, half dressed in goat-skin, dangling his legs into
vacuity and singing&mdash;or a tract of cultivation, where the
orange, apricot, and lemon trees nestle together upon terraces with
intermingled pergolas of vines.</p>

<p>Amalfi and Atrani lie close together in two of these ravines,
the mountains almost arching over them, and the sea washing their
very house-walls. Each has its crowning campanile; but that of
Amalfi is the stranger of the two, like a Moorish tower at the top,
and coloured with green and yellow tiles that glitter in the
sunlight. The houses are all dazzling white, plastered against the
naked rock, rising on each other's shoulders to get a glimpse of
earth and heaven, jutting out on coigns of vantage from the
toppling cliff, and pierced with staircases as dark as night at
noonday. Some frequented lanes lead through the basements of these
houses; and as the donkeys pick their way from step to step in the
twilight, bare-chested macaroni-makers crowd forth like ants to see
us strangers pass. A myriad of swallows or a swarm of mason bees
might build a town like this.</p>

<p>It is not easy to imagine the time when Amalfi and Atrani were
one town, with docks and arsenals and harbourage for their
associated fleets, and when these little communities were second in
importance to no naval power of Christian Europe. The Byzantine
Empire lost its hold on Italy during the eighth century; and after
this time the history of Calabria is mainly concerned with the
republics of Naples and Amalfi, their conflict with the Lombard
dukes of Benevento, their opposition to the Saracens, and their
final subjugation by the <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg252" id=
"pg252">252</a></span> Norman conquerors of Sicily. Between the
year 839 A.D., when Amalfi freed itself from the control of Naples
and the yoke of Benevento, and the year 1131, when Roger of
Hauteville incorporated the republic in his kingdom of the Two
Sicilies, this city was the foremost naval and commercial port of
Italy. The burghers of Amalfi elected their own doge; founded the
Hospital of Jerusalem, whence sprang the knightly order of S. John;
gave their name to the richest quarter in Palermo; and owned
trading establishments or factories in all the chief cities of the
Levant. Their gold coinage of <i>tari</i> formed the standard of
currency before the Florentines had stamped the lily and S. John
upon the Tuscan florin. Their shipping regulations supplied Europe
with a code of maritime laws. Their scholars, in the darkest depth
of the dark ages, prized and conned a famous copy of the Pandects
of Justinian; and their seamen deserved the fame of having first
used, if they did not actually invent, the compass.</p>

<p>To modern visitors those glorious centuries of Amalfitan power
and independence cannot but seem fabulous; so difficult is it for
us to imagine the conditions of society in Europe when a tiny city,
shut in between barren mountains and a tideless sea, without a
circumjacent territory, and with no resources but piracy or trade,
could develop maritime supremacy in the Levant and produce the
first fine flowers of liberty and culture.</p>

<p>If the history of Amalfi's early splendour reads like a
brilliant legend, the story of its premature extinction has the
interest of a tragedy. The republic had grown and flourished on the
decay of the Greek Empire. When the hard-handed race of Hauteville
absorbed the heritage of Greeks and Lombards and Saracens in
Southern Italy, these adventurers succeeded in annexing Amalfi. But
it was not their interest to extinguish the state. On the contrary,
they relied for <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg253" id=
"pg253">253</a></span> assistance upon the navies and the armies of
the little commonwealth. New powers had meanwhile arisen in the
North of Italy, who were jealous of rivalry upon the open seas; and
when the Neapolitans resisted King Roger in 1135, they called Pisa
to their aid, and sent her fleet to destroy Amalfi. The ships of
Amalfi were on guard with Roger's navy in the Bay of Naples. The
armed citizens were, under Roger's orders, at Aversa. Meanwhile the
home of the republic lay defenceless on its mountain-girdled
seaboard. The Pisans sailed into the harbour, sacked the city, and
carried off the famous Pandects of Justinian as a trophy. Two years
later they returned, to complete the work of devastation. Amalfi
never recovered from the injuries and the humiliation of these two
attacks. It was ever thus that the Italians, like the children of
the dragon's teeth which Cadmus sowed, consumed each other. Pisa
cut the throat of her sister-port Amalfi, and Genoa gave a mortal
wound to Pisa, when the waters of Meloria were dyed with blood in
1284. Venice fought a duel to the death with Genoa in the
succeeding century; and what Venice failed to accomplish was
completed by Milan and the lords of the Visconti dynasty, who
crippled and enslaved the haughty queen of the Ligurian
Riviera.</p>

<p>The naval and commercial prosperity of Amalfi was thus put an
end to by the Pisans in the twelfth century. But it was not then
that the town assumed its present aspect. What surprises the
student of history more than anything is the total absence of
fortifications, docks, arsenals, and breakwaters, bearing witness
to the ancient grandeur of a city which numbered 50,000
inhabitants, and traded with Alexandria, Syria, and the far East.
Nothing of the sort, with the exception of a single solitary tower
upon the Monte Aureo, is visible. Nor will he fail to remember that
Amalfi and <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg254" id=
"pg254">254</a></span> Atrani, which are now divided by a jutting
mountain buttress, were once joined by a tract of sea-beach, where
the galleys of the republic rested after sweeping the Levant, and
where the fishermen drew up their boats upon the smooth grey sand.
That also has disappeared. The violence of man was not enough to
reduce Amalfi to its present state of insignificance. The forces of
nature aided&mdash;partly by the gradual subsidence of the land,
which caused the lower quarters of the city to be submerged, and
separated Amalfi from her twin-port by covering the beach with
water&mdash;partly by a fearful tempest, accompanied by earthquake,
in 1343. Petrarch, then resident at Naples, witnessed the
destructive fury of this great convulsion, and the description he
wrote of it soon after its occurrence is so graphic that some
notice may well be taken of it here.</p>

<p>His letter, addressed to the noble Roman, Giovanni Colonna,
begins with a promise to tell something of a storm which deserved
the title of 'poetic,' and in a degree so superlative that no
epithet but 'Homeric' would suffice to do it justice. This exordium
is singularly characteristic of Petrarch, who never forgot that he
was a literary man, and lost no opportunity of dragging the great
names of antiquity into his rhetorical compositions. The
catastrophe was hardly unexpected; for it had been prophesied by an
astrological bishop, whom Petrarch does not name, that Naples would
be overwhelmed by a terrible disaster in December 1343. The people
were therefore in a state of wild anxiety, repenting of their sins,
planning a total change of life under the fear of imminent death,
and neglecting their ordinary occupations. On the day of the
predicted calamity women roamed in trembling crowds through the
streets, pressing their babies to their breasts, and besieging the
altars of the saints with prayers. Petrarch, who shared the general
disquietude, kept <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg255" id=
"pg255">255</a></span> watching the signs of the weather; but
nothing happened to warrant an extraordinary panic. At sunset the
sky was quieter than usual; and he could discern none of the
symptoms of approaching tempest, to which his familiarity with the
mountains of Vaucluse accustomed him. After dusk he stationed
himself at a window to observe the moon until she went down, before
midnight, obscured by clouds. Then he betook himself to bed; but
scarcely had he fallen into his first sleep when a most horrible
noise aroused him. The whole house shook; the night-light on his
table was extinguished; and he was thrown with violence from his
couch. He was lodging in a convent; and soon after this first
intimation of the tempest he heard the monks calling to each other
through the darkness. From cell to cell they hurried, the ghastly
gleams of lightning falling on their terror-stricken faces. Headed
by the Prior, and holding crosses and relics of the saints in their
hands, they now assembled in Petrarch's chamber. Thence they
proceeded in a body to the chapel, where they spent the night in
prayer and expectation of impending ruin. It would be impossible,
says the poet, to relate the terrors of that hellish
night&mdash;the deluges of rain, the screaming of the wind, the
earthquake, the thunder, the howling of the sea, and the shrieks of
agonising human beings. All these horrors were prolonged, as though
by some magician's spell, for what seemed twice the duration of a
natural night. It was so dark that at last by conjecture rather
than the testimony of their senses they knew that day had broken. A
hurried mass was said. Then, as the noise in the town above them
began to diminish, and a confused clamour from the sea-shore
continually increased, their suspense became unendurable. They
mounted their horses, and descended to the port&mdash;to see and
perish. A fearful spectacle awaited them. The ships in the harbour
had broken their moorings, and <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg256" id="pg256">256</a></span> were crashing helplessly
together. The strand was strewn with mutilated corpses. The
breakwaters were submerged, and the sea seemed gaining momently
upon the solid land. A thousand watery mountains surged up into the
sky between the shore and Capri; and these massive billows were not
black or purple, but hoary with a livid foam. After describing some
picturesque episodes&mdash;such as the gathering of the knights of
Naples to watch the ruin of their city, the procession of court
ladies headed by the queen to implore the intercession of Mary, and
the wreck of a vessel freighted with 400 convicts bound for
Sicily&mdash;Petrarch concludes with a fervent prayer that he may
never have to tempt the sea, of whose fury he had seen so awful an
example.</p>

<p>The capital on this occasion escaped the ruin prophesied. But
Amalfi was inundated; and what the waters then gained has never
been restored to man. This is why the once so famous city ranks now
upon a level with quiet little towns whose names are hardly heard
in history&mdash;with San Remo, or Rapallo, or Chiavari&mdash;and
yet it is still as full of life as a wasp's nest, especially upon
the molo, or raised piazza paved with bricks, in front of the
Albergo de' Cappuccini. The changes of scene upon this tiny square
are so frequent as to remind one of a theatre. Looking down from
the inn-balcony, between the glazy green pots gay with scarlet
amaryllis-bloom, we are inclined to fancy that the whole has been
prepared for our amusement. In the morning the corn for the
macaroni-flour, after being washed, is spread out on the bricks to
dry. In the afternoon the fishermen bring their nets for the same
purpose. In the evening the city magnates promenade and whisper.
Dark-eyed women, with orange or crimson kerchiefs for headgear,
cross and re-cross, bearing baskets on their shoulders. Great lazy
large-limbed fellows, girt with scarlet sashes and finished off
with dark blue <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg257" id=
"pg257">257</a></span> nightcaps (for a contrast to their
saffron-coloured shirts, white breeches, and sunburnt calves),
slouch about or sleep face downwards on the parapets. On either
side of this same molo stretches a miniature beach of sand and
pebble, covered with nets, which the fishermen are always mending,
and where the big boats lade or unlade, trimming for the sardine
fishery, or driving in to shore with a whirr of oars and a jabber
of discordant voices. As the land-wind freshens, you may watch them
set off one by one, like pigeons taking flight, till the sea is
flecked with twenty sail, all scudding in the same direction. The
torrent runs beneath the molo, and finds the sea beyond it; so that
here too are the washerwomen, chattering like sparrows; and
everywhere the naked boys, like brown sea-urchins, burrow in the
clean warm sand, or splash the shallow brine. If you like the fun,
you may get a score of them to dive together and scramble for
coppers in the deeper places, their lithe bodies gleaming wan
beneath the water in a maze of interlacing arms and legs.</p>

<p>Over the whole busy scene rise the grey hills, soaring into
blueness of air-distance, turreted here and there with ruined
castles, capped with particoloured campanili and white convents,
and tufted through their whole height with the orange and the
emerald of the great tree-spurge, and with the live gold of the
blossoming broom. It is difficult to say when this picture is most
beautiful&mdash;whether in the early morning, when the boats are
coming back from their night-toil upon the sea, and along the
headlands in the fresh light lie swathes of fleecy mist, betokening
a still, hot day&mdash;or at noontide, when the houses on the hill
stand, tinted pink and yellow, shadowless like gems, and the great
caruba-trees above the tangles of vines and figs are blots upon the
steady glare&mdash;or at sunset, when violet and rose, reflected
from the eastern sky, make all these terraces and peaks translucent
<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg258" id="pg258">258</a></span>
with a wondrous glow. The best of all, perhaps, is night, with a
full moon hanging high overhead. Who shall describe the silhouettes
of boats upon the shore or sleeping on the misty sea? On the
horizon lies a dusky film of brownish golden haze, between the moon
and the glimmering water; and here and there a lamp or candle burns
with a deep red. Then is the time to take a boat and row upon the
bay, or better, to swim out into the waves and trouble the
reflections from the steady stars. The mountains, clear and calm,
with light-irradiated chasms and hard shadows cast upon the rock,
soar up above a city built of alabaster, or sea-foam, or summer
clouds. The whole is white and wonderful: no similes suggest an
analogue for the lustre, solid and transparent, of Amalfi nestling
in moonlight between the grey-blue sea and lucid hills. Stars stand
on all the peaks, and twinkle, or keep gliding, as the boat moves,
down the craggy sides. Stars are mirrored on the marble of the sea,
until one knows not whether the oar has struck sparks from a star
image or has scattered diamonds of phosphorescent brine.</p>

<p>All this reads like a rhapsody; but indeed it is difficult not
to be rhapsodical when a May night of Amalfi is in the memory, with
the echo of rich baritone voices chanting Neapolitan songs to a
mandoline. It is fashionable to complain that these Italian airs
are opera-tunes; but this is only another way of saying that the
Italian opera is the genuine outgrowth of national melody, and that
Weber was not the first, as some German critics have supposed, to
string together Volkslieder for the stage. Northerners, who have
never seen or felt the beauty of the South, talk sad nonsense about
the superiority of German over Italian music. It is true that much
Italian music is out of place in Northern Europe, where we seem to
need more travail of the intellect in art. But the Italians are
rightly satisfied with such facile melody <span class="pagenum"><a
name="pg259" id="pg259">259</a></span> and such simple rhythms as
harmonise with sea and sky and boon earth sensuously beautiful.
'Perch&egrave; pensa? Pensando s' invecchia,' expresses the same
habit of mind as another celebrated saying, 'La musica &egrave; il
lamento dell' amore o la preghiera agli Dei.' Whatever may be the
value of Italian music, it is in concord with such a scene as
Amalfi by moon-light; and he who does not appreciate this no less
than some more artificial combination of sights and sounds in
Wagner's theatre at Bayreuth, has scarcely learned the first lesson
in the lore of beauty.</p>

<p>There is enough and to spare for all tastes at Amalfi. The
student of architecture may spend hours in the Cathedral, pondering
over its high-built western front, and wondering whether there is
more of Moorish or of Gothic in its delicate arcades. The painter
may transfer its campanile, glittering like dragon's scales, to his
canvas. The lover of the picturesque will wander through its aisle
at mass-time, watching the sunlight play upon those upturned
Southern faces with their ardent eyes; and happy is he who sees
young men and maidens on Whit Sunday crowding round the chancel
rails, to catch the marigolds and gillyflowers scattered from
baskets which the priest has blessed. Is this a symbol of the Holy
Spirit's gifts, or is it some quaint relic of Pagan
<i>sparsiones</i>? This question, with the memory of Pompeian
<i>graffiti</i> in our mind, may well suggest itself in Southern
Italy, where old and new faiths are so singularly blended. Then
there is Ravello on the hills above. The path winds upward between
stone walls tufted with maidenhair; and ever nearer grow the
mountains, and the sea-line soars into the sky. An Englishman has
made his home here in a ruined Moorish villa, with cool colonnaded
cloisters and rose-embowered terraces, lending far prospect over
rocky hills and olive-girdled villages to P&aelig;stum's plain. The
churches of Ravello have <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg260" id=
"pg260">260</a></span> rare mosaics, and bronze doors, and marble
pulpits, older perhaps than those of Tuscany, which tempt the
arch&aelig;ologist to ask if Nicholas the Pisan learned his secret
here. But who cares to be a sober antiquary at Amalfi? Far
pleasanter is it to climb the staircase to the Capuchins, and
linger in those caverns of the living rock, and pluck the lemons
hanging by the mossy walls; or to row from cove to cove along the
shore, watching the fishes swimming in the deeps beneath, and the
medusas spreading their filmy bells; to land upon smooth slabs of
rock, where corallines wave to and fro; or to rest on
samphire-tufted ledges, when the shadows slant beneath the
westering sun.</p>

<p>There is no point in all this landscape which does not make a
picture. Painters might even complain that the pictures are too
easy and the poetry too facile, just as the musicians find the
melodies of this fair land too simple. No effect, carefully sought
and strenuously seized, could enhance the mere beauty of Amalfi
bathed in sunlight. You have only on some average summer day to sit
down and paint the scene. Little scope is afforded for suggestions
of far-away weird thoughts, or for elaborately studied motives.
Daubigny and Corot are as alien here as Blake or D&uuml;rer.</p>

<p>What is wanted, and what no modern artist can successfully
recapture from the wasteful past, is the mythopoeic sense&mdash;the
apprehension of primeval powers akin to man, growing into shape and
substance on the borderland between the world and the keen human
sympathies it stirs in us. Greek mythology was the proper form of
art for scenery like this. It gave the final touch to all its
beauties, and added to its sensuous charm an inbreathed spiritual
life. No exercise of the poetic faculty, far less that metaphysical
mood of the reflective consciousness which 'leads from nature up to
nature's God,' can now supply this need. From sea and earth <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg261" id="pg261">261</a></span> and sky,
in those creative ages when the world was young, there leaned to
greet the men whose fancy made them, forms imagined and yet
real&mdash;human, divine&mdash;the archetypes and everlasting
patterns of man's deepest sense of what is wonderful in nature.
Feeling them there, for ever there, inalienable, ready to start
forth and greet successive generations&mdash;as the Hamadryad
greeted Rhaicos from his father's oak&mdash;those mythopoets called
them by immortal names. All their pent-up longings, all passions
that consume, all aspirations that inflame&mdash;the desire for the
impossible, which is disease, the day-dreams and visions of the
night, which are spontaneous poems&mdash;were thus transferred to
nature. And nature, responsive to the soul that loves her, gave
them back transfigured and translated into radiant beings of like
substance with mankind. It was thus, we feel, upon these southern
shores that the gods of Greece came into being. The statues in the
temples were the true fine flower of all this beauty, the
culmination of the poetry which it evoked in hearts that feel and
brains that think.</p>

<p>In Italy, far more than in any other part of Europe, the life of
the present is imposed upon the strata of successive past lives.
Greek, Latin, Moorish, and medi&aelig;val civilisations have
arisen, flourished, and decayed on nearly the same soil; and it is
common enough to find one city, which may have perished twenty
centuries ago, neighbour to another that enjoyed its brief
prosperity in the middle of our era. There is not, for example, the
least sign of either Greek or Roman at Amalfi. Whatever may have
been the glories of the republic in the early middle ages, they had
no relation to the classic past. Yet a few miles off along the bay
rise the ancient Greek temples of P&aelig;stum, from a
desert&mdash;with no trace of any intervening occupants. Poseidonia
was founded in the sixth century before Christ, by colonists from
Sybaris. <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg262" id=
"pg262">262</a></span> Three centuries later the Hellenic element
in this settlement, which must already have become a town of no
little importance, was submerged by a deluge of recurrent
barbarism. Under the Roman rule it changed its name to
P&aelig;stum, and was prosperous. The Saracens destroyed it in the
ninth century of our era; and Robert Guiscard carried some of the
materials of its buildings to adorn his new town of Salerno. Since
then the ancient site has been abandoned to malaria and solitude.
The very existence of P&aelig;stum was unknown, except to wandering
herdsmen and fishers coasting near its ruined colonnades, until the
end of the last century. Yet, strange to relate, after all these
revolutions, and in the midst of this total desolation, the only
relics of the antique city are three Greek temples, those very
temples where the Hellenes, barbarised by their Lucanian
neighbours, met to mourn for their lost liberty. It is almost
impossible to trace more than the mere circuit of the walls of
Poseidonia. Its port, if port it had in Roman days, has
disappeared. Its theatre is only just discernible. Still not a
column of the great hyp&aelig;thral temple, built by the Sybarite
colonists two thousand and five hundred years ago, to be a house
for Zeus or for Poseidon, has been injured. The accidents that
erased far greater cities, like Syracuse, from the surface of the
earth&mdash;pillage, earthquake, the fury of fanatics, the slow
decay of perishable stone, or the lust of palace builders in the
middle ages&mdash;have spared those three houses of the gods, over
whom, in the days of Alexander, the funeral hymn was chanted by the
enslaved Hellenes.</p>

<p>'We do the same,' said Aristoxenus in his Convivial
Miscellanies, 'as the men of Poseidonia, who dwell on the
Tyrrhenian Gulf. It befell them, having been at first true
Hellenes, to be utterly barbarised, changing to Tyrrhenes or
Romans, and altering their language, together with their <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg263" id="pg263">263</a></span> other
customs. Yet they still observe one Hellenic festival, when they
meet together and call to remembrance their old names and bygone
institutions; and having lamented one to the other, and shed bitter
tears, they afterwards depart to their own homes. Even thus a few
of us also, now that our theatres have been barbarised, and this
art of music has gone to ruin and vulgarity, meet together and
remember what once music was.'<a name="FNanchor_1_53" id=
"FNanchor_1_53" /><a href="#Footnote_1_53" class=
"fnanchor">[1]</a></p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_53" id="Footnote_1_53" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_53"><span class="label">[1]</span></a>
<i>Athen&aelig;us</i>, xiv. 632.</p>
</div>

<p>This passage has a strange pathos, considering how it was
penned, and how it has come down to us, tossed by the dark
indifferent stream of time. The Aristoxenus who wrote it was a
pupil of the Peripatetic School, born at Tarentum, and therefore
familiar with the vicissitudes of Magna Gr&aelig;cia. The study of
music was his chief preoccupation; and he used this episode in the
agony of an enslaved Greek city, to point his own conservative
disgust for innovations in an art of which we have no knowledge
left. The works of Aristoxenus have perished, and the fragment I
have quoted is embedded in the gossip of Egyptian Athen&aelig;us.
In this careless fashion has been opened for us, as it were, a
little window on a grief now buried in the oblivion of a hundred
generations. After reading his words one May morning, beneath the
pediment of P&aelig;stum's noblest ruin, I could not refrain from
thinking that if the spirits of those captive Hellenes were to
revisit their old habitations, they would change their note of
wailing into a thin ghostly p&aelig;an, when they found that Romans
and Lucanians had passed away, that Christians and Saracens had
left alike no trace behind, while the houses of their own
&alpha;&nu;&tau;&#942;&lambda;&iota;&omicron;&iota;
&theta;&epsilon;&omicron;&iota;&mdash;dawn-facing
deities&mdash;were still abiding in the pride of immemorial
strength. Who knows whether buffalo-driver or bandit may not ere
now have seen processions of these Poseidonian phantoms, bearing
laurels and chaunting hymns on <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg264" id="pg264">264</a></span> the spot where once they fell
each on the other's neck to weep? Gathering his cloak around him
and cowering closer to his fire of sticks, the night-watcher in
those empty colonnades may have mistaken the Hellenic outlines of
his shadowy visitants for fevered dreams, and the melody of their
evanished music for the whistling of night winds or the cry of
owls. So abandoned is P&aelig;stum in its solitude that we know not
even what legends may have sprung up round those relics of a
mightier age.</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i4">The shrine is ruined now; and far away</div>

<div class="i4">To east and west stretch olive groves, whose
shade</div>

<div class="i4">Even at the height of summer noon is grey.</div>

<div class="i4">&nbsp;</div>

<div class="i4">Asphodels sprout upon the plinth decayed</div>

<div class="i4">Of these low columns, and the snake hath
found</div>

<div class="i4">Her haunt 'neath altar-steps with weeds
o'erlaid.</div>

<div class="i4">&nbsp;</div>

<div class="i4">Yet this was once a hero's temple, crowned</div>

<div class="i4">With myrtle-boughs by lovers, and with palm</div>

<div class="i4">By wrestlers, resonant with sweetest sound</div>

<div class="i4">&nbsp;</div>

<div class="i4">Of flute and fife in summer evening's calm,</div>

<div class="i4">And odorous with incense all the year,</div>

<div class="i4">With nard and spice, and galbanum and balm.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>These lines sufficiently express the sense of desolation felt at
P&aelig;stum, except that the scenery is more solemn and mournful,
and the temples are too august to be the shrine of any simple hero.
There are no olives. The sea plunges on its sandy shore within the
space of half a mile to westward. Far and wide on either hand
stretch dreary fever-stricken marshes. The plain is bounded to the
north, and east, and south, with mountains, purple, snow-peaked,
serrated, and grandly broken like the hills of Greece. Driving over
this vast level where the Silarus stagnates, the monotony of the
landscape is broken now and then by a group of buffaloes <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg265" id="pg265">265</a></span> standing
up to their dewlaps in reeds, by peasants on horseback, with goads
in their hands, and muskets slung athwart their backs, or by
patrols of Italian soldiers crossing and re-crossing on the
brigand-haunted roads. Certain portions have been reclaimed from
the swamp, and here may be seen white oxen in herds of fifty
grazing; or gangs of women at field-labour, with a man to oversee
them, cracking a long hunting-whip; or the mares and foals of a
famous stud-farm browsing under spreading pines. There are no
villages, and the few farmhouses are so widely scattered as to make
us wonder where the herdsmen and field-workers, scanty as they are,
can possibly be lodged.</p>

<p>At last the three great temples come in sight. The rich orange
of the central building contrasts with the paler yellow of its two
companions, while the glowing colour of all three is splendidly
relieved against green vegetation and blue mountain-flanks. Their
material is travertine&mdash;a calcareous stone formed by the
deposit of petrifying waters, which contains fragments of reeds,
spiral shells, and other substances, embedded in the porous
limestone. In the flourishing period of old Poseidonia these
travertine columns were coated with stucco, worked to a smooth
surface, and brilliantly tinted to harmonise with the gay costumes
of a Greek festival. Even now this coating of fine sand, mingled
with slaked lime and water, can be seen in patches on the huge
blocks of the masonry. Thus treated, the travertine lacked little
of the radiance of marble, for it must be remembered that the
Greeks painted even the Pentelic cornice of the Parthenon with red
and blue. Nor can we doubt that the general effect of brightness
suited the glad and genial conditions of Greek life.</p>

<p>All the surroundings are altered now, and the lover of the
picturesque may be truly thankful that the hand of time, by <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg266" id="pg266">266</a></span> stripping
the buildings of this stucco, without impairing their proportions,
has substituted a new harmony of tone between the native stone and
the surrounding landscape, no less sympathetic to the present
solitude than the old symphony of colours was to the animated
circumstances of a populous Greek city. In this way those critics
who defend the polychrome decorations of the classic architects,
and those who contend that they cannot imagine any alteration from
the present toning of Greek temples for the better, are both
right.</p>

<p>In point of colour the P&aelig;stum ruins are very similar to
those of Girgenti; but owing to their position on a level plain, in
front of a scarcely indented sea-shore, we lack the irregularity
which adds so much charm to the row of temples on their broken
cliff in the old town of Agrigentum. In like manner the celebrated
<i>asymmetreia</i> of the buildings of the Athenian Acropolis,
which causes so much variety of light and shade upon the
temple-fronts, and offers so many novel points of view when they
are seen in combination, seems to have been due originally to the
exigencies of the ground. At P&aelig;stum, in planning out the
city, there can have been no utilitarian reasons for placing the
temples at odd angles, either to each other or the shore. Therefore
we see them now almost exactly in line and parallel, though at
unequal distances. If something of picturesque effect is thus lost
at P&aelig;stum through the flatness of the ground, something of
impressive grandeur on the other hand is gained by the very
regularity with which those phalanxes of massive Doric columns are
drawn up to face the sea.</p>

<p>Poseidonia, as the name betokens, was dedicated to the god of
the sea; and the coins of the city are stamped with his effigy
bearing a trident, and with his sacred animal, the bull. It has
therefore been conjectured that the central of the three
temples&mdash;which was hyp&aelig;thral and had two entrances,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg267" id="pg267">267</a></span>
east and west&mdash;belonged to Poseidon; and there is something
fine in the notion of the god being thus able to pass to and fro
from his cella through those sunny peristyles, down to his chariot,
yoked with sea-horses, in the brine. Yet hyp&aelig;thral temples
were generally consecrated to Zeus, and it is therefore probable
that the traditional name of this vast edifice is wrong. The names
of the two other temples, <i>Tempio di Cerere</i> and
<i>Basilica</i>, are wholly unsupported by any proof or
probability. The second is almost certainly founded on a mistake;
and if we assign the largest of the three shrines to Zeus, one or
other of the lesser belonged most likely to Poseidon.</p>

<p>The style of the temples is severe and primitive. In general
effect their Doric architecture is far sterner than that adapted by
Ictinus to the Parthenon. The entablature seems somewhat
disproportioned to the columns and the pediment; and, owing to this
cause, there is a general effect of heaviness. The columns, again,
are thick-set; nor is the effect of solidity removed by their
gradual narrowing from the base upwards. The pillars of the
<i>Neptune</i> are narrowed in a straight line; those of the
<i>Basilica</i> and <i>Ceres</i> by a gentle curve. Study of these
buildings, so sublime in their massiveness, so noble in the
parsimony of their decoration, so dignified in their employment of
the simplest means for the attainment of an indestructible effect
of harmony, heightens our admiration for the Attic genius which
found in this grand manner of the elder Doric architects resources
as yet undeveloped; creating, by slight and subtle alterations of
outline, proportion, and rhythm of parts, what may fairly be
classed as a style unique, because exemplified in only one
transcendent building.</p>

<p>It is difficult not to return again and again to the beauty of
colouring at P&aelig;stum. Lying basking in the sun upon a flat
slab of stone, and gazing eastward, we overlook a foreground of
dappled light and shadow, across which the lizards run&mdash; <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg268" id="pg268">268</a></span> quick
streaks of living emerald&mdash;making the bunches of yellow rue
and little white serpyllum in the fissures of the masonry nod as
they hurry past. Then come two stationary columns, built, it seems,
of solid gold, where the sunbeams strike along their russet
surface. Between them lies the landscape, a medley first of
brakefern and asphodel and feathering acanthus and blue spikes of
bugloss; then a white farm in the middle distance, roofed with the
reddest tiles and sheltered by a velvety umbrella pine. Beyond and
above the farm, a glimpse of mountains purple almost to indigo with
cloud shadows, and flecked with snow. Still higher&mdash;but for
this we have to raise our head a little&mdash;the free heavens
enclosed within the frame-work of the tawny travertine, across
which sail hawks and flutter jackdaws, sharply cut against the
solid sky. Down from the architrave, to make the vignette perfect,
hang tufts of crimson snapdragons. Each opening in the peristyle
gives a fresh picture.</p>

<p>The temples are overgrown with snapdragons and mallows, yellow
asters and lilac gillyflowers, white allium and wild fig. When a
breeze passes, the whole of this many-coloured tapestry waves
gently to and fro. The fields around are flowery enough; but where
are the roses? I suppose no one who has read his Virgil at school,
crosses the plain from Salerno to P&aelig;stum without those words
of the 'Georgics' ringing in his ears: <i>biferique rosaria
P&aelig;sti</i>. They have that wonderful Virgilian charm which, by
a touch, transforms mere daily sights and sounds, and adds poetic
mystery to common things. The poets of ancient Rome seem to have
felt the magic of this phrase; for Ovid has imitated the line in
his 'Metamorphoses,' tamely substituting <i>tepidi</i> for the
suggestive <i>biferi</i>, while again in his 'Elegies' he uses the
same termination with <i>odorati</i> for his epithet. Martial sings
of <i>P&aelig;stan&aelig; ros&aelig;</i> and <i>P&aelig;stani
gloria ruris</i>. Even Ausonius, <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg269" id="pg269">269</a></span> at the very end of Latin
literature, draws from the rosaries of P&aelig;stum a pretty
picture of beauty doomed to premature decline:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i7">Vidi P&aelig;stano gaudere rosaria cultu</div>

<div class="i8">Exoriente novo roscida Lucifero.</div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="blockquotwide">
<p>'I have watched the rose-beds that luxuriate on P&aelig;stum's
well-tilled soil, all dewy in the young light of the rising
dawn-star.'</p>
</div>

<p>What a place indeed was this for a rose-garden, spreading far
and wide along the fertile plain, with its deep loam reclaimed from
swamps and irrigated by the passing of perpetual streams! But where
are the roses now? As well ask, <i>o&ugrave; sont les neiges
d'antan?</i></p>

<p>We left Amalfi for Capri in the freshness of an early morning at
the end of May. As we stepped into our six-oared boat the sun rose
above the horizon, flooding the sea with gold and flashing on the
terraces above Amalfi. High up along the mountains hung pearly and
empurpled mists, set like resting-places between a world too
beautiful and heaven too far for mortal feet. Not a breath of any
wind was stirring. The water heaved with a scarcely perceptible
swell, and the vapours lifted gradually as the sun's rays grew in
power. Here the hills descend abruptly on the sea, ending in cliffs
where light reflected from the water dances. Huge caverns open in
the limestone; on their edges hang stalactites like beards, and the
sea within sleeps dark as night. For some of these caves the
maidenhair fern makes a shadowy curtain; and all of them might be
the home of Proteus, or of Calypso, by whose side her mortal lover
passed his nights in vain home-sickness:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i4">&epsilon;&nu; &sigma;&pi;&#941;&sigma;&sigma;&iota;
&gamma;&lambda;&alpha;&phi;&upsilon;&rho;&omicron;&iota;&sigma;&iota;
&pi;&alpha;&rho;' &omicron;&upsilon;&kappa;
&epsilon;&theta;&#941;&lambda;&omega;&nu;
&epsilon;&theta;&epsilon;&lambda;&omicron;&#973;&sigma;&eta;.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>This is a truly Odyssean journey. Soon the islands of the Sirens
come in sight,&mdash;bare bluffs of rock, shaped like galleys <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg270" id="pg270">270</a></span> taking
flight for the broad sea. As we row past in this ambrosial weather,
the oarsmen keeping time and ploughing furrows in the fruitless
fields of Nereus, it is not difficult to hear the siren
voices&mdash;for earth and heaven and sea make melodies far above
mortal singing. The water round the Galli&mdash;so the islands are
now called, as antiquaries tell us, from an ancient fortress named
Guallo&mdash;is very deep, and not a sign of habitation is to be
seen upon them. In bygone ages they were used as prisons; and many
doges of Amalfi languished their lives away upon those shadeless
stones, watching the sea around them blaze like a burnished shield
at noon, and the peaks of Capri deepen into purple when the west
was glowing after sunset with the rose and daffodil of Southern
twilight.</p>

<p>The end of the Sorrentine promontory, Point Campanella, is
absolutely barren&mdash;grey limestone, with the scantiest
over-growth of rosemary and myrtle. A more desolate spot can hardly
be imagined. But now the morning breeze springs up behind; sails
are hoisted, and the boatmen ship their oars. Under the albatross
wings of our lateen sails we scud across the freshening waves. The
precipice of Capri soars against the sky, and the Bay of Naples
expands before us with those sweeping curves and azure amplitude
that all the poets of the world have sung. Even thus the mariners
of ancient Hellas rounded this headland when the world was young.
Rightly they named yon rising ground, beneath Vesuvius,
Posilippo&mdash;rest from grief. Even now, after all those
centuries of toil, though the mild mountain has been turned into a
mouth of murderous fire, though Roman emperors and Spanish despots
have done their worst to mar what nature made so perfect, we may
here lay down the burden of our cares, gaining tranquillity by no
mysterious lustral rites, no penitential prayers or offerings of
holocausts, but by the influence of beauty in <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg271" id="pg271">271</a></span> the earth and
air, and by sympathy with a people unspoiled in their healthful
life of labour alternating with simple joy.</p>

<p>The last hour of the voyage was beguiled by stories of our
boatmen, some of whom had seen service on distant seas, while
others could tell of risks on shore and love adventures. They
showed us how the tunny-nets were set, and described the solitary
life of the tunny-watchers, in their open boats, waiting to spear
the monsters of the deep entangled in the chambers made for them
beneath the waves. How much of &AElig;schylean imagery, I
reflected, is drawn from this old fisher's art&mdash;the toils of
Clytemnestra and the tragedy of Psyttaleia rising to my mind. One
of the crew had his little son with him, a child of six years old;
and when the boy was restless, his father spoke of Barbarossa and
Timberio (<i>sic</i>) to keep him quiet; for the memory of the
Moorish pirate and the mighty emperor is still alive here. The
people of Capri are as familiar with Tiberius as the Bretons with
King Arthur; and the hoof-mark of illustrious crime is stamped upon
the island.</p>

<p>Capri offers another example of the versatility of Southern
Italy. If Amalfi brings back to us the naval and commercial
prosperity of the early middle ages; if P&aelig;stuni remains a
monument of the oldest Hellenic civilisation; Capri, at a few
miles' distance, is dedicated to the Roman emperor who made it his
favourite residence, when, life-weary with the world and all its
shows, he turned these many peaks and slumbering caves into a
summer palace for the nursing of his brain-sick phantasy. Already
on landing, we are led to remember that from this shore was loosed
the galley bearing that great letter&mdash;<i>verbosa et grandis
epistola</i>&mdash;which undid Sejanus and shook Rome. Riding to
Ana-Capri and the Salto di Tiberio, exploring the remains of his
favourite twelve villas, and gliding over the smooth waters paved
with the white marbles of his baths, we are for ever attended by
the <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg272" id="pg272">272</a></span>
same forbidding spectre. Here, perchance, were the <i>sedes
arcanarum libidinum</i> whereof Suetonius speaks; the Spintrian
medals, found in these recesses, still bear witness that the
biographer trusted no mere fables for the picture he has drawn.
Here, too, below the Villa Jovis, gazing 700 feet sheer down into
the waves, we tread the very parapet whence fell the victims of
that maniac lust for blood. 'After long and exquisite torments,'
says the Roman writer, 'he ordered condemned prisoners to be cast
into the sea before his eyes; marines were stationed near to pound
the fallen corpses with poles and oars, lest haply breath should
linger in their limbs.' The Neapolitan Museum contains a little
basrelief representing Tiberius, with the well-known features of
the Claudian house, seated astride upon a donkey, with a girl
before him. A slave is leading the beast and its burden to a
terminal statue under an olive-tree. This curious relic, discovered
some while since at Capri, haunted my fancy as I climbed the
olive-planted slopes to his high villa on the Arx Tiberii. It is
some relief, amid so much that is tragic in the associations of
this place, to have the horrible Tiberius burlesqued and brought
into donkey-riding relation with the tourist of to-day. And what an
ironical revenge of time it is that his famous Salto should be
turned into a restaurant, where the girls dance tarantella for a
few coppers; that a toothless hermit should occupy a cell upon the
very summit of his Villa Jovis; and that the Englishwoman's
comfortable hotel should be called <i>Timberio</i> by the natives!
A spiritualist might well believe that the emperor's ghost was
forced to haunt the island, and to expiate his old atrocities by
gazing on these modern vulgarisms.</p>

<p>Few problems suggested by history are more darkly fascinating
than the madness of despots; and of this madness, whether inherent
in their blood or encouraged by the <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg273" id="pg273">273</a></span> circumstance of absolute
autocracy, the emperors of the Claudian and Julian houses furnish
the most memorable instance.<a name="FNanchor_1_54" id=
"FNanchor_1_54" /><a href="#Footnote_1_54" class=
"fnanchor">[1]</a> It is this that renders Tiberius ever present to
our memory at Capri. Nor will the student of Suetonius forget his
even more memorable grand-nephew Caligula. The following passage is
an episode from the biography of that imperial maniac, whose
portrait in green basalt, with the strain of dire mental tension on
the forehead, is still so beautiful that we are able at this
distance of time to pity more than loathe him. 'Above all, he was
tormented with nervous irritation, by sleeplessness; for he enjoyed
not more than three hours of nocturnal repose, nor even these in
pure untroubled rest, but agitated by phantasmata of portentous
augury; as, for example, upon one occasion, among other spectral
visions, he fancied that he saw the sea, under some definite
impersonation, conversing with himself. Hence it was, and from this
incapacity of sleeping, and from weariness of lying awake, that he
had fallen into habits of ranging all night long through the
palace, sometimes throwing himself on a couch, sometimes wandering
along the vast corridors, watching for the earliest dawn, and
anxiously wishing its approach.' Those corridors, or loggie, where
Caligula spent his wakeful hours, opened perchance upon this Bay of
Naples, if not upon the sea-waves of his favourite Porto d'Anzio;
for we know that one of his great follies was a palace built above
the sea on piles at Bai&aelig;; and where else could
<i>Pelagus</i>, with his cold azure eyes and briny locks, have more
appropriately terrified his sleep with prophecy conveyed in dreams?
The very nature of this vision, selected for such special comment
<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg274" id="pg274">274</a></span> by
Suetonius as to show that it had troubled Caligula profoundly,
proves the fantastic nature of the man, and justifies the
hypothesis of insanity.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_54" id="Footnote_1_54" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_54"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> De
Quincey, in his essay on <i>The C&aelig;sars</i>, has worked out
this subject with such artistic vividness that no more need be
said. From his pages I have quoted the paraphrastic version of
Suetonius that follows.</p>
</div>

<p>But it is time to shake off the burden of the past. Only
students, carrying superfluity of culture in their knapsacks, will
ponder over the imperial lunatics who made Capri and Bai&aelig;
fashionable in the days of ancient Rome. Neither Tiberius nor
Caligula, nor yet Ferdinand of Aragon or Bomba for that matter, has
been able to leave trace of vice or scar of crime on nature in this
Eden. A row round the island, or a supper-party in the loggia above
the sea at sunset-time, is no less charming now, in spite of Roman
or Spanish memories, than when the world was young.</p>

<p>Sea-mists are frequent in the early summer mornings, swathing
the cliffs of Capri in impenetrable wool and brooding on the
perfectly smooth water till the day-wind rises. Then they disappear
like magic, rolling in smoke-wreaths from the surface of the sea,
condensing into clouds and climbing the hillsides like Oceanides in
quest of Prometheus, or taking their station on the watch-towers of
the world, as in the chorus of the <i>Nephelai</i>. Such a morning
may be chosen for the <i>giro</i> of the island. The blue grotto
loses nothing of its beauty, but rather gains by contrast, when
passing from dense fog you find yourself transported to a world of
wavering subaqueous sheen. It is only through the opening of the
very topmost arch that a boat can glide into this cavern; the arch
itself spreads downward through the water, so that all the light is
transmitted from beneath and coloured by the sea. The grotto is
domed in many chambers; and the water is so clear that you can see
the bottom, silvery, with black-finned fishes diapered upon the
blue white sand. The flesh of a diver in this water showed like the
faces of children playing at snapdragon; all around him the spray
leapt up with <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg275" id=
"pg275">275</a></span> living fire; and when the oars struck the
surface, it was as though a phosphorescent sea had been smitten,
and the drops ran from the blades in blue pearls. I have only once
seen anything (outside the magic-world of a pantomime) to equal
these effects of blue and silver; and that was when I made my way
into an ice-cave in the Great Aletsch glacier&mdash;not an
artificial gallery such as they cut at Grindelwald, but a natural
cavern, arched, hollowed into fanciful recesses, and hung with
stalactites of pendent ice. The difference between the
glacier-cavern and the sea-grotto was that in the former all the
light was transmitted through transparent sides, so that the whole
was one uniform azure, except in rare places where little chinks
opened upwards to the air, and the light of day came glancing with
a roseate flush. In the latter the light sent from beneath through
the water played upon a roof of rock; reflections intermingled with
translucence; and a greater variety of light and shadow compensated
the lack of that strange sense of being shut within a solid
gem.</p>

<p>Numberless are the caves at Capri. The so-called green grotto
has the beauty of moss-agate in its liquid floor; the red grotto
shows a warmer chord of colour; and where there is no other charm
to notice, endless beauty may be found in the play of sunlight upon
roofs of limestone, tinted with yellow, orange, and pale pink,
mossed over, hung with fern, and catching tones of blue or green
from the still deeps beneath.</p>

<p>Sheets of water, wherever found, are the most subtle heighteners
of colour. To those who are familiar with Venetian or Mantuan
sunsets, who have seen the flocks of flamingoes reflected on the
lagoons of Tunis, or who have watched stormy red flakes tossed from
crest to crest of great Atlantic waves on our own coasts, this need
hardly be said. Yet I cannot leave this beauty of the sea at Capri
without <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg276" id=
"pg276">276</a></span> touching on a melodrama of light and colour
I once saw at Castellammare. It was a festa night, when the people
sent up rockets and fireworks of every hue from the
harbour-breakwater. The surf rolled shoreward like a bath of molten
metals, all confused of blue, and red, and green, and
gold&mdash;dying dolphin tints that burned strangely beneath the
purple skies and tranquil stars. Boats at sea hung out their
crimson cressets, flickering in long lines on the bay; and larger
craft moved slowly with rows of lamps defining their curves; while
the full moon shed over all her 'vitreous pour, just tinged with
blue.' To some tastes this mingling of natural and artificial
effects would seem unworthy of sober notice; but I confess to
having enjoyed it with childish eagerness like music never to be
forgotten.</p>

<p>After a day upon the water it is pleasant to rest at sunset in
the loggia above the sea. The Bay of Naples stretches far and wide
in front, beautiful by reason chiefly of the long fine line
descending from Vesuvius, dipping almost to a level and then
gliding up to join the highlands of the north. Now sun and moon
begin to mingle: waning and waxing splendours. The cliffs above our
heads are still blushing a deep flame-colour, like the heart of
some tea-rose; when lo, the touch of the huntress is laid upon
those eastern pinnacles, and the horizon glimmers with her rising.
Was it on such a night that Ferdinand of Aragon fled from his
capital before the French, with eyes turned ever to the land he
loved, chanting, as he leaned from his galley's stern, that
melancholy psalm&mdash;'Except the Lord keep the city, the watchman
waketh but in vain'&mdash;and seeing Naples dwindle to a white blot
on the purple shore?</p>

<p>Our journey takes the opposite direction. Farewell to Capri,
welcome to Sorrento! The roads are sweet with scent of acacia and
orange flowers. When you walk in a garden at <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg277" id="pg277">277</a></span> night, the
white specks beneath your feet are fallen petals of lemon blossoms.
Over the walls hang cataracts of roses, honey-pale clusters of the
Banksia rose, and pink bushes of the China rose, growing as we
never see them grow with us. The grey rocks wave with
gladiolus&mdash;feathers of crimson, set amid tufts of rosemary,
and myrtle, and tree-spurge. In the clefts of the sandstone, and
behind the orchard walls, sleeps a dark green night of foliage, in
the midst of which gleam globed oranges, and lemons dropping like
great pearls of palest amber dew. It is difficult to believe that
the lemons have not grown into length by their own weight, as
though mere hanging on the bough prevented them from being
round&mdash;so waxen are they. Overhead soar stone-pines&mdash;a
roof of sombre green, a lattice-work of strong red branches,
through which the moon peers wonderfully. One part of this
marvellous <i>piano</i> is bare rock tufted with keen-scented
herbs, and sparsely grown with locust-trees and olives. Another
waves from sea to summit with beech-copses and oak-woods, as
verdant as the most abundant English valley. Another region turns
its hoary raiment of olive-gardens to the sun and sea, or
flourishes with fig and vine. Everywhere, the houses of men are
dazzling white, perched on natural coigns of vantage, clustered on
the brink of brown cliffs, nestling under mountain eaves, or piled
up from the sea-beach in ascending tiers, until the broad knees of
the hills are reached, and great Pan, the genius of solitude in
nature, takes unto himself a region yet untenanted by man. The
occupations of the sea and land are blent together on this shore;
and the people are both blithe and gentle. It is true that their
passions are upon the surface, and that the knife is ready to their
hand. But the combination of fierceness and softness in them has an
infinite charm when one has learned by observation that their lives
are laborious and frugal, and that <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg278" id="pg278">278</a></span> their honesty is hardly less than
their vigour. Happy indeed are they&mdash;so happy that, but for
crimes accumulated through successive generations by bad governors,
and but for superstitions cankering the soul within, they might
deserve what Shelley wrote of his imagined island in
'Epipsychidion.'</p>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg279" id=
"pg279">279</a></span></p>

<h3><a name="ETNA" id="ETNA" /><i>ETNA</i></h3>

<p>The eruptions of Etna have blackened the whole land for miles in
every direction. That is the first observation forced upon one in
the neighbourhood of Catania, or Giarre, or Bronte. From whatever
point of view you look at Etna, it is always a regular pyramid,
with long and gradually sloping sides, broken here and there by the
excrescence of minor craters and dotted over with villages; the
summit crowned with snow, divided into peak and cone, girdled with
clouds, and capped with smoke, that shifts shape as the wind veers,
dominates a blue-black monstrous mass of outpoured lava. From the
top of Monte Rosso, a subordinate volcano which broke into eruption
in 1669, you can trace the fountain from which 'the unapproachable
river of purest fire,' that nearly destroyed Catania, issued. You
see it still, bubbling up like a frozen geyser from the flank of
the mountain, whence the sooty torrent spreads, or rather sprawls,
with jagged edges to the sea. The plain of Catania lies at your
feet, threaded by the Simeto, bounded by the promontory of Syracuse
and the mountains of Castro Giovanni. This huge amorphous blot upon
the landscape may be compared to an ink-stain on a variegated
tablecloth, or to the coal districts marked upon a geological
atlas, or to the heathen in a missionary map&mdash;the green and
red and grey colours standing for Christians and Mahommedans and
Jews of different shades and qualities. The lava, where it has been
cultivated, is reduced to fertile <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg280" id="pg280">280</a></span> sand, in which vines and
fig-trees are planted&mdash;their tender green foliage contrasting
strangely with the sinister soil that makes them flourish. All the
roads are black as jet, like paths leading to coal-pits, and the
country-folk on mule-back plodding along them look like Arabs on an
infernal Sahara. The very lizards which haunt the rocks are swart
and smutty. Yet the flora of the district is luxuriant. The gardens
round Catania, nestling into cracks and ridges of the stiffened
flood, are marvellously brilliant with spurge and fennel and
valerian. It is impossible to form a true conception of
flower-brightness till one has seen these golden and crimson tints
upon their ground of ebony, or to realise the blueness of the
Mediterranean except in contrast with the lava where it breaks into
the sea. Copses of frail oak and ash, undergrown with ferns of
every sort; cactus-hedges, orange-trees grafted with lemons and
laden with both fruits; olives of scarce two centuries' growth, and
fig-trees knobbed with their sweet produce, overrun the sombre
soil, and spread their boughs against the deep blue sea and the
translucent amethyst of the Calabrian mountains. Underfoot, a
convolvulus with large white blossoms, binding dingy stone to
stone, might be compared to a rope of Desdemona's pearls upon the
neck of Othello.</p>

<p>The villages are perhaps the most curious feature of this
scenery. Their houses, rarely more than one story high, are walled,
paved, and often roofed with the inflexible material which once was
ruinous fire, and is now the servant of the men it threatened to
destroy. The churches are such as might be raised in Hades to
implacable Proserpine, such as one might dream of in a vision of
the world turned into hell, such as Baudelaire in his fiction of a
metallic landscape might have imagined under the influence of
hasheesh. Their flights of steps are built of sharply cut black
lava blocks no <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg281" id=
"pg281">281</a></span> feet can wear. Their door-jambs and columns
and pediments and carved work are wrought and sculptured of the
same gloomy masonry. How forbidding are the acanthus scrolls, how
grim the skulls and cross-bones on these portals! The bell-towers,
again, are ribbed and beamed with black lava. A certain amount of
the structure is whitewashed, which serves to relieve the funereal
solemnity of the rest. In an Indian district each of these churches
would be a temple, raised in vain propitiation to the demon of the
fire above and below. Some pictures made by their spires in
combination with the sad village-hovels, the snowy dome of Etna,
and the ever-smiling sea, are quite unique in their variety of
suggestion and wild beauty.</p>

<p>The people have a sorrow-smitten and stern aspect. Some of the
men in the prime of life are grand and haughty, with the
cast-bronze countenance of Roman emperors. But the old men bear
rigid faces of carved basalt, gazing fixedly before them as though
at some time or other in their past lives they had met Medusa: and
truly Etna in eruption is a Gorgon, which their ancestors have
oftentimes seen shuddering, and fled from terror-frozen. The
white-haired old women, plying their spindle or distaff, or
meditating in grim solitude, sit with the sinister set features of
Fates by their doorways. The young people are very rarely seen to
smile: they open hard, black, beaded eyes upon a world in which
there is little for them but endurance or the fierceness of
passions that delight in blood. Strangely different are these
dwellers on the sides of Etna from the voluble, lithe sailors of
Sciacca or Mazara, with their sunburnt skins and many-coloured
garments.</p>

<p>The Val del Bove&mdash;a vast chasm in the flank of Etna, where
the very heart of the volcano has been riven and its entrails
bared&mdash;is the most impressive spot of all this region. <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg282" id="pg282">282</a></span> The road
to it leads from Zafferana (so called because of its
crocus-flowers) along what looks like a series of black moraines,
where the lava torrents pouring from the craters of Etna have
spread out, and reared themselves in stiffened ridges against
opposing mountain buttresses. After toiling for about three hours
over the dismal waste, a point between the native rock of Etna and
the dead sea of lava is reached, which commands a prospect of the
cone with its curling smoke surmounting a caldron of some four
thousand feet in depth and seemingly very wide. The whole of this
space is filled with billows of blackness, wave on wave, crest over
crest, and dyke by dyke, precisely similar to a gigantic glacier,
swarthy and immovable. The resemblance of the lava flood to a
glacier is extraordinarily striking. One can fancy oneself standing
on the Belvedere at Macugnaga, or the Tacul point upon the Mer de
Glace, in some nightmare, and finding to one's horror that the
radiant snows and river-breeding ice-fields have been turned by a
malignant deity to sullen, stationary cinders. It is a most hideous
place, like a pit in Dante's Hell, disused for some unexplained
reason, and left untenanted by fiends. The scenery of the moon,
without atmosphere and without life, must be of this sort; and
such, rolling round in space, may be some planet that has survived
its own combustion. When the clouds, which almost always hang about
the Val del Bove, are tumbling at their awful play around its
precipices, veiling the sweet suggestion of distant sea and happier
hills that should be visible, the horror of this view is
aggravated. Breaking here and there, the billows of mist disclose
forlorn tracts of jet-black desolation, wicked, unutterable,
hateful in their hideousness, with patches of smutty snow above,
and downward-rolling volumes of murky smoke. Shakspere, when he
imagined the damned spirits confined to 'thrilling regions of
thick-ribbed ice,' <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg283" id=
"pg283">283</a></span> divined the nature of a glacier; but what
line could he have composed, adequate to shadow forth the tortures
of a soul condemned to palpitate for ever between the ridges of
this thirsty and intolerable sea of dead fire? If the world-spirit
chose to assume for itself the form and being of a dragon, of like
substance to this, impenetrable, invulnerable, unapproachable would
be its hide. It requires no great stretch of the imagination to
picture these lava lakes glowing, as they must have been, when
first outpoured, the bellowing of the crater, the heaving and
surging of the solid earth, the air obstructed with cinders and
whizzing globes of molten rock. Yet in these throes of devilish
activity, the Val del Bove would be less insufferable than in its
present state of suspension, asleep, but threatening, ready to
regurgitate its flame, but for a moment inert.</p>

<p>An hour's drive from Nicolosi or Zafferana, seaward, brings one
into the richest land of 'olive and aloe and maize and vine' to be
found upon the face of Europe. Here, too, are laughing little
towns, white, prosperous, and gleeful, the very opposite of those
sad stations on the mountain-flank. Every house in Aci Reale has
its courtyard garden filled with orange-trees, and nespole, and
fig-trees, and oleanders. From the grinning corbels that support
the balconies hang tufts of gem-bright ferns and glowing
clove-pinks. Pergolas of vines, bronzed in autumn, and golden green
like chrysoprase beneath an April sun, fling their tendrils over
white walls and shady loggie. Gourds hang ripening in the steady
blaze. Far and wide stretches a landscape rich with tilth and
husbandry, boon Nature paying back to men tenfold for all their
easy toil. The terrible great mountain sleeps in the distance
innocent of fire. I know not whether this land be more delightful
in spring or autumn. The little flamelike flakes of brightness upon
vines and fig-trees in April have their <span class="pagenum"><a
name="pg284" id="pg284">284</a></span> own peculiar charm. But in
November the whole vast flank of Etna glows with the deep-blue tone
of steel; the russet woods are like a film of rust; the vine-boughs
thrust living carbuncles against the sun. To this season, when the
peculiar earth-tints of Etna, its strong purples and tawny browns,
are harmonised with the decaying wealth of forest and of orchard, I
think the palm of beauty must be given in this land.</p>

<p>The sea is an unchangeable element of charm in all this
landscape. Aci Castello should be visited, and those strange rocks,
called the Ciclopidi, forced by volcanic pressure from beneath the
waves. They are made of black basalt like the Giant's Causeway; and
on their top can be traced the caps of calcareous stone they
carried with them in the fret and fury of their upheaval from the
sea-bed. Samphire, wild fennel, cactus, and acanthus clothe them
now from crest to basement where the cliff is not too sheer. By the
way, there are few plants more picturesque than the acanthus in
full flower. Its pale lilac spikes of blossom stand waist-high
above a wilderness of feathering, curving, delicately indented,
burnished leaves&mdash;deep, glossy, cool, and green.</p>

<p>This is the place for a child's story of the one-eyed giant
Polyphemus, who fed his flocks among the oak-woods of Etna, and
who, strolling by the sea one summer evening, saw and loved the
fair girl Galatea. She was afraid of him, and could not bear his
shaggy-browed round rolling eye. But he forgot his sheep and goats,
and sat upon the cliffs and piped to her. Meanwhile she loved the
beautiful boy Acis, who ran down from the copse to play with her
upon the sea-beach. They hid together from Polyphemus in a
fern-curtained cavern of the shore. But Polyphemus spied them out
and heard them laughing together at their games. Then he grew
wroth, and stamped with his huge feet upon the <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg285" id="pg285">285</a></span> earth, and made
it shake and quiver. He roared and bellowed in his rage, and tore
up rocks and flung them at the cavern where the children were in
hiding, and his eye shot fire beneath the grisly pent-house of his
wrinkled brows. They, in their sore distress, prayed to heaven; and
their prayers were heard: Galatea became a mermaid, so that she
might swim and sport like foam upon the crests of the blue sea; and
Acis was changed into a stream that leapt from the hills to play
with her amid bright waters. But Polyphemus, in punishment for his
rage, and spite, and jealousy, was forced to live in the
mid-furnaces of Etna. There he growled and groaned and shot forth
flame in impotent fury; for though he remembered the gladness of
those playfellows, and sought to harm them by tossing red-hot rocks
upon the shore, yet the light sea ever laughed, and the radiant
river found its way down from the copsewood to the waves. The
throes of Etna in convulsion are the pangs of his great giant's
heart, pent up and sick with love for the bright sea and gladsome
sun; for, as an old poet sings:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i3">There's love when holy heaven doth wound the
earth;</div>

<div class="i3">And love still prompts the land to yearn for
bridals:</div>

<div class="i3">The rain that falls in rivers from the sky,</div>

<div class="i3">Impregnates earth: and she brings forth for
men</div>

<div class="i3">The flocks and herds and life of teeming
Ceres.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>To which let us add:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i4">But sometimes love is barren, when broad
hills,</div>

<div class="i4">Rent with the pangs of passion, yearn in
vain,</div>

<div class="i4">Pouring fire tears adown their furrowed
cheeks,</div>

<div class="i4">And heaving in the impotence of anguish.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>There are few places in Europe where the poetic truth of Greek
mythology is more apparent than here upon the coast between Etna
and the sea. Of late, philosophers have been eager to tell us that
the beautiful legends of the Greeks, which <span class="pagenum"><a
name="pg286" id="pg286">286</a></span> contain in the coloured haze
of fancy all the thoughts afterwards expressed by that divine race
in poetry and sculpture, are but decayed phrases, dead sentences,
and words whereof the meaning was forgotten. In this theory there
is a certain truth; for mythology stands midway between the first
lispings of a nation in its language, and its full-developed
utterances in art. Yet we have only to visit the scenes which gave
birth to some Hellenic myth, and we perceive at once that, whatever
philology may affirm, the legend was a living poem, a drama of life
and passion transferred from human experience to the inanimate
world by those early myth-makers, who were the first and the most
fertile of all artists. Persephone was the patroness of Sicily,
because amid the billowy cornfields of her mother Demeter and the
meadow flowers she loved in girlhood, are ever found sulphurous
ravines and chasms breathing vapour from the pit of Hades. What
were the Cyclops&mdash;that race of one-eyed giants&mdash;but the
many minor cones of Etna? Observed from the sea by mariners, or
vaguely spoken of by the natives, who had reason to dread their
rage, these hillocks became lawless and devouring giants, each with
one round burning eye. Afterwards the tales of Titans who had
warred with Zeus were realised in this spot. Typhoeus or Enceladus
made the mountain heave and snort; while Heph&aelig;stus not
unnaturally forged thunder-bolts in the central caverns of a
volcano that never ceased to smoke. To the student of art and
literature, mythology is chiefly interesting in its latest stages,
when, the linguistic origin of special legends being utterly
forgotten, the poets of the race played freely with its rich
material. Who cares to be told that Achilles was the sun, when the
child of Thetis and the lover of Patroclus has been sung for us by
Homer? Are the human agonies of the doomed house of Thebes made
less appalling by tracing back the tale of OEdipus to some <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg287" id="pg287">287</a></span> prosaic
source in old astronomy? The incest of Jocasta is the subject of
supreme tragic art. It does not improve the matter, or whitewash
the imagination of the Greeks, as some have fondly fancied, to
unravel the fabric wrought by Homer and by Sophocles, into its raw
material in Aryan dialects. Indeed, this new method of criticism
bids fair to destroy for young minds the human lessons of pathos
and heroism in Greek poetry, and to create an obscure conviction
that the greatest race of artists the world has ever produced were
but dotards, helplessly dreaming over distorted forms of speech and
obsolete phraseology.</p>

<p>Let us bid farewell to Etna from Taormina. All along the coast
between Aci and Giardini the mountain towers distinct against a
sunset sky&mdash;divested of its robe of cloud, translucent and
blue as some dark sea-built crystal. The Val del Bove is shown to
be a circular crater in which the lava has boiled and bubbled over
to the fertile land beneath. As we reach Giardini, the young moon
is shining, and the night is alive with stars so large and bright
that they seem leaning down to whisper in the ears of our soul. The
sea is calm, touched here and there on the fringes of the bays and
headlands with silvery light; and impendent crags loom black and
sombre against the feeble azure of the moonlit sky. <i>Quale per
incertam lunam et sub luce malign&acirc;</i>: such is our journey,
with Etna, a grey ghost, behind our path, and the reflections of
stars upon the sea, and glow-worms in the hedges, and the mystical
still splendour of the night, that, like Death, liberates the soul,
raising it above all common things, simplifying the outlines of the
earth as well as our own thoughts to one twilight hush of
a&euml;rial tranquillity. It is a strange compliment to such a
landscape to say that it recalls a scene from an opera. Yet so it
is. What the arts of the scene-painter and the musician strive to
<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg288" id="pg288">288</a></span>
suggest is here realised in fact; the mood of the soul created by
music and by passion is natural here, spontaneous, prepared by the
divine artists of earth, air, and sea.</p>

<p>Was there ever such another theatre as this of Taormina? Turned
to the south, hollowed from the crest of a promontory 1000 feet
above the sea, it faces Etna with its crown of snow: below, the
coast sweeps onward to Catania and the distant headland of
Syracuse. From the back the shore of Sicily curves with delicately
indented bays towards Messina: then come the straits, and the blunt
mass of the Calabrian mountains terminating Italy at Spartivento.
Every spot on which the eye can rest is rife with reminiscences. It
was there, we say, looking northward to the straits, that Ulysses
tossed between Scylla and Charybdis; there, turning towards the
flank of Etna, that he met with Polyphemus and defied the giant
from his galley. From yonder snow-capped eyrie,
&Alpha;&iota;&tau;&nu;&alpha;&sigmaf;
&sigma;&kappa;&omicron;&pi;&#943;&alpha;, the rocks were hurled on
Acis. And all along that shore, after Persephone was lost, went
Demeter, torch in hand, wailing for the daughter she could no more
find among Sicilian villages. Then, leaving myths for history, we
remember how the ships of Nikias set sail from Reggio, and coasted
the forelands at our feet, past Naxos, on their way to Catania and
Syracuse. Gylippus afterwards in his swift galley took the same
course: and Dion, when he came to destroy his nephew's empire. Here
too Timoleon landed, resolute in his firm will to purge the isle of
tyrants.</p>

<p>What scenes, more spirit-shaking than any tragic
shows&mdash;pageants of fire and smoke, and mountains in
commotion&mdash;are witnessed from these grassy benches, when the
earth rocks, and the sea is troubled, and the side of Etna flows
with flame, and night grows horrible with bellowings that forebode
changes in empires!&mdash;</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg289" id=
"pg289">289</a></span></p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i7">Quoties Cyclopum effervere in agros</div>

<div class="i4">Vidimus undantem ruptis fornacibus
&AElig;tnam,</div>

<div class="i4">Flammarumque globos liquefactaque volvere
saxa.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>The stage of these tremendous pomps is very calm and peaceful
now. Lying among acanthus leaves and asphodels, bound together by
wreaths of white and pink convolvulus, we only feel that this is
the loveliest landscape on which our eyes have ever rested or can
rest. The whole scene is a symphony of blues&mdash;gemlike
lapis-lazuli in the sea, a&euml;rial azure in the distant
headlands, light-irradiated sapphire in the sky, and impalpable
vapour-mantled purple upon Etna. The grey tones of the neighbouring
cliffs, and the glowing brickwork of the ruined theatre, through
the arches of which shine sea and hillside, enhance by contrast
these modulations of the one prevailing hue. Etna is the dominant
feature of the
landscape&mdash;&Alpha;&iota;&tau;&nu;&alpha;&sigmaf;
&mu;&alpha;&tau;&epsilon;&rho;
&epsilon;&mu;&#940;&mdash;&pi;&omicron;&lambda;&upsilon;&delta;&#941;&nu;&delta;&rho;&epsilon;&omicron;&sigmaf;
&Alpha;&iota;&tau;&nu;&alpha;&sigmaf;&mdash; than which no other
mountain is more sublimely solitary, more worthy of Pindar's
praise, 'The pillar of heaven, the nurse of sharp eternal snow.' It
is Etna that gives its unique character of elevated beauty to this
coast scenery, raising it to a grander and more tragic level than
the landscape of the Cornice and the Bay of Naples.</p>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg290" id=
"pg290">290</a></span></p>

<h3><a name="PALERMO" id="PALERMO" /><i>PALERMO</i></h3>

<div class="center">
<div class="smcap">the normans in sicily</div>
</div>

<p>Sicily, in the centre of the Mediterranean, has been throughout
all history the meeting-place and battle-ground of the races that
contributed to civilise the West. It was here that the Greeks
measured their strength against Phoenicia, and that Carthage fought
her first duel with Rome. Here the bravery of Hellenes triumphed
over barbarian force in the victories of Gelon and Timoleon. Here,
in the harbour of Syracuse, the Athenian Empire succumbed to its
own intemperate ambition. Here, in the end, Rome laid her mortmain
upon Greek, Phoenician, and Sikeliot alike, turning the island into
a granary and reducing its inhabitants to serfdom. When the classic
age had closed, when Belisarius had vainly reconquered from the
Goths for the empire of the East the fair island of Persephone and
Zeus Olympius, then came the Mussulman, filling up with an interval
of Oriental luxury and Arabian culture the period of utter deadness
between the ancient and the modern world. To Islam succeeded the
conquerors of the house of Hauteville, Norman knights who had but
lately left their Scandinavian shores, and settled in the northern
provinces of France. The Normans flourished for a season, and were
merged in a line of Suabian princes, old Barbarossa's progeny.
German rulers thus came to sway the corn-lands of Trinacria, until
the bitter hatred of the Popes extinguished the house of
Hohenstauffen upon the battlefield <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg291" id="pg291">291</a></span> of Grandella and the scaffold of
Naples. Frenchmen had the next turn&mdash;for a brief space only;
since Palermo cried to the sound of her tocsins, 'Mora, Mora,' and
the tyranny of Anjou was expunged with blood. Spain, the tardy and
patient power, which inherited so much from the failure of more
brilliant races, came at last, and tightened so firm a hold upon
the island, that from the end of the thirteenth to the beginning of
the nineteenth century, with one brief exception, Sicily belonged
to the princes of Aragon, Castile, and Bourbon. These vicissitudes
have left their traces everywhere. The Greek temples of Segeste and
Girgenti and Selinus, the Roman amphitheatre of Syracuse, the
Byzantine mosaics and Saracenic villas of Palermo, the Norman
cathedrals of Monreale and Cefal&uacute;, and the Spanish habits
which still characterise the life of Sicilian cities, testify to
the successive strata of races which have been deposited upon the
island. Amid its anarchy of tongues, the Latin alone has triumphed.
In the time of the Greek colonists Sicily was polyglot. During the
Saracenic occupation it was trilingual. It is now, and during
modern history it has always been, Italian. Differences of language
and of nationality have gradually been fused into one substance, by
the spirit which emanates from Rome, and vivifies the Latin
race.</p>

<p>The geographical position of Sicily has always influenced its
history in a very marked way. The eastern coast, which is turned
towards Greece and Italy, has been the centre of Aryan civilisation
in the island, so that during Greek and Roman ascendency Syracuse
was held the capital. The western end, which projects into the
African sea, was occupied in the time of the Hellenes by
Phoenicians, and afterwards by Mussulmans: consequently Panormus,
the ancient seat of Punic colonists, now called Palermo, became the
centre of the Moslem rule, which, inherited entire by the Norman
chieftains, <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg292" id=
"pg292">292</a></span> was transmitted eventually to Spain.
Palermo, devoid of classic monuments, and unknown except as a name
to the historians of Greek civilisation, is therefore the modern
capital of the island. 'Prima sedes, corona regis, et regni caput,'
is the motto inscribed upon the cathedral porch and the
archiepiscopal throne of Palermo: nor has any other city, except
Messina,<a name="FNanchor_1_55" id="FNanchor_1_55" /><a href=
"#Footnote_1_55" class="fnanchor">[1]</a>presumed to
contest this title.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_55" id="Footnote_1_55" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_55"><span class="label">[1]</span></a>
Messina, owing to its mercantile position between the Levant,
Italy, and France, and as the key to Sicily from the mainland,
might probably have become the modern capital had not the Normans
found a state machinery ready to their use centralised at
Palermo.</p>
</div>

<p>Perhaps there are few spots upon the surface of the globe more
beautiful than Palermo. The hills on either hand descend upon the
sea with long-drawn delicately broken outlines, so exquisitely
tinted with a&euml;rial hues, that at early dawn or beneath the
blue light of a full moon the panorama seems to be some fabric of
the fancy, that must fade away, 'like shapes of clouds we form,' to
nothing. Within the cradle of these hills, and close upon the
tideless water, lies the city. Behind and around on every side
stretches the famous <i>Conca d'Oro</i>, or golden shell, a plain
of marvellous fertility, so called because of its richness and also
because of its shape; for it tapers to a fine point where the
mountains meet, and spreads abroad, where they diverge, like a
cornucopia, toward the sea. The whole of this long vega is a
garden, thick with olive-groves and orange-trees, with orchards of
nespole and palms and almonds, with fig-trees and locust-trees,
with judas-trees that blush in spring, and with flowers as
multitudinously brilliant as the fretwork of sunset clouds. It was
here that in the days of the Kelbite dynasty, the sugar-cane and
cotton-tree and mulberry supplied both East and West with produce
for the banquet and the paper-mill and the silk-loom; and though
these industries are now neglected, vast gardens of <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg293" id="pg293">293</a></span> cactuses still
give a strangely Oriental character to the scenery of Palermo,
while the land flows with honey-sweet wine instead of sugar. The
language in which Arabian poets extolled the charms of this fair
land is even now nowise extravagant: 'Oh how beautiful is the
lakelet of the twin palms, and the island where the spacious palace
stands! The limpid water of the double springs resembles liquid
pearls, and their basin is a sea: you would say that the branches
of the trees stretched down to see the fishes in the pool and smile
at them. The great fishes swim in those clear waters, and the birds
among the gardens tune their songs. The ripe oranges of the island
are like fire that burns on boughs of emerald; the pale lemon
reminds me of a lover who has passed the night in weeping for his
absent darling. The two palms may be compared to lovers who have
gained an inaccessible retreat against their enemies, or raise
themselves erect in pride to confound the murmurs and ill thoughts
of jealous men. O palms of the two lakelets of Palermo, may
ceaseless, undisturbed, and plenteous dews for ever keep your
freshness!' Such is the poetry which suits the environs of Palermo,
where the Moorish villas of La Zisa and La Cuba and La Favara still
stand, and where the modern gardens, though wilder, are scarcely
less delightful than those beneath which King Roger discoursed with
Edrisi, and Gian da Procida surprised his sleeping mistress.<a
name="FNanchor_1_56" id="FNanchor_1_56" /><a href=
"#Footnote_1_56" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> The groves of
oranges and lemons are an inexhaustible source of joy: not only
because of their 'golden lamps in a green night,' but also because
of their silvery constellations, nebul&aelig;, and drifts of stars,
in the same green night, and milky ways of blossoms on the ground
beneath. As in all southern scenery, the transition from these
perfumed thickly clustering gardens to the bare unirrigated
hillsides is very striking. There the dwarf-palm <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg294" id="pg294">294</a></span> tufts with its
spiky foliage the clefts of limestone rock, and the lizards run in
and out among bushes of tree-spurge and wild cactus and grey
asphodels. The sea-shore is a tangle of lilac and oleander and
laurustinus and myrtle and lentisk and cytisus and geranium. The
flowering plants that make our shrubberies gay in spring with
blossoms, are here wild, running riot upon the sand-heaps of
Mondello or beneath the barren slopes of Monte Pellegrino.</p>

<p>It was into this terrestrial paradise, cultivated through two
preceding centuries by the Arabs, who of all races were wisest in
the arts of irrigation and landscape-gardening, that the Norsemen
entered as conquerors, and lay down to pass their lives.<a name=
"FNanchor_2_57" id="FNanchor_2_57" /><a href=
"#Footnote_2_57" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_56" id="Footnote_1_56" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_56"><span class="label">[1]</span></a>
Boccaccio, Giorn. v. Nov. 6.</p>
</div>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_2_57" id="Footnote_2_57" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_2_57"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> The
Saracens possessed themselves of Sicily by a gradual conquest,
which began about 827 A.D. Disembarking on the little isle of
Pantellaria and the headland of Lilyboeum, where of old the
Carthaginians used to enter Sicily, they began by overrunning the
island for the first four years. In 831 they took Palermo; during
the next ten years they subjugated the Val di Mazara; between 841
and 859 they possessed themselves of the Val di Noto; after this
they extended their conquest over the seaport towns of the Val
Demone, but neglected to reduce the whole of the N.E. district.
Syracuse was stormed and reduced to ruins after a desperate defence
in 878, while Leo, the heir of the Greek Empire, contented himself
with composing two Anacreontic elegies on the disaster at
Byzantium. In 895 Sicily was wholly lost to the Greeks, by a treaty
signed between the Saracens and the remaining Christian towns. The
Christians during the Mussulman occupation were divided into four
classes&mdash;(1) A few independent municipalities obedient loosely
to the Greek Empire; (2) tributaries who paid the Arabs what they
would otherwise have sent to Byzantium; (3) vassals, whose towns
had fallen by arms or treaty into the hands of the conquerors, and
who, though their property was respected and religion tolerated,
were called 'dsimmi' or 'humbled;' (4) serfs, prisoners of war,
sold as slaves or attached to the soil (<i>Amari</i>, vol. i.).</p>
</div>

<p>No chapter of history more resembles a romance than that which
records the sudden rise and brief splendour of the house of
Hauteville. In one generation the sons of Tancred passed from the
condition of squires in the Norman vale of <span class="pagenum"><a
name="pg295" id="pg295">295</a></span> Cotentin, to kinghood in the
richest island of the southern sea. The Norse adventurers became
Sultans of an Oriental capital. The sea-robbers assumed together
with the sceptre the culture of an Arabian court. The marauders
whose armies burned Rome, received at papal hands the mitre and
dalmatic as symbols of ecclesiastical jurisdiction.<a name=
"FNanchor_1_58" id="FNanchor_1_58" /><a href=
"#Footnote_1_58" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> The brigands who
on their first appearance in Italy had pillaged stables and
farmyards to supply their needs, lived to mate their daughters with
princes and to sway the politics of Europe with gold. The
freebooters, whose skill consisted in the use of sword and shield,
whose brains were vigorous in strategy or statecraft, and whose
pleasures were confined to the hunting-field and the wine-cup,
raised villas like the Zisa and encrusted the cathedral of Monreale
with mosaics. Finally, while the race was yet vigorous, after
giving two heroes to the first Crusade, it transmitted its titles,
its temper, and its blood to the great Emperor, who was destined to
fight out upon the battlefield of Italy the strife of Empire
against Papacy, and to bequeath to medi&aelig;val Europe the
tradition of cosmopolitan culture. The physical energy of this
brood of heroes was such as can scarcely be paralleled in history.
Tancred de Hauteville begat two families by different wives. Of his
children twelve were sons; two of whom stayed with their father in
Normandy, while ten sought fame and found a kingdom in the south.
Of these, William Iron Arm, the first Count of Apulia; Robert
Guiscard, who united Calabria and Apulia under one dukedom, and
carried victorious arms against both Emperors of East and West; and
Roger the Great Count, who added Sicily to the conquests of the
Normans and bequeathed the kingdom of South Italy to his son, rose
to the highest name. But all the brothers shared <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg296" id="pg296">296</a></span> the great
qualities of the house; and two of them, Humphrey and Drogo, also
wore a coronet. Large of limb and stout of heart, persevering under
difficulties, crafty yet gifted with the semblance of sincerity,
combining the piety of pilgrims with the morals of highwaymen, the
sturdiness of barbarians with the plasticity of culture, eloquent
in the council-chamber and the field, dear to their soldiers for
their bravery and to women for their beauty, equally eminent as
generals and as rulers, restrained by no scruples but such as
policy suggested, restless in their energy, yet neither fickle nor
rash, comprehensive in their views, but indefatigable in detail,
these lions among men were made to conquer in the face of
overwhelming obstacles, and to hold their conquests with a grasp of
iron. What they wrought, whether wisely or not for the ultimate
advantage of Italy, endures to this day, while the work of so many
emperors, republics, and princes has passed and shifted like the
scenes in a pantomime. Through them the Greeks, the Lombards, and
the Moors were extinguished in the south. The Papacy was checked in
its attempt to found a province of S. Peter below the Tiber. The
republics of Naples, Gaeta, Amalfi, which might have rivalled
perchance with Milan, Genoa, and Florence, were subdued to a
master's hand. In short, to the Normans Italy owed that kingdom of
the Two Sicilies which formed one-third of her political balance,
and which proved the cause of all her most serious revolutions.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_58" id="Footnote_1_58" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_58"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> King
Roger in the mosaics of the Martorana Church at Palermo wears the
dalmatic, and receives his crown from the hands of Christ.</p>
</div>

<p>Roger, the youngest of the Hauteville family, and the founder of
the kingdom of Sicily, showed by his untamable spirit and sound
intellect that his father's vigour remained unexhausted. Each of
Tancred's sons was physically speaking a masterpiece, and the last
was the prime work of all. This Roger, styled the Great Count,
begat a second Roger, the first King of Sicily, whose son and
grandson, both named William, ruled in succession at Palermo. With
them the <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg297" id=
"pg297">297</a></span> direct line of the house of Hauteville
expired. It would seem as if the energy and fertility of the stock
had been drained by its efforts in the first three generations.
Constance, the heiress of the family, who married Henry VI. and
gave birth to the Emperor Frederick II., was daughter of King
Roger, and therefore third in descent from Tancred. Drawing her
blood more immediately from the parent stem, she thus transmitted
to the princes of the race of Hohenstauffen the vigour of her
Norman ancestry unweakened. This was a circumstance of no small
moment in the history of Europe. Upon the fierce and daring Suabian
stem were grafted the pertinacity, the cunning, the versatility of
the Norman adventurers. Young Frederick, while strong and subtle
enough to stand for himself against the world, was so finely
tempered by the blended strains of his parentage that he received
the polish of an Oriental education without effeminacy. Called upon
to administer the affairs of Germany, to govern Italy, to contend
with the Papacy, and to settle by arms and treaties the great
Oriental question of his days, Frederick, cosmopolitan from the
cradle, was equal to the task. Had Europe been but ready, the
Renaissance would have dated from his reign, and a universal
empire, if not of political government, yet of intellectual
culture, might have been firmly instituted.</p>

<p>Of the personal appearance of the Norman chiefs&mdash;their fair
hair, clear eyes, and broad shoulders&mdash;we hear much from the
chroniclers. One minutely studied portrait will serve to bring the
whole race vividly before us. Bohemond, Prince of Tarentum, the son
of Robert Guiscard, and first cousin to Tancred of Montferrat, was
thus described by Anna Comnena, who saw him at her father's court
during the first Crusade: 'Neither amongst our own nation (the
Greeks), nor amongst foreigners, is there in our age a man equal to
Bohemond. His presence dazzled the eyes, as his reputation the
fancy. <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg298" id=
"pg298">298</a></span> He was one cubit taller than the tallest man
known. In his waist he was thin, but broad in his shoulders and
chest, without being either too thin or too fat. His arms were
strong, his hands full and large, his feet firm and solid. He
stooped a little, but through habit only, and not on account of any
deformity. He was fair, but on his cheeks there was an agreeable
mixture of vermilion. His hair was not loose over his shoulders,
according to the fashion of the barbarians, but was cut above his
ears. His eyes were blue, and full of wrath and fierceness. His
nostrils were large, inasmuch as having a wide chest and a great
heart, his lungs required an unusual quantity of air to moderate
the warmth of his blood. His handsome face had in itself something
gentle and softening, but the height of his person and the
fierceness of his looks had something wild and terrible. He was
more dreadful in his smiles than others in their rage.' When we
read this description, remembering the romance of Bohemond's
ancestry and his own life, we do not wonder at the tales of
chivalry. Those 'knights of Logres and of Lyoness, Lancelot or
Pelleas or Pellenore,' with whose adventures our tawny-haired
magnificent Plantagenets amused their leisure, become realities.
The manly beauty, described by the Byzantine princess in words
which seem to betray a more than common interest in her handsome
foe, was hereditary in the house of Hauteville. They transmitted it
to the last of the Suabian dynasty, to Manfred and Conradin, and to
the king Enzio, whose long golden hair fell down from his shoulders
to his saddle-bow as he rode, a captive, into Bologna.</p>

<p>The story of the Norman conquest is told by two
chroniclers&mdash;William of Apulia, who received his materials
from Robert Guiscard, and Godfrey Malaterra, who wrote down the
oral narrative of Roger. Thus we possess what is tantamount to
personal memoirs of the Norman chiefs. Nevertheless, a veil <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg299" id="pg299">299</a></span> of
legendary romance obscures the first appearance of the Scandinavian
warriors upon the scene of history. William of Apulia tells how, in
the course of a pilgrimage to S. Michael's shrine on Monte Gargano,
certain knights of Normandy were accosted by a stranger of imposing
aspect, who persuaded them to draw their swords in the quarrel of
the Lombard towns of South Italy against the Greeks. This man was
Melo of Bari. Whether his invitation were so theatrically conveyed
or not, it is probable that the Norsemen made their first
acquaintance with Apulia on a pilgrimage to the Italian Michael's
mount; and it is certain that Melo, whom we dimly descry as a
patriot of enlarged views and indomitable constancy, provided them
with arms and horses, raised troops in Salerno and Benevento to
assist them, and directed them against the Greeks. This happened in
1017. Twelve years later we find the town of Aversa built and
occupied by Normans under the control of their Count Rainulf; while
another band, headed by Ardoin, a Lombard of Milan, lived at large
upon the country, selling its services to the Byzantine Greeks. In
the anarchy of Southern Italy at this epoch, when the decaying
Empire of the East was relaxing its hold upon the Apulian
provinces, when the Papacy was beginning to lift up its head after
the ignominy of Theodora and Marozia, and the Lombard power was
slowly dissolving upon its ill-established foundations, the Norman
adventurers pursued a policy which, however changeful, was
invariably self-advantageous. On whatever side they fought, they
took care that the profits of war should accrue to their own
colony. Quarrel as they might among themselves, they were always
found at one against a common foe. And such was their reputation in
the field, that the hardiest soldiers errant of all nations joined
their standard. Thus it fell out that when Ardoin and his Normans
had helped Maniaces to wrest the eastern districts of Sicily from
<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg300" id="pg300">300</a></span> the
Moors, they returned, upon an insult offered by the Greek general,
to extend the right hand of fellowship to Rainulf and his Normans
of Aversa. 'Why should you stay here like a rat in his hole, when
with our help you might rule those fertile plains, expelling the
women in armour who keep guard over them?' The agreement of Ardoin
and Rainulf formed the basis of the future Norman power. Their
companies joined forces. Melfi was chosen as the centre of their
federal government. The united Norman colony elected twelve chiefs
or counts of equal authority; and henceforth they thought only of
consolidating their ascendency over the effete races which had
hitherto pretended to employ their arms. The genius of their race
and age, however, was unfavourable to federations. In a short time
the ablest man among them, the true king, by right of personal
vigour and mental cunning, showed himself. It was at this point
that the house of Hauteville rose to the altitude of its romantic
destiny. William Iron Arm was proclaimed Count of Apulia. Two of
his brothers succeeded him in the same dignity. His half-brother,
Robert Guiscard, imprisoned one Pope,<a name="FNanchor_1_59" id=
"FNanchor_1_59" /><a href="#Footnote_1_59" class=
"fnanchor">[1]</a> Leo IX., and wrested from another, Nicholas II.,
the title of Duke of Apulia and Calabria. By the help of his
youngest brother, Roger, he gradually completed the conquest of
Italy below the Tiber, and then addressed himself to the task of
subduing Sicily. The Papacy, incapable of opposing the military
vigour of the Northmen, was distracted between jealousy of their
growing importance and desire to utilise them for its own
advantage.<a name="FNanchor_2_60" id="FNanchor_2_60" /><a href=
"#Footnote_2_60" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> The temptation to
employ these filial <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg301" id=
"pg301">301</a></span> pirates as a catspaw for restoring Sicily to
the bosom of the Church, was too strong to be resisted. In spite of
many ebbs and flows of policy, the favour which the Popes accorded
to the Normans gilded the might and cunning of the adventurers with
the specious splendour of acknowledged sanctity. The time might
come for casting off these powerful allies and adding their
conquests to the patrimony of S. Peter. Meanwhile it costs nothing
to give away what does not belong to one, particularly when by
doing so a title to the same is gradually formed. So the Popes
reckoned. Robert and Roger went forth with banners blessed by Rome
to subjugate the island of the Greek and Moor.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_59" id="Footnote_1_59" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_59"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> The
Normans were lucky in getting hold of Popes. King Roger caught
Innocent II. at San Germano in 1139, and got from him the
confirmation of all his titles.</p>
</div>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_2_60" id="Footnote_2_60" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_2_60"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> Even
the great Hildebrand wavered in his policy toward Robert Guiscard.
Having raised an army by the help of the Countess Matilda in 1074,
he excommunicated Robert and made war against him. Robert proved
more than his match in force and craft; and Hildebrand had to
confirm his title as duke, and designate him Knight of S. Peter in
1080. When Robert drove the Emperor Henry IV. from Rome, and burned
the city of the Coelian, Hildebrand retired with his terrible
defender to Salerno, and died there in 1085. Robert and both Rogers
were good sons of the Church, deserving the titles of 'Terror of
the faithless,' 'Sword of the Lord drawn from the scabbard of
Sicily,' as long as they were suffered to pursue their own schemes
of empire. They respected the Pope's person and his demesne of
Benevento; they were largely liberal in donations to churches and
abbeys. But they did not suffer their piety to interfere with their
ambition.</p>
</div>

<p>The honours of this conquest, paralleled for boldness only by
the achievements of Cortes and Pizarro, belong to Roger. It is true
that since the fall of the Kelbite dynasty Sicily had been shaken
by anarchy and despotism, by the petty quarrels of princes and
party leaders, and to some extent also by the invasion of Maniaces.
Yet on the approach of Roger with a handful of Norman knights, 'the
island was guarded,' to quote Gibbon's energetic phrase, 'to the
water's edge.' For some years he had to content himself with raids
and harrying excursions, making Messina, which he won from the
Moors by the aid of their Christian serfs and vassals, the basis of
his operations, and retiring from time to time across the Faro
<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg302" id="pg302">302</a></span>
with booty to Reggio. The Mussulmans had never thoroughly subdued
the north-eastern highlands of Sicily. Satisfied with occupying the
whole western and southern sections of the island, with planting
their government firmly at Palermo, destroying Syracuse, and
establishing a military fort on the heights of Castro Giovanni,
they had somewhat neglected the Christian populations of the Val
Demone. Thus the key to Sicily upon the Italian side fell into the
hands of the invaders. From Messina Roger advanced by Rametta and
Centorbi to Troina, a hill-town raised high above the level of the
sea, within view of the solemn blue-black pyramid of Etna. There he
planted a garrison in 1062, two years after his first incursion
into the island. The interval had been employed in marches and
countermarches, descents upon the vale of Catania, and hurried
expeditions as far as Girgenti, on the southern coast. One great
battle is recorded beneath the walls of Castro Giovanni, when six
hundred Norman knights, so say the chroniclers, engaged with
fifteen thousand of the Arabian chivalry and one hundred thousand
foot soldiers. However great the exaggeration of these numbers, it
is certain that the Christians fought at fearful odds that day, and
that all the eloquence of Roger, who wrought on their fanaticism in
his speech before the battle, was needed to raise their courage to
the sticking-point. The scene of the great rout of Saracens which
followed, is in every respect memorable. Castro Giovanni, the old
Enna of the Greeks and Romans, stands on the top of a precipitous
mountain, two thousand feet above a plain which waves with corn. A
sister height, Calascibetta, raised nearly to an equal altitude,
keeps ward over the same valley; and from their summits the whole
of Sicily is visible. Here in old days Demeter from her rock-built
temple could survey vast tracts of hill and dale, breaking
downwards to the sea and undulating everywhere with harvest. <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg303" id="pg303">303</a></span> The much
praised lake and vale of Enna<a name="FNanchor_1_61" id=
"FNanchor_1_61" /><a href="#Footnote_1_61" class=
"fnanchor">[1]</a> are now a desolate sulphur district, void of
beauty, with no flowers to tempt Proserpine. Yet the landscape is
eminently noble because of its breadth&mdash;bare naked hills
stretching in every direction to the sea that girdles
Sicily&mdash;peak rising above peak and town-capped eyrie over
eyrie&mdash;while Etna, wreathed with snow, and purple with the
peculiar colour of its coal-black lava seen through
light-irradiated air, sleeps far off beneath a crown of clouds.
Upon the cornfields in the centre of this landscape the multitudes
of the Infidels were smitten hip and thigh by the handful of
Christian warriors. Yet the victory was by no means a decisive one.
The Saracens swarmed round the Norman fortress of Troina; where,
during a severe winter, Roger and his young wife, Judith of Evreux,
whom he had loved in Normandy, and who journeyed to marry him amid
the din of battles, had but one cloak to protect them both from the
cold. The traveller, who even in April has experienced the chill of
a high-set Sicilian village, will not be <span class="pagenum"><a
name="pg304" id="pg304">304</a></span> inclined to laugh at the
hardships revealed by this little incident. Yet the Normans, one
and all, were stanch. A victory over their assailants in the spring
gave them courage to push their arms as far as the river Himera and
beyond the Simeto, while a defeat of fifty thousand Saracens by
four hundred Normans at Cerami opened the way at last to Palermo.
Reading of these engagements, we are led to remember how Gelon
smote his Punic foes upon the Himera, and Timoleon arrayed Greeks
by the ten against Carthaginians by the thousand on the Crimisus.
The battlefields are scarcely altered; the combatants are as
unequally matched, and represent analogous races. It is still the
combat of a few heroic Europeans against the hordes of Asia. In the
battle of Cerami it is said that S. George fought visibly on
horseback before the Christian band, like that wide-winged
chivalrous archangel whom Spinello Aretino painted beside Sant'
Efeso in the press of men upon the walls of the Pisan Campo
Santo.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_61" id="Footnote_1_61" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_61"><span class="label">[1]</span></a>
Cicero's description of Enna is still accurate: 'Enna is placed in
a very lofty and exposed situation, at the top of which is a
tableland and never-failing supply of springs. The whole site is
cut off from access, and precipitous.' But when he proceeds to say,
'many groves and lakes surround it and luxuriant flowers through
all the year,' we cannot follow him. The only quality which Enna
has not lost is the impregnable nature of its cliffs. A few poplars
and thorns are all that remain of its forests. Did we not know that
the myth of Demeter and Persephone was a poem of seed-time and
harvest, we might be tempted, while sitting on the crags of Castro
Giovanni and looking toward the lake, to fancy that in old days a
village dependent upon Enna, and therefore called her daughter,
might have occupied the site of the lake, and that this village
might have been withdrawn into the earth by the volcanic action
which produced the cavity. Then people would have said that Demeter
had lost Persephone and sought her vainly through all the cities of
Sicily: and if this happened in spring Persephone might well have
been thought to have been gathering flowers at the time when Hades
took her to himself. So easy and yet so dangerous is it to
rationalise a legend.</p>
</div>

<p>The capture of Palermo cost the Normans another eight years,
part of which was spent according to their national tactics in
plundering expeditions, part in the subjugation of Catania and
other districts, part in the blockade of the capital by sea and
land. After the fall of Palermo, it only remained for Roger to
reduce isolated cities&mdash;Taormina, Syracuse,<a name=
"FNanchor_1_62" id="FNanchor_1_62" /><a href=
"#Footnote_1_62" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> Girgenti, and
Castro Giovanni&mdash;to his sway. The last-named and strongest
hold of the Saracens fell into his hands by the treason of
Ibn-Ham&ucirc;ud in 1087, and thus, after thirty years' continual
effort, the two brothers were at last able to divide the island
between them. The lion's share, as was due, fell to Roger, who
styled himself Great Count of Sicily and Calabria. In 1098, Urban
II., a politician of the school of <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg305" id="pg305">305</a></span> Cluny, who well understood the
scope of Hildebrand's plan for subjecting Europe to the Court of
Rome, rewarded Roger for his zeal in the service of the Church with
the title of Hereditary Apostolical Legate. The Great Count was now
on a par with the most powerful monarchs of Europe. In riches he
exceeded all; so that he was able to wed one daughter to the King
of Hungary, another to Conrad, King of Italy, a third to Raimond,
Count of Provence and Toulouse, dowering them all with imperial
munificence.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_62" id="Footnote_1_62" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_62"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> In this
siege, as in that of the Athenians, and of the Saracens 878 A.D.,
decisive engagements took place in the great harbour.</p>
</div>

<p>Hale and vigorous, his life was prolonged through a green old
age until his seventieth year; when he died in 1101, he left two
sons by his third wife, Adelaide. Roger, the younger of the two,
destined to succeed his father, and (on the death of his cousin,
William, Duke of Apulia, in 1127) to unite South Italy and Sicily
under one crown, was only four years old at the death of the Great
Count. Inheriting all the valour and intellectual qualities of his
family, he rose to even higher honour than his predecessors. In
1130 he assumed the style of King of Sicily, no doubt with the
political purpose of impressing his Mussulman subjects; and nine
years later, when he took Innocent captive at San Germano, he
forced from the half-willing pontiff a confirmation of this title
as well as the investiture of Apulia, Calabria, and Capua. The
extent of his sway is recorded in the line engraved upon his
sword:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i4">Appulus et Calaber Siculus mihi servit et
Afer.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>King Roger died in 1154, and bequeathed his kingdoms to his son
William, surnamed the Bad; who in his turn left them to a William,
called the Good, in 1166. The second William died in 1189,
transmitting his possessions by will to Constance, wife of the
Suabian emperor. These two Williams, the last of the Hauteville
monarchs of Sicily, were not altogether unworthy of their Norman
origin. William the Bad could rouse <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg306" id="pg306">306</a></span> himself from the sloth of his
seraglio to head an army; William the Good, though feeble in
foreign policy, and no general, administered the state with
clemency and wisdom.</p>

<p>Sicily under the Normans offered the spectacle of a singularly
hybrid civilisation. Christians and Northmen, adopting the habits
and imbibing the culture of their Mussulman subjects, ruled a mixed
population of Greeks, Arabs, Berbers, and Italians. The language of
the princes was French; that of the Christians in their territory,
Greek and Latin; that of their Mahommedan subjects, Arabic. At the
same time the Scandinavian Sultans of Palermo did not cease to play
an active part in the affairs, both civil and ecclesiastical, of
Europe. The children of the Vikings, though they spent their
leisure in harems, exercised, as hereditary Legates of the Holy
See, a peculiar jurisdiction in the Church of Sicily. They
dispensed benefices to the clergy, and assumed the mitre and
dalmatic, together with the sceptre, and the crown, as symbols of
their authority in Church as well as State. As a consequence of
this confusion of nationalities in Sicily, we find French and
English ecclesiastics<a name="FNanchor_1_63" id=
"FNanchor_1_63" /><a href="#Footnote_1_63" class=
"fnanchor">[1]</a> mingling at court with Moorish freedmen and
Oriental odalisques, Apulian captains fraternising with Greek
corsairs, Jewish physicians in attendance on the person of the
prince, and Arabian poets eloquent in his praises. The very money
with which Roger subsidised his Italian allies was stamped with
Cuphic letters,<a name="FNanchor_2_64" id="FNanchor_2_64" /><a
href="#Footnote_2_64" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> and there is
<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg307" id="pg307">307</a></span>
reason to believe that the reproach against Frederick of being a
false coiner arose from his adopting the Eastern device of plating
copper pieces to pass for silver. The commander of Roger's navies
and his chief minister of state was styled, according to Oriental
usage, Emir or Ammiraglio. George of Antioch, who swept the shores
of Africa, the Morea, and the Black Sea, in his service, was a
Christian of the Greek Church, who had previously held an office of
finance under Temin Prince of Mehdia. The workers in his silk
factories were slaves from Thebes and Corinth. The pages of his
palace were Sicilian or African eunuchs. His charters ran in Arabic
as well as Greek and Latin. His jewellers engraved the rough gems
of the Orient with Christian mottoes in Semitic characters.<a name=
"FNanchor_3_65" id="FNanchor_3_65" /><a href=
"#Footnote_3_65" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> His architects
were Mussulmans who adapted their native style to the requirements
of Christian ritual, and inscribed the walls of cathedrals with
Catholic legends in the Cuphic language. The predominant
characteristic of Palermo was Orientalism. Religious toleration was
extended to the Mussulmans, so that the two creeds, Christian and
Mahommedan, flourished side by side. The Saracens had their own
quarters in the towns, their mosques and schools, and Cadis for the
administration of petty justice. French and Italian women in
Palermo adopted the Oriental fashions of dress. The administration
of law and government was conducted on Eastern principles. In
nothing had the Mussulmans shown greater genius than in their
system of internal statecraft. Count Roger found a machinery of
taxation in full working order, officers acquainted with the
resources of the country, books and schedules constructed <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg308" id="pg308">308</a></span> on the
principles of strictest accuracy, a whole bureaucracy, in fact,
ready to his use. By applying this machinery he became the richest
potentate in Europe, at a time when the northern monarchs were
dependent upon feudal aids and precarious revenues from crown
lands. In the same way, the Saracens bequeathed to the Normans the
court system, which they in turn had derived from the princes of
Persia and the example of Constantinople. Roger found it convenient
to continue that organisation of pages, chamberlains, ushers,
secretaries, viziers, and masters of the wardrobe, invested each
with some authority of state according to his rank, which confined
the administration of an Eastern kingdom to the walls of the
palace.<a name="FNanchor_4_66" id="FNanchor_4_66" /><a href=
"#Footnote_4_66" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> At Palermo Europe
saw the first instance of a court not wholly unlike that which
Versailles afterwards became. The intrigues which endangered the
throne and liberty of William the Bad, and which perplexed the
policy of William the Good, were court-conspiracies of a kind
common enough at Constantinople. In this court life men of letters
and erudition played a first part three centuries before Petrarch
taught the princes of Italy to respect the pen of a poet.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_63" id="Footnote_1_63" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_63"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> The
English Gualterio Offamilio, or Walter of the Mill, Archbishop of
Palermo during the reign of William the Good, by his intrigues
brought about the match between Constance and Henry VI. Richard
Palmer at the same time was Bishop of Syracuse. Stephen des
Rotrous, a Frenchman of the Counts of Perche, preceded Walter of
the Mill in the Arch See of Palermo.</p>
</div>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_2_64" id="Footnote_2_64" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_2_64"><span class="label">[2]</span></a>
Frederick Barbarossa's soldiers are said to have bidden the Romans:
'Take this German iron in change for Arab gold. This pay your
master gives you, and this is how Franks win
empire.'&mdash;<i>Amari</i>, vol. iii. p. 468.</p>
</div>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_3_65" id="Footnote_3_65" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_3_65"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> The
embroidered skullcap of Constance of Aragon, wife of Frederick II.,
in the sacristy of the cathedral at Palermo, is made of gold thread
thickly studded with pearls and jewels&mdash;rough sapphires and
carbuncles, among which may be noticed a red cornelian engraved in
Arabic with this sentence, 'In Christ, God, I put my hope.'</p>
</div>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_4_66" id="Footnote_4_66" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_4_66"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> The
Arabic title of <i>K&acirc;id</i>, which originally was given to a
subordinate captain of the guard, took a wide significance at the
Norman Court. Latinised to <i>gaytus</i>, and Grecised under the
form of &kappa;&#940;&iota;&tau;&omicron;&sigmaf;, it frequently
occurs in chronicles and diplomas to denote a high minister of
state. Matteo of Ajello, who exercised so powerful an influence
over the policy of William the Good, heading the Mussulman and
national party against the great ecclesiastics who were intriguing
to draw Sicily into the entanglements of European diplomacy, was a
K&acirc;id. Matteo favoured the cause of Tancred, Walter of the
Mill espoused that of the Germans, during the war of succession
which followed upon William's death. The barons of the realm had to
range themselves under these two leaders&mdash;to such an extent
were the affairs of state in Sicily within the grasp of courtiers
and churchmen.</p>
</div>

<p>King Roger, of whom the court geographer Edrisi writes <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg309" id="pg309">309</a></span> that 'he
did more sleeping than any other man waking,' was surrounded during
his leisure moments, beneath the palm-groves of Favara, with
musicians, historians, travellers, mathematicians, poets, and
astrologers of Oriental breeding. At his command Ptolemy's Optics
were translated into Latin from the Arabic. The prophecies of the
Erythrean Sibyl were rendered accessible in the same way. His
respect for the occult sciences was proved by his disinterring the
bones of Virgil from their resting-place at Posilippo, and placing
them in the Castel dell' Uovo in order that he might have access
through necromancy to the spirit of the Roman wizard. It may be
remembered in passing, that Palermo in one of her mosques already
held suspended between earth and air the supposed relics of
Aristotle. Such were the saints of modern culture in its earliest
dawning. While Venice was robbing Alexandria of the body of S.
Mark, Palermo and Naples placed themselves beneath the protection
of a philosopher and a poet. But Roger's greatest literary work was
the compilation of a treatise of universal geography. Fifteen years
were devoted to the task; and the manuscript, in Arabic, drawn up
by the philosopher Edrisi, appeared only six weeks before the
king's death in 1154. This book, called 'The Book of Roger, or the
Delight of whoso loves to make the Circuit of the World,' was based
upon the previous labours of twelve geographers, classical and
Mussulman. But aiming at greater accuracy than could be obtained by
a merely literary compilation, Roger caused pilgrims, travellers,
and merchants of all countries to be assembled for conference and
examination before him. Their accounts were sifted and collated.
Edrisi held the pen while Roger questioned. Measurements and
distances were carefully compared; and a vast silver disc was
constructed, on which all the seas, islands, continents, plains,
rivers, mountain ranges, cities, roads, and harbours of the <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg310" id="pg310">310</a></span> known
world were delineated. The text supplied an explanatory description
of this map, with tables of the products, habits, races, religions,
and qualities, both physical and moral, of all climates. The
precious metal upon which the map was drawn proved its ruin, and
the Geography remained in the libraries of Arab scholars. Yet this
was one of the first great essays of practical exploration and
methodical statistic, to which the genius of the Norseman and the
Arab each contributed a quota. The Arabians, by their primitive
nomadic habits, by the necessities of their system of taxation, by
their predilection for astrology, by their experience as pilgrims,
merchants, and poets errant, were specially qualified for the
labour of geographical investigation. Roger supplied the unbounded
curiosity and restless energy of his Scandinavian temper, the
kingly comprehensive intellect of his race, and the authority of a
prince who was powerful enough to compel the service of qualified
collaborators.</p>

<p>The architectural works of the Normans in Palermo reveal the
same ascendency of Arab culture. San Giovanni degli Eremiti, with
its low white rounded domes, is nothing more or less than a little
mosque adapted to the rites of Christians.<a name="FNanchor_1_67"
id="FNanchor_1_67" /><a href="#Footnote_1_67" class=
"fnanchor">[1]</a> The country palaces of the Zisa and the Cuba,
built by the two Williams, retain their ancient Moorish character.
Standing beneath the fretted arches of the hall of the Zisa,
through which a fountain flows within a margin of carved marble,
and looking on the landscape from its open porch, we only need to
reconstruct in fancy the green gardens and orange-groves, where
fair-haired Normans whiled away their hours among black-eyed
odalisques and graceful singing boys from Persia. Amid a wild
tangle of olive and lemon trees overgrown with scarlet
passion-flowers, the pavilion of the Cubola, built of <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg311" id="pg311">311</a></span> hewn stone and
open at each of its four sides, still stands much as it stood when
William II. paced through flowers from his palace of the Cuba, to
enjoy the freshness of the evening by the side of its fountain. The
views from all these Saracenic villas over the fruitful valley of
the Golden Horn, and the turrets of Palermo, and the mountains and
the distant sea, are ineffably delightful. When the palaces were
new&mdash;when the gilding and the frescoes still shone upon their
honeycombed ceilings, when their mosaics glittered in noonday
twilight, and their amber-coloured masonry was set in shade of
pines and palms, and the cool sound of rivulets made music in their
courts and gardens, they must have well deserved their Arab titles
of 'Sweet Waters' and 'The Glory' and 'The Paradise of Earth.'</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_67" id="Footnote_1_67" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_67"><span class="label">[1]</span></a>
Tradition asserts that the tocsin of this church gave the signal in
Palermo to the massacre of the Sicilian Vespers.</p>
</div>

<p>But the true splendour of Palermo, that which makes this city
one of the most glorious of the south, is to be sought in its
churches&mdash;in the mosaics of the Cappella Palatina founded by
King Roger, in the vast aisles and cloisters of Monreale built by
King William the Good at the instance of his Chancellor Matteo,<a
name="FNanchor_1_68" id="FNanchor_1_68" /><a href=
"#Footnote_1_68" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> in the Cathedral
of Palermo begun by Offamilio, and in the Martorana dedicated by
George the Admiral. These triumphs of ecclesiastical architecture,
none the less splendid because they cannot be reduced to rule or
assigned to any single style, were the work of Saracen builders
assisted by Byzantine, Italian, and Norman craftsmen. The genius of
Latin Christianity determined the basilica shape of the Cathedral
of Monreale. Its bronze doors were wrought by smiths of Trani and
Pisa. Its walls were incrusted with the mosaics of Constantinople.
The woodwork of its roof, and the emblazoned patterns in porphyry
and serpentine and glass and smalto, which cover its whole surface,
were designed <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg312" id=
"pg312">312</a></span> by Oriental decorators. Norman sculptors
added their dog-tooth and chevron to the mouldings of its porches;
Greeks, Frenchmen, and Arabs may have tried their skill in turn
upon the multitudinous ornaments of its cloister capitals. 'The
like of which church,' said Lucius III. in 1182, 'hath not been
constructed by any king even from ancient times, and such an one as
must compel all men to admiration.' These words remain literally
and emphatically true. Other cathedrals may surpass that of
Monreale in sublimity, simplicity, bulk, strength, or unity of
plan. None can surpass it in the strange romance with which the
memory of its many artificers invests it. None again can exceed it
in richness and glory, in the gorgeousness of a thousand decorative
elements subservient to one controlling thought. 'It is evident,'
says Fergusson in his 'History of Architecture,' 'that all the
architectural features in the building were subordinate in the eyes
of the builders to the mosaic decorations, which cover every part
of the interior, and are in fact the glory and the pride of the
edifice, and alone entitle it to rank among the finest of
medi&aelig;val churches.' The whole of the Christian history is
depicted in this series of mosaics; but on first entering, one form
alone compels attention. The semi-dome of the eastern apse above
the high altar is entirely filled with a gigantic half-length
figure of Christ. He raises His right hand to bless, and with His
left holds an open book on which is written in Greek and Latin, 'I
am the Light of the world.' His face is solemn and severe, rather
than mild or piteous; and round His nimbus runs the legend
&Iota;&eta;&sigma;&omicron;&upsilon;&sigmaf;
&Chi;&rho;&iota;&sigma;&tau;&omicron;&sigmaf; '&omicron;
&pi;&alpha;&nu;&tau;&omicron;&kappa;&rho;&#940;&tau;&omega;&rho;.
Below Him on a smaller scale are ranged the archangels and the
mother of the Lord, who holds the child upon her knees. Thus Christ
appears twice upon this wall, once as the Omnipotent Wisdom, the
Word by whom all things were made, and once as God deigning to
assume a <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg313" id=
"pg313">313</a></span> shape of flesh and dwell with men. The
magnificent image of supreme Deity seems to fill with a single
influence and to dominate the whole building. The house with all
its glory is His. He dwells there like Pallas in her Parthenon or
Zeus in his Olympian temple. To left and right over every square
inch of the cathedral blaze mosaics, which portray the story of
God's dealings with the human race from the Creation downwards,
together with those angelic beings and saints who symbolise each in
his own degree some special virtue granted to mankind. The walls of
the fane are therefore an open book of history, theology, and
ethics for all men to read.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_68" id="Footnote_1_68" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_68"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Matteo
of Ajello induced William to found an archbishopric at Monreale in
order to spite his rival Offamilio.</p>
</div>

<p>The superiority of mosaics over fresco as an architectural
adjunct on this gigantic scale is apparent at a glance in Monreale.
Permanency of splendour and glowing richness of tone are all on the
side of the mosaics. Their true rival is painted glass. The
jewelled churches of the south are constructed for the display of
coloured surfaces illuminated by sunlight falling on them from
narrow windows, just as those of the north&mdash;Rheims, for
example, or Le Mans&mdash;are built for the transmission of light
through a variegated medium of transparent hues. The painted
windows of a northern cathedral find their proper counterpart in
the mosaics of the south. The Gothic architect strove to obtain the
greatest amount of translucent surface. The Byzantine builder
directed his attention to securing just enough light for the
illumination of his glistening walls. The radiance of the northern
church was similar to that of flowers or sunset clouds or jewels.
The glory of the southern temple was that of dusky gold and
gorgeous needlework. The north needed acute brilliancy as a
contrast to external greyness. The south found rest from the glare
and glow of noonday in these sombre splendours. Thus Christianity,
both of the south and of the north, decked <span class="pagenum"><a
name="pg314" id="pg314">314</a></span> her shrines with colour. Not
so the Paganism of Hellas. With the Greeks, colour, though used in
architecture, was severely subordinated to sculpture; toned and
modified to a calculated harmony with actual nature, it did not, as
in a Christian church, create a world beyond the world, a paradise
of supersensual ecstasy, but remained within the limits of the
known. Light falling upon carved forms of gods and heroes, bathing
clear-cut columns and sharp basreliefs in simple lustre, was enough
for the Phoebean rites of Hellas. Though we know that red and blue
and green and gilding were employed to accentuate the mouldings of
Greek temples, yet neither the gloomy glory of mosaics nor the
gemmed fretwork of storied windows was needed to attune the souls
of Hellenic worshippers to devotion.</p>

<p>Less vast than Monreale, but even more beautiful, because the
charm of mosaic increases in proportion as the surface it covers
may be compared to the interior of a casket, is the Cappella
Palatina of the royal palace in Palermo. Here, again, the whole
design and ornament are Arabo-Byzantine. Saracenic pendentives with
Cuphic legends incrust the richly painted ceiling of the nave. The
roofs of the apses and the walls are coated with mosaics, in which
the Bible history, from the dove that brooded over Chaos to the
lives of S. Peter and S. Paul, receives a grand though formal
presentation. Beneath the mosaics are ranged slabs of grey marble,
edged and divided with delicate patterns of inserted glass,
resembling drapery with richly embroidered fringes. The floor is
inlaid with circles of serpentine and porphyry encased in white
marble, and surrounded by winding bands of Alexandrine work. Some
of these patterns are restricted to the five tones of red, green,
white, black, and pale yellow. Others add turquoise blue, and
emerald, and scarlet, and gold. Not a square inch of the
surface&mdash;floor, roof, walls, or <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg315" id="pg315">315</a></span> cupola&mdash;is free from
exquisite gemmed work of precious marbles. A candelabrum of
fanciful design, combining lions devouring men and beasts, cranes,
flowers, and winged genii, stands by the pulpit. Lamps of chased
silver hang from the roof. The cupola blazes with gigantic
archangels, stationed in a ring beneath the supreme figure and face
of Christ. Some of the Ravenna churches are more historically
interesting, perhaps, than this little masterpiece of the mosaic
art. But none is so rich in detail and lustrous in effect. It
should be seen at night, when the lamps are lighted in a pyramid
around the sepulchre of the dead Christ on Holy Thursday, when
partial gleams strike athwart the tawny gold of the arches, and
fall upon the profile of a priest declaiming in voluble Italian to
a listening crowd.</p>

<p>Such are a few of the monuments which still remain to show of
what sort was the mixed culture of Normans, Saracens, Italians, and
Greeks at Palermo. In scenes like these the youth of Frederick II.
was passed:&mdash;for at the end, while treating of Palermo, we are
bound to think again of the Emperor who inherited from his German
father the ambition of the Hohenstauffens, and from his Norman
mother the fair fields and Oriental traditions of Sicily. The
strange history of Frederick&mdash;an intellect of the eighteenth
century born out of date, a cosmopolitan spirit in the age of Saint
Louis, the crusader who conversed with Moslem sages on the
threshold of the Holy Sepulchre, the Sultan of Lucera<a name=
"FNanchor_1_69" id="FNanchor_1_69" /><a href=
"#Footnote_1_69" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> who persecuted
<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg316" id="pg316">316</a></span>
Paterini while he respected the superstition of Saracens, the
anointed successor of Charlemagne, who carried his harem with him
to the battlefields of Lombardy, and turned Infidels loose upon the
provinces of Christ's Vicar&mdash;would be inexplicable, were it
not that Palermo still reveals in all her monuments the <i>genius
loci</i> which gave spiritual nurture to this phoenix among kings.
From his Mussulman teachers Frederick derived the philosophy to
which he gave a vogue in Europe. From his Arabian predecessors he
learnt the arts of internal administration and finance, which he
transmitted to the princes of Italy. In imitation of Oriental
courts, he adopted the practice of verse composition, which gave
the first impulse to Italian literature. His Grand Vizier, Piero
Delle Vigne, set an example to Petrarch, not only by composing the
first sonnet in Italian, but also by showing to what height a
low-born secretary versed in art and law might rise. In a word, the
zeal for liberal studies, the luxury of life, the religious
indifferentism, the bureaucratic system of state government, which
mark the age of the Italian Renaissance, found their first
manifestation within the bosom of the Middle Ages in Frederick.
While our King John was signing Magna Charta, Frederick had already
lived long enough to comprehend, at least in outline, what is meant
by the spirit of modern culture.<a name="FNanchor_2_70" id=
"FNanchor_2_70" /><a href="#Footnote_2_70" class=
"fnanchor">[2]</a> It is true that the so-called Renaissance
followed slowly and by tortuous paths upon the death of Frederick.
The Church obtained a complete victory over his family, and
succeeded in extinguishing the civilisation of Sicily. Yet the fame
of the Emperor who transmitted <span class="pagenum"><a name=
"pg317" id="pg317">317</a></span> questions of sceptical philosophy
to Arab sages, who conversed familiarly with men of letters, who
loved splendour and understood the arts of refined living, survived
both long and late in Italy. His power, his wealth, his liberality
of soul and lofty aspirations, formed the theme of many a tale and
poem. Dante places him in hell among the heresiarchs; and truly the
splendour of his supposed infidelity found for him a goodly
following. Yet Dante dated the rise of Italian literature from the
blooming period of the Sicilian court. Frederick's unorthodoxy
proved no drawback to his intellectual influence. More than any
other man of medi&aelig;val times he contributed, if only as the
memory of a mighty name, to the progress of civilised humanity.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_69" id="Footnote_1_69" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_69"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Charles
of Anjou gave this nickname to Manfred, who carried on the
Siculo-Norman tradition. Frederick, it may here be mentioned, had
transferred his Saracen subjects of the vale of Mazara to Lucera in
the Capitanate. He employed them as trusty troops in his warfare
with the Popes and preaching friars. Nothing shows the confusion of
the century in matters ecclesiastical and religious more curiously
than that Frederick, who conducted a crusade and freed the Holy
Sepulchre, should not only have tolerated the religion of
Mussulmans, but also have armed them against the Head of the
Church. What we are apt to regard as religious questions really
belonged at that period to the sphere of politics.</p>
</div>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_2_70" id="Footnote_2_70" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_2_70"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> It is
curious to note that in this year 1215, the date of Magna Charta,
Frederick took the Cross at Aix-la-Chapelle.</p>
</div>

<p>Let us take leave both of Frederick and of Palermo, that centre
of converging influences which was his cradle, in the cathedral
where he lies gathered to his fathers. This church, though its rich
sunbrowned yellow<a name="FNanchor_1_71" id="FNanchor_1_71" /><a
href="#Footnote_1_71" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> reminds one
of the tone of Spanish buildings, is like nothing one has seen
elsewhere. Here even more than at Monreale the eye is struck with a
fusion of styles. The western towers are grouped into something
like the clustered sheafs of the Caen churches: the windows present
Saracenic arches: the southern porch is covered with foliated
incrustations of a late and decorative Gothic style: the exterior
of the apse combines Arabic inlaid patterns of black and yellow
with the Greek honeysuckle: the western door adds Norman dog-tooth
and chevron to the <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg318" id=
"pg318">318</a></span> Saracenic billet. Nowhere is any one
tradition firmly followed. The whole wavers and yet is
beautiful&mdash;like the immature eclecticism of the culture which
Frederick himself endeavoured to establish in his southern
kingdoms. Inside there is no such harmony of blended voices: all
the strange tongues, which speak together on the outside, making up
a music in which the far North, and ancient Byzance, and the
delicate East sound each a note, are hushed. The frigid silence of
the Palladian style reigns there&mdash;simple indeed and dignified,
but lifeless as the century in which it flourished.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_71" id="Footnote_1_71" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_71"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Nearly
all cities have their own distinctive colour. That of Venice is a
pearly white suggestive of every hue in delicate abeyance, and that
of Florence is a sober brown. Palermo displays a rich yellow ochre
passing at the deepest into orange, and at the lightest into
primrose. This is the tone of the soil, of sun-stained marble, and
of the rough ashlar masonry of the chief buildings. Palermo has
none of the glaring whiteness of Naples, nor yet of that
particoloured gradation of tints which adds gaiety to the grandeur
of Genoa.</p>
</div>

<p>Yet there, in a side chapel near the western door, stand the
porphyry sarcophagi which shrine the bones of the Hautevilles and
their representatives. There sleeps King Roger&mdash;'Dux strenuus
et primus Rex Sicili&aelig;'&mdash;with his daughter Constance in
her purple chest beside him. Henry VI. and Frederick II. and
Constance of Aragon complete the group, which surpasses for
interest all sepulchral monuments&mdash;even the tombs of the
Scaligers at Verona&mdash;except only, perhaps, the statues of the
nave of Innspruck. Very sombre and stately are these porphyry
resting-places of princes born in the purple, assembled here from
lands so distant&mdash;from the craggy heights of Hohenstauffen,
from the green orchards of Cotentin, from the dry hills of Aragon.
They sleep, and the centuries pass by. Rude hands break open the
granite lids of their sepulchres, to find tresses of yellow hair
and fragments of imperial mantles, embroidered with the hawks and
stags the royal hunter loved. The church in which they lie changes
with the change of taste in architecture and the manners of
successive ages. But the huge stone arks remain unmoved, guarding
their freight of mouldering dust beneath gloomy canopies of stone
that temper the sunlight as it streams from the chapel windows.</p>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg319" id=
"pg319">319</a></span></p>

<h3><a name="SYRACUSE" id="SYRACUSE" /><i>SYRACUSE AND
GIRGENTI</i></h3>

<p>The traveller in Sicily is constantly reminded of classical
history and literature. While tossing, it may be, at anchor in the
port of Trapani, and wondering when the tedious Libeccio will
release him, he must perforce remember that here &AElig;neas
instituted the games for Anchises. Here Mnestheus and Gyas and
Sergestus and Cloanthus raced their galleys: on yonder little isle
the Centaur struck; and that was the rock which received the
dripping Menoetes:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i4">Illum et labentem Teucri et risere natantem,</div>

<div class="i4">Et salsos rident revomentem pectore fluctus.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>Or crossing a broken bridge at night in the lumbering diligence,
guarded by infantry with set bayonets, and wondering on which side
of the ravine the brigands are in ambush, he suddenly calls to mind
that this torrent was the ancient Halycus, the border between
Greeks and Carthaginians, established of old, and ratified by
Timoleon after the battle of the Crimisus. Among the bare grey
hills of Segeste his thoughts revert to that strange story told by
Herodotus of Philippus, the young soldier of Crotona, whose beauty
was so great, that when the Segesteans found him slain among their
foes, they raised the corpse and burned it on a pyre of honour, and
built a hero's temple over the urn that held his ashes. The first
sight of Etna makes us cry with Theocritus,
&Alpha;&iota;&tau;&nu;&alpha; <a name="pg320" id="pg320"></a><span
class="pagenum">320</span> &mu;&alpha;&tau;&epsilon;&rho;
&epsilon;&mu;&#940;....&pi;&omicron;&lambda;&upsilon;&delta;&#941;&nu;&delta;&rho;&epsilon;&omicron;&sigmaf;
&Alpha;&iota;&tau;&nu;&alpha;. The solemn heights of Castro
Giovanni bring lines of Ovid to our lips:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i4">Haud procul Henn&aelig;is lacus est a moenibu
alt&aelig;</div>

<div class="i4">Nomine Pergus aqu&aelig;. Non illo plura
Caystros</div>

<div class="i4">Carmina cygnorum labentibus audit in undis.</div>

<div class="i4">Silva coronat aquas, cingens latus omne;
suisque</div>

<div class="i4">Frondibus ut velo Phoebeos summovet ignes.</div>

<div class="i4">Frigora dant rami, Tyrios humus humida
flores.</div>

<div class="i4">Perpetnum ver est.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>We look indeed in vain for the leafy covert and the purple
flowers that tempted Proserpine. The place is barren now: two
solitary cypress-trees mark the road which winds downwards from a
desolate sulphur mine, and the lake is clearly the crater of an
extinct volcano. Yet the voices of old poets are not mute. 'The
rich Virgilian rustic measure' recalls a long-since buried past.
Even among the wavelets of the Faro we remember Homer, scanning the
shore if haply somewhere yet may linger the wild fig-tree which
saved Ulysses from the whirlpool of Charybdis. At any rate we
cannot but exclaim with Goethe, 'Now all these coasts, gulfs, and
creeks, islands and peninsulas, rocks and sand-banks, wooded hills,
soft meadows, fertile fields, neat gardens, hanging grapes, cloudy
mountains, constant cheerfulness of plains, cliffs and ridges, and
the surrounding sea, with such manifold variety are present in my
mind; now is the "Odyssey" for the first time become to me a living
world.'</p>

<p>But rich as the whole of Sicily may be in classical
associations, two places, Syracuse and Girgenti, are pre-eminent
for the power of bringing the Greek past forcibly before us. Their
interest is of two very different kinds. Girgenti still displays
the splendour of temples placed upon a rocky cornice between sea
and olive-groves. Syracuse has nothing to show but the scene of
world-important actions. Yet the great deeds <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg321" id="pg321">321</a></span> recorded by
Thucydides, the conflict between eastern and western Hellas which
ended in the annihilation of the bright, brief, brilliant reality
of Athenian empire, remain so clearly written on the hills and
harbours and marshlands of Syracuse that no place in the world is
topographically more memorable. The artist, whether architect, or
landscape-painter, or poet, finds full enjoyment at Girgenti. The
historian must be exacting indeed in his requirements if he is not
satisfied with Syracuse.</p>

<p>What has become of Syracuse, 'the greatest of Greek cities and
the fairest of all cities' even in the days of Cicero? Scarcely one
stone stands upon another of all those temples and houses. The five
towns which were included by the walls have now shrunk to the
little island which the first settlers named Ortygia, where the
sacred fountain of Arethusa seemed to their home-loving hearts to
have followed them from Hellas.<a name="FNanchor_1_72" id=
"FNanchor_1_72" /><a href="#Footnote_1_72" class=
"fnanchor">[1]</a> Nothing survives but a few columns of Athene's
temple built into a Christian church, with here and there the
marble masonry of a bath or the Roman stonework of an amphitheatre.
There are not even any mounds or deep deposits of rubble mixed with
pottery to show here once a town had been.<a name="FNanchor_2_73"
id="FNanchor_2_73" /><a href="#Footnote_2_73" class=
"fnanchor">[2]</a> <i>Etiam periere ruin&aelig;.</i> The vast city,
devastated for the last time by the Saracens in 878 A.D., has been
reduced to dust and swept by the scirocco into the sea. This is the
explanation of its utter ruin. The stone of Syracuse is friable and
easily disintegrated. The petulant moist wind of the south-east
corrodes its surface; and when it falls, it crumbles to <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg322" id="pg322">322</a></span> powder.
Here, then, the elements have had their will unchecked by such
sculptured granite as in Egypt resists the mounded sand of the
desert, or by such marble colonnades as in Athens have calmly borne
the insults of successive sieges. What was hewn out of the solid
rock&mdash;the semicircle of the theatre, the street of the tombs
with its deeply dented chariot-ruts, the gigantic quarries from
which the material of the metropolis was scooped, the catacombs
which burrow for miles underground&mdash;alone prove how mighty
must have been the Syracuse of Dionysius. Truly 'the iniquity of
oblivion blindly scattereth her poppy, and deals with the memory of
men without distinction to merit of perpetuity.' Standing on the
beach of the Great Harbour or the Bay of Thapsus, we may repeat
almost word by word Antipater's solemn lament over
Corinth:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i4">Where is thy splendour now, thy crown of
towers,</div>

<div class="i6">Thy beauty visible to all men's eyes,</div>

<div class="i6">The gold and silver of thy treasuries,</div>

<div class="i4">Thy temples of blest gods, thy woven bowers</div>

<div class="i4">Where long-stoled ladies walked in tranquil
hours,</div>

<div class="i6">Thy multitudes like stars that crowd the
skies?</div>

<div class="i6">All, all are gone. Thy desolation lies</div>

<div class="i4">Bare to the night. The elemental powers</div>

<div class="i4">Resume their empire: on this lonely shore</div>

<div class="i6">Thy deathless Nereids, daughters of the sea,</div>

<div class="i6">Wailing 'mid broken stones unceasingly,</div>

<div class="i4">Like halcyons when the restless south winds
roar,</div>

<div class="i4">Sing the sad story of thy woes of yore:</div>

<div class="i6">These plunging waves are all that's left to
thee.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>Time, however, though he devours his children, cannot utterly
destroy either the written record of illustrious deeds or the
theatre of their enactment. Therefore, with Thucydides in hand, we
may still follow the events of that Syracusan siege which decided
the destinies of Greece, and by the fall of <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg323" id="pg323">323</a></span> Athens, raised
Sparta, Macedonia, and finally Rome to the hegemony of the
civilised world.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_72" id="Footnote_1_72" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_72"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> The
fountain of Arethusa, recently rescued from the washerwomen of
Syracuse, is shut off from the Great Harbour by a wall and planted
with papyrus. Taste has not been displayed in the bear-pit
architecture of its circular enclosure.</p>
</div>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_2_73" id="Footnote_2_73" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_2_73"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> This is
not strictly true of Achradina, where some <i>d&eacute;bris</i> may
still be found worth excavating.</p>
</div>

<p>There are few students of Thucydides and Grote who would not be
surprised by the small scale of the cliffs, and the gentle incline
of Epipol&aelig;&mdash;the rising ground above the town of
Syracuse, upon the slope of which the principal operations of the
Athenian siege took place.<a name="FNanchor_1_74" id=
"FNanchor_1_74" /><a href="#Footnote_1_74" class=
"fnanchor">[1]</a> Maps, and to some extent also the language of
Thucydides, who talks of the
&pi;&rho;&omicron;&sigma;&beta;&#940;&sigma;&epsilon;&iota;&sigmaf;
or practicable approaches to Epipol&aelig;, and the
&kappa;&rho;&eta;&mu;&nu;&omicron;&iota;, or precipices by which
it was separated from the plain, would lead one to suppose that the
whole region was on each hand rocky and abrupt. In reality it is
extremely difficult to distinguish the rising ground of
Epipol&aelig; upon the southern side from the plain, so very
gradual is the line of ascent and so comparatively even is the
rocky surface of the hill. Thucydides, in narrating the night
attack of Demosthenes upon the lines of Gylippus (book vii. 43-45),
lays stress upon the necessity of approaching Epipol&aelig; from
the western side by Eury&acirc;lus, and again asserts that during
the hurried retreat of the Athenians great numbers died by leaping
from the cliffs, while still more had to throw away their armour.
At this time the Athenian army was encamped upon the shore of the
Great Harbour, and held trenches and a wall that stretched from
that side at least halfway across Epipol&aelig;. It seems therefore
strange that, unless their movements were impeded by counterworks
and lines of walls, of which we have no information, the troops of
Demosthenes should not, at least in their retreat, have been able
to pour down over the gentle <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg324"
id="pg324">324</a></span> descent of Epipol&aelig; toward the
Anapus, instead of returning to Eury&acirc;lus. Anyhow, we can
scarcely discern cliffs of more than ten feet upon the southern
slope of Epipol&aelig;, nor can we understand why the Athenians
should have been forced to take these in their line of retreat.
There must have been some artificial defences of which we read
nothing, and of which no traces now remain, but which were
sufficient to prevent them from choosing their ground. Slight
difficulties of this kind raise the question whether the wonderful
clearness of Thucydides in detail was really the result of personal
observation, or whether his graphic style enabled him to give the
appearance of scrupulous accuracy. I incline to think that the
author of the sixth and seventh books of the History must have
visited Syracuse, and that if we could see his own map of
Epipol&aelig;, we should better be able to understand the
difficulties of the backward night march of Demosthenes, by
discovering that there was some imperative necessity for not
descending, as seems natural, upon the open slope of the hill to
the south. The position of Eury&acirc;lus at the extreme point
called Mongibellisi is clear enough. Here the ground, which has
been continually rising from the plateau of Achradina (the northern
suburb of Syracuse), comes to an abrupt finish. Between
Mongibellisi and the Belvedere hill beyond there is a deep
depression, and the slope to Eury&acirc;lus either from the south
or north is gradual. It was a gross piece of neglect on the part of
Nikias not to have fortified this spot on his first investment of
Epipol&aelig;, instead of choosing Labdalum, which, wherever we may
place it, must have been lower down the hill to the east. For
Eury&acirc;lus is the key to Epipol&aelig;. It was here that Nikias
himself ascended in the first instance, and that afterwards he
permitted Gylippus to enter and raise the siege, and lastly that
Demosthenes, by overpowering the insufficient Syracusan guard, got
at night within the lines of <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg325"
id="pg325">325</a></span> the Spartan general. Thus the three most
important movements of the siege were made upon Eury&acirc;lus.
Dionysius, when he enclosed Epipol&aelig; with walls, recognised
the value of the point, and fortified it with the castle which
remains, and to which, as Colonel Leake believes, Archimedes, at
the order of Hiero II., made subsequent additions. This castle is
one of the most interesting Greek ruins extant. A little repair
would make it even now a substantial place of defence, according to
Greek tactics. Its deep foss is cut in the solid rock, and
furnished with subterranean magazines for the storage of
provisions. The three piles of solid masonry on which the
drawbridge rested, still stand in the centre of this ditch. The
oblique grand entrance to the foss descends by a flight of well-cut
steps. The rock itself over which the fort was raised is
honeycombed with excavated passages for infantry and cavalry, of
different width and height, so that one sort can be assigned to
mounted horsemen and another to foot soldiers. The trap-doors which
led from these galleries into the fortress are provided with rests
for ladders that could be let down to help a sallying force or
drawn up to impede an advancing enemy. The inner court for stabled
horses and the stations for the catapults are still in tolerable
preservation. Thus the whole arrangement of the stronghold can be
traced not dimly but distinctly. Being placed on the left side of
the chief gate of Epipol&aelig;, the occupants of the fort could
issue to attack a foe advancing toward that gate in the rear. At
the same time the subterranean galleries enabled them to pour out
upon the other side, if the enemy had forced an entrance, while the
minor passages and trap-doors provided a retreat in case the
garrison were overpowered in one of their offensive operations. The
view from Eury&acirc;lus is extensive. To the left rises Etna,
snowy, solitary, broadly vast, above the plain of Catania, the
curving shore, Thapsus, <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg326" id=
"pg326">326</a></span> and the sea. Syracuse itself, a thin white
line between the harbour and the open sea, a dazzling streak
between two blues, terminates the slope of Epipol&aelig;, and on
the right hand stretch the marshes of Anapus rich with vines and
hoary with olives.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_74" id="Footnote_1_74" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_74"><span class="label">[1]</span></a>
Epipol&aelig; is in shape a pretty regular isosceles triangle, of
which the apex is Mongibellisi or Eury&acirc;lus, and the base
Achradina or the northern quarter of the ancient city. Thucydides
describes it as &chi;&omega;&rho;&#943;&omicron;&upsilon;
&alpha;&pi;&omicron;&kappa;&rho;&#942;&mu;&nu;&omicron;&upsilon;
&tau;&epsilon; &kappa;&alpha;&iota; &upsilon;&pi;&epsilon;&rho;
&tau;&eta;&sigmaf; &pi;&#972;&lambda;&epsilon;&omega;&sigmaf;
&epsilon;&upsilon;&theta;&upsilon;&sigmaf;
&kappa;&epsilon;&iota;&mu;&#941;&nu;&omicron;&upsilon;...
&epsilon;&xi;&#942;&rho;&tau;&eta;&tau;&alpha;&iota;
&gamma;&alpha;&rho; &tau;&omicron; &alpha;&lambda;&lambda;&omicron;
&chi;&omega;&rho;&#943;&omicron;&nu; &kappa;&alpha;&iota;
&mu;&#941;&chi;&rho;&iota; &tau;&eta;&sigmaf;
&pi;&#972;&lambda;&epsilon;&omega;&sigmaf;
&epsilon;&pi;&iota;&kappa;&lambda;&iota;&nu;&#941;&sigmaf;
&tau;&#941; &epsilon;&sigma;&tau;&iota; &kappa;&alpha;&iota;
&epsilon;&pi;&iota;&phi;&alpha;&nu;&epsilon;&sigmaf; &pi;&alpha;&nu;
&epsilon;&iota;&sigma;&omicron; &kappa;&alpha;&iota;
&omega;&nu;&omicron;&mu;&alpha;&sigma;&tau;&alpha;
&upsilon;&pi;&upsilon; &tau;&omicron;&nu;
&Sigma;&upsilon;&rho;&alpha;&kappa;&omicron;&sigma;&#943;&omega;&nu;
&delta;&iota;&alpha; &tau;&omicron;
&epsilon;&pi;&iota;&pi;&omicron;&lambda;&eta;&sigmaf;
&tau;&omicron;&upsilon; &alpha;&lambda;&lambda;&omicron;&upsilon;
&epsilon;&iota;&nu;&alpha;&iota;
&Epsilon;&pi;&iota;&pi;&omicron;&lambda;&alpha;&iota; (vi.
96).]</p>
</div>

<p>By far the most interesting localities of Syracuse are the Great
Harbour and the stone quarries. When the sluggish policy and faint
heart of Nikias had brought the Athenians to the verge of ruin,
when Gylippus had entered the besieged city, and Plemmyrium had
been wrested from the invaders, and Demosthenes had failed in his
attack upon Epipol&aelig;, and the blockading trenches had been
finally evacuated, no hope remained for the armament of Athens
except only in retreat by water. They occupied a palisaded
encampment upon the shore of the harbour, between the mouth of the
Anapus and the city; whence they attempted to force their way with
their galleys to the open sea. Hitherto the Athenians had been
supreme upon their own element; but now the Syracusans adopted
tactics suited to the narrow basin in which the engagements had to
take place. Building their vessels with heavy beaks, they crushed
the lighter craft of the Athenians, which had no room for flank
movements and rapid evolutions. A victory was thus obtained by the
Syracusan navy; the harbour was blockaded with chains by the order
of Gylippus; the Athenians were driven back to their palisades upon
the fever-haunted shore. Their only chance seemed to depend upon a
renewal of the sea-fight in the harbour. The supreme moment
arrived. What remained of the Athenian fleet, in numbers still
superior to that of their enemies, steered straight for the mouth
of the harbour. The Syracusans advanced from the naval stations of
Ortygia to meet them. The shore was thronged with spectators,
Syracusans tremulous with the expectation of a decisive success,
Athenians on the tenter-hooks <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg327"
id="pg327">327</a></span> of hope and dread. In a short time the
harbour became a confused mass of clashing triremes; the water
beaten into bloody surf by banks of oars; the air filled with
shouts from the combatants and exclamations from the lookers-on:
&omicron;&lambda;&omicron;&phi;&upsilon;&rho;&mu;&#972;&sigmaf;,
&beta;&omicron;&#942;,
&nu;&iota;&kappa;&omicron;&nu;&tau;&epsilon;&sigmaf;,
&kappa;&rho;&alpha;&tau;&omicron;&#973;&mu;&epsilon;&nu;&omicron;&iota;,
&alpha;&lambda;&lambda;&alpha; &omicron;&sigma;&alpha; &epsilon;&nu;
&mu;&epsilon;&gamma;&#940;&lambda;&omega;
&kappa;&iota;&nu;&delta;&#973;&nu;&omega; &mu;&#941;&gamma;&alpha;
&sigma;&tau;&rho;&alpha;&tau;&#972;&pi;&epsilon;&delta;&omicron;&nu;
&pi;&omicron;&lambda;&upsilon;&epsilon;&iota;&delta;&eta;
&alpha;&nu;&alpha;&gamma;&kappa;&#940;&zeta;&omicron;&iota;&tau;&omicron;
&phi;&theta;&#941;&gamma;&gamma;&epsilon;&sigma;&theta;&alpha;&iota;.
Then after a struggle, in which desperation gave energy to the
Athenians, and ambitious hope inspired their foes with more than
wonted vigour, the fleet of the Athenians was finally overwhelmed.
The whole scene can be reproduced with wonderful distinctness; for
the low shores of Plemmyrium, the city of Ortygia, the marsh of
Lysimeleia, the hills above the Anapus, and the distant dome of
Etna, are the same as they were upon that memorable day. Nothing
has disappeared except the temple of Zeus Olympius and the
buildings of Temenitis.</p>

<p>What followed upon the night of that defeat is less easily
realised. Thucydides, however, by one touch reveals the depth of
despair to which the Athenians had sunk. They neglected to rescue
the bodies of their dead from the Great Harbour, or to ask for a
truce, according to hallowed Greek usage, in order that they might
perform the funeral rites. To such an extent was the army
demoralised. Meanwhile within the city the Syracusans kept high
festival, honouring their patron Herakles, upon whose day it
happened that the battle had been fought. Nikias neglected this
opportunity of breaking up his camp and retiring unmolested into
the interior of the island. When after the delay of two nights and
a day he finally began to move, the Syracusans had blockaded the
roads. How his own division capitulated by the blood-stained banks
of the Asinarus after a six days' march of appalling misery, and
how that of Demosthenes surrendered in the olive-field of
Polyzelus, is too well known.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg328" id="pg328">328</a></span>
One of the favourite excursions from modern Syracuse takes the
traveller in a boat over the sandy bar of the Anapus, beneath the
old bridge which joined the Helorine road to the city, and up the
river to its junction with the Cyane. This is the ground traversed
by the army first in their attempted flight and then in their
return as captives to Syracuse. Few, perhaps, who visit the spot,
think as much of that last act in a world-historical tragedy, as of
the picturesque compositions made by arundo donax, castor-oil
plant, yellow flags, and papyrus, on the river-banks and
promontories. Like miniature palm-groves these water-weeds stand
green and golden against the bright blue sky, feathering above the
boat which slowly pushes its way through clinging reeds. The huge
red oxen of Sicily in the marsh on either hand toss their spreading
horns and canter off knee-deep in ooze. Then comes the fountain of
Cyane, a broad round well of water, thirty feet in depth, but quite
clear, so that you can see the pebbles at the bottom and fishes
swimming to and fro among the weeds. Papyrus plants edge the pool;
thick and tufted, they are exactly such as one sees carved or
painted upon Egyptian architecture of the Ptolemaic period.</p>

<p>With Thucydides still in hand, before quitting Syracuse we must
follow the Athenian captives to their prison-grave. The Latomia de'
Cappuccini is a place which it is impossible to describe in words,
and of which no photographs give any notion. Sunk to the depth of a
hundred feet below the level of the soil, with sides perpendicular
and in many places as smooth as though the chisel had just passed
over them, these vast excavations produce the impression of some
huge subterranean gallery, widening here and there into spacious
halls, the whole of which has been unroofed and opened to the air
of heaven. It is a solemn and romantic labyrinth, where no wind
blows rudely, and where orange-trees shoot <span class="pagenum"><a
name="pg329" id="pg329">329</a></span> upward luxuriantly to meet
the light. The wild fig bursts from the living rock, mixed with
lentisk-shrubs and pendent caper-plants. Old olives split the
masses of fallen cliff with their tough, snakelike, slowly corded
and compacted roots. Thin flames of pomegranate-flowers gleam amid
foliage of lustrous green; and lemons drop unheeded from femininely
fragile branches. There too the ivy hangs in long festoons, waving
like tapestry to the breath of stealthy breezes; while under foot
is a tangle of acanthus, thick curling leaves of glossiest green,
surmounted by spikes of dull lilac blossoms. Wedges and columns and
sharp teeth of the native rock rear themselves here and there in
the midst of the open spaces to the sky, worn fantastically into
notches and saws by the action of scirocco. A light yellow calcined
by the sun to white is the prevailing colour of the quarries. But
in shady places the limestone takes a curious pink tone of great
beauty, like the interior of some sea-shells. The reflected lights
too, and half-shadows in their scooped-out chambers, make a
wonderful natural chiaroscuro. The whole scene is now more
picturesque in a sublime and grandiose style than forbidding. There
is even one spot planted with magenta-coloured mesembrianthemums of
dazzling brightness; and the air is loaded with the drowsy perfume
of lemon-blossoms. Yet this is the scene of a great agony. This
garden was once the Gethsemane of a nation, where 9000 free men of
the proudest city of Greece were brought by an unexampled stroke of
fortune to slavery, shame, and a miserable end. Here they dwindled
away, worn out by wounds, disease, thirst, hunger, heat by day and
cold by night, heart-sickness, and the insufferable stench of
putrefying corpses. The pupils of Socrates, the admirers of
Euripides, the orators of the Pnyx, the athletes of the Lyceum,
lovers and comrades and philosophers, died here like dogs; and the
dames of Syracuse stood doubtless on those parapets <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg330" id="pg330">330</a></span> above, and
looked upon them like wild beasts. What the Gorgo of Theocritus
might have said to her friend Praxinoe on the occasion would be the
subject for an idyll <i>&agrave; la</i> Browning! How often, pining
in those great glaring pits, which were not then curtained with ivy
or canopied by olive-trees, must the Athenians have thought with
vain remorse of their own Rhamnusian Nemesis, the goddess who held
scales adverse to the hopes of men, and bore the legend 'Be not
lifted up'! How often must they have watched the dawn walk forth
fire-footed upon the edge of those bare crags, or the stars slide
from east to west across the narrow space of sky! How they must
have envied the unfettered clouds sailing in liquid ether, or
traced the far flight of hawk and swallow, sighing, 'Oh that I too
had the wings of a bird!' The weary eyes turned upwards found no
change or respite, save what the frost of night brought to the fire
of day, and the burning sun to the pitiless cold
constellations.</p>

<p>A great painter, combining Dor&eacute;'s power over space and
distance with the distinctness of Flaxman's design and the
colouring of Alma Tadema, might possibly realise this agony of the
Athenian captives in the stone quarries. The time of day chosen for
the picture should be full noon, with its glare of light and
sharply defined vertical shadows. The crannies in the straight
sides of the quarry should here and there be tufted with a few
dusty creepers and wild fig-trees. On the edge of the sky-line
stand parties of Syracusan citizens with their wives and children,
shaded by umbrellas, richly dressed, laughing and triumphing over
the misery beneath. In the full foreground there are placed two
figures. A young Athenian has just died of fever. His body lies
stretched along the ground, the head resting on a stone, and the
face turned to the sky. Beside him kneels an older warrior,
sunburned and dry with thirst, but full as yet of vigour. He stares
with <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg331" id=
"pg331">331</a></span> wide despair-smitten eyes straight out, as
though he had lately been stretched upon the corpse, but had risen
at the sound of movement, or some supposed word of friends close
by. His bread lies untasted near him, and the half-pint of
water&mdash;his day's portion&mdash;has been given to bathe the
forehead of his dying friend. They have stood together through the
festival of leave-taking from Peir&aelig;us, through the battles of
Epipol&aelig;, through the retreat and the slaughter at the passage
of the Asinarus. But now it has come to this, and death has found
the younger. Perhaps the friend beside him remembers some cool
wrestling-ground in far-off Athens, or some procession up the steps
of the Acropolis, where first they met. Anyhow his fixed gaze now
shows that he has passed in thought at least beyond the hell around
him. Not far behind should be ranged groups of haggard men, with
tattered clothes and dulled or tigerish eyes, some dignified, some
broken down by grief; while here and there newly fallen corpses,
and in one hideous corner a great heap of abandoned dead, should
point the ghastly words of Thucydides: &tau;&omicron;&nu;
&nu;&epsilon;&kappa;&rho;&omicron;&nu; &omicron;&mu;&omicron;&upsilon;
&epsilon;&pi;'
&alpha;&lambda;&lambda;&#942;&lambda;&omicron;&iota;&sigmaf;
&xi;&upsilon;&nu;&nu;&epsilon;&nu;&eta;&mu;&#941;&nu;&omega;&nu;.</p>

<p>Every landscape has some moment of its own at which it should be
seen for the first time. Medi&aelig;val cities, with their narrow
streets and solemn spires, demand the twilight of a summer night.
Mediterranean islands show their best in the haze of afternoon,
when sea and sky and headland are bathed in a&euml;rial blue, and
the mountains seem to be made of transparent amethyst. The first
sight of the Alps should be taken at sunset from some point of
vantage, like the terrace at Berne, or the castle walls of
Salzburg. If these fortunate moments be secured, all after
knowledge of locality and detail serves to fortify and deepen the
impression of picturesque harmony. The mind has then conceived a
leading thought, which gives ideal unity to scattered memories and
invests the <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg332" id=
"pg332">332</a></span> crude reality with an &aelig;sthetic beauty.
The lucky moment for the landscape of Girgenti is half an hour past
sunset in a golden afterglow. Landing at the port named after
Empedocles, having caught from the sea some glimpses of
temple-fronts emergent on green hill-slopes among almond-trees,
with Pindar's epithet of 'splendour-loving' in my mind, I rode on
such an evening up the path which leads across the Drago to
Girgenti. The way winds through deep-sunk lanes of rich amber
sandstone, hedged with cactus and dwarf-palm, and set with old
gnarled olive-trees. As the sunlight faded, Venus shone forth in a
luminous sky, and the deep yellows and purples overhead seemed to
mingle with the heavy scent of orange-flowers from scarcely visible
groves by the roadside. Saffron in the west and violet in the east
met midway, composing a translucent atmosphere of mellow radiance,
like some liquid gem&mdash;<i>dolce color d' oriental berillo</i>.
Girgenti, far off and far up, gazing seaward, and rearing her
topaz-coloured bastions into that gorgeous twilight, shone like the
a&euml;rial vision of cities seen in dreams or imaged in the
clouds. Hard and sharp against the sallow line of sunset, leaned
grotesque shapes of cactuses like hydras, and delicate silhouettes
of young olive-trees like sylphs: the river ran silver in the
hollow, and the mountain-side on which the town is piled was solid
gold. Then came the dirty dull interior of Girgenti, misnamed the
magnificent. But no disenchantment could destroy the memory of that
vision, and Pindar's
&phi;&iota;&lambda;&#940;&gamma;&lambda;&alpha;&omicron;&sigmaf;
&Alpha;&kappa;&rho;&#940;&gamma;&alpha;&sigmaf; remains in my mind
a reality.<a name="FNanchor_1_75" id="FNanchor_1_75" /><a href=
"#Footnote_1_75" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_75" id="Footnote_1_75" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_75"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Lest I
should seem to have overstated the splendour of this sunset view, I
must remark that the bare dry landscape of the south is peculiarly
fortunate in such effects. The local tint of the Girgenti rock is
yellow. The vegetation on the hillside is sparse. There is nothing
to prevent the colours of the sky being reflected upon the vast
amber-tinted surface, which then glows with indescribable
glory.</p>
</div>

<p>The temples of Girgenti are at the distance of two miles <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg333" id="pg333">333</a></span> from the
modern town. Placed upon the edge of an irregular plateau which
breaks off abruptly into cliffs of moderate height below them, they
stand in a magnificent row between the sea and plain on one side,
and the city and the hills upon the other. Their colour is that of
dusky honey or dun amber; for they are not built of marble, but of
sandstone, which at some not very distant geological period must
have been a sea-bed. Oyster and scallop shells are embedded in the
roughly hewn masonry, while here and there patches of a red
deposit, apparently of broken coralline, make the surface crimson.
The vegetation against which the ruined colonnades are relieved
consists almost wholly of almond and olive trees, the bright green
foliage of the one mingling with the greys of the other, and both
enhancing the warm tints of the stone. This contrast of colours is
very agreeable to the eye; yet when the temples were perfect it did
not exist. There is no doubt that their surface was coated with a
fine stucco, wrought to smoothness, toned like marble, and painted
over with the blue and red and green decorations proper to the
Doric style. This fact is a practical answer to those
&aelig;sthetic critics who would fain establish that the Greeks
practised no deception in their arts. The whole effect of the
colonnades of Selinus and Girgenti must have been an illusion, and
their surface must have needed no less constant reparation than the
exterior of a Gothic cathedral. The sham jewellery frequently found
in Greek tombs, and the curious mixture of marble with sandstone in
the sculptures from Selinus, are other instances that Greeks no
less than modern artists condescended to trickery for the sake of
effect. In the series of the metopes from Selinus now preserved in
the museum at Palermo, the flesh of the female persons is
represented by white marble, while that of the men, together with
the dresses and other accessories, is wrought of common <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg334" id="pg334">334</a></span> stone.
Yet the basreliefs in which this peculiarity occurs belong to the
best period of Greek sculpture, and the groups are not unworthy for
spirit and design to be placed by the side of the metopes of the
Parthenon. Most beautiful, for example, is the contrast between the
young unarmed Hercules and the Amazon he overpowers. His naked
man's foot grasps with the muscular energy of an athlete her soft
and helpless woman's foot, the roughness of the sandstone and the
smoothness of the marble really heightening the effect of
difference.</p>

<p>Though ranged in a row along the same cornice, the temples of
Girgenti, originally at least six in number, were not so disposed
that any of their architectural lines should be exactly parallel.
The Greeks disliked formality; the carefully calculated
<i>asymmetreia</i> in the disposition of their groups of buildings
secured variety of effect as well as a broken surface for the
display of light and shadow. This is very noticeable on the
Acropolis of Athens, where, however regular may be the several
buildings, all are placed at different angles to each other and the
hill. Only two of the Girgenti temples survive in any degree of
perfection&mdash;the so-called Concordia and the Juno Lacinia. The
rest are but mere heaps of mighty ruins, with here and there a
broken column, and in one place an angle of a pediment raised upon
a group of pillars. The foundations of masonry which supported them
and the drums of their gigantic columns are tufted with wild palm,
aloe, asphodel, and crimson snapdragon. Yellow blossoming sage, and
mint, and lavender, and mignonette, sprout in the crevices where
snakes and lizards harbour. The grass around is gemmed with blue
pimpernel and convolvulus. Gladiolus springs amid the young
corn-blades beneath the almond-trees; while a beautiful little iris
makes the most unpromising dry places brilliant with its delicate
greys and blues. In cooler <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg335"
id="pg335">335</a></span> and damper hollows, around the boles of
old olives and under ruined arches, flourishes the tender acanthus,
and the road-sides are gaudy with a yellow daisy flower, which may
perchance be the
&epsilon;&lambda;&#943;&chi;&rho;&upsilon;&sigma;&omicron;&sigmaf; of
Theocritus. Thus the whole scene is a wilderness of brightness,
less radiant but more touching than when processions of men and
maidens bearing urns and laurel-branches, crowned with ivy or with
myrtle, paced along those sandstone roads, chanting p&aelig;ans and
prosodial hymns, toward the glistening porches and hyp&aelig;thral
cells.</p>

<p>The only temple about the name of which there can be no doubt is
that of Zeus Olympius. A prostrate giant who once with nineteen of
his fellows helped to support the roof of this enormous fane, and
who now lies in pieces among the asphodels, remains to prove that
this was the building begun by the Agrigentines after the defeat of
the Phoenicians at the Himera, when slaves were many and spoil was
abundant, and Hellas both in Sicily and on the mainland felt a more
than usual thrill of gratitude to their ancestral deity. The
greatest architectural works of the island, the temples of Segeste
and Selinus, as well as those of Girgenti, were begun between this
period and the Carthaginian invasion of 409 B.C. The victory of the
Hellenes over the barbarians in 480 B.C., symbolised in the victory
of Zeus over the enslaved Titans of this temple, gave a vast
impulse to their activity and wealth. After the disastrous
incursion of the same foes seventy years later, the western Greek
towns of the island received a check from which they never
recovered. Many of their noblest buildings remained unfinished. The
question which rises to the lips of all who contemplate the ruins
of this gigantic temple and its compeer dedicated to Herakles is
this: Who wrought the destruction of works so solid and enduring?
For what purpose of spite or interest were those vast
columns&mdash;in the very flutings of which a man can stand with
ease&mdash;felled like <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg336" id=
"pg336">336</a></span> forest pines? One sees the mighty pillars
lying as they sank, like swathes beneath the mower's scythe. Their
basements are still in line. The drums which composed them have
fallen asunder, but maintain their original relation to each other
on the ground. Was it earthquake or the hand of man that brought
them low? Poggio Bracciolini tells us that in the fifteenth century
they were burning the marble buildings of the Roman Campagna for
lime. We know that the Senator Brancaleone made havoc among the
classic monuments occupied as fortresses by Frangipani and Savelli
and Orsini. We understand how the Farnesi should have quarried the
Coliseum for their palace. But here, at the distance of three miles
from Girgenti, in a comparative desert, what army, or what band of
ruffians, or what palace-builders could have found it worth their
while to devastate mere mountains of sculptured sandstone? The
Romans invariably respected Greek temples. The early Christians
used them for churches:&mdash;and this accounts for the comparative
perfection of the Concordia. It was in the age of the Renaissance
that the ruin of Girgenti's noblest monuments occurred. The temple
of Zeus Olympius was shattered in the fifteenth century, and in the
next its fragments were used to build a breakwater. The demolition
of such substantial edifices is as great a wonder as their
construction. We marvel at the energy which must have been employed
on their overthrow, no less than at the art which raised such
blocks of stone and placed them in position.</p>

<p>While so much remains both at Syracuse and at Girgenti to recall
the past, we are forced here, as at Athens, to feel how very little
we really know about Greek life. We cannot bring it up before our
fancy with any clearness, but rather in a sort of hazy dream, from
which some luminous points emerge. The entrance of an Olympian
victor through the <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg337" id=
"pg337">337</a></span> breach in the city walls of Girgenti, the
procession of citizens conducting old Timoleon in his chariot to
the theatre, the conferences of the younger Dionysius with Plato in
his guarded palace-fort, the stately figure of Empedocles presiding
over incantations in the marshes of Selinus, the austerity of Dion
and his mystic dream, the first appearance of stubborn Gylippus
with long Laced&aelig;monian hair in the theatre of
Syracuse,&mdash;such picturesque pieces of history we may fairly
well recapture. But what were the daily occupations of the
Sim&aelig;tha of Theocritus? What was the state dress of the
splendid Queen Philistis, whose name may yet be read upon her seat,
and whose face adorns the coins of Syracuse? How did the great
altar of Zeus look, when the oxen were being slaughtered there by
hundreds, in a place which must have been shambles and meat-market
and temple all in one? What scene of architectural splendour met
the eyes of the swimmers in the Piscina of Girgenti? How were the
long hours of so many days of leisure occupied by the Greeks, who
had each three pillows to his head in 'splendour-loving Acragas'?
Of what sort was the hospitality of Gellias? Questions like these
rise up to tantalise us with the hopelessness of ever truly
recovering the life of a lost race. After all the labour of
antiquary and the poet, nothing remains to be uttered but such
moralisings as Sir Thomas Browne poured forth over the urns
discovered at Old Walsingham: 'What time the persons of these
ossuaries entered the famous nations of the dead, and slept with
princes and counsellors, might admit a wide solution. But who were
the proprietaries of these bones, or what bodies these ashes made
up, were a question above antiquarism; not to be resolved by man,
nor easily perhaps by spirits except we consult the provincial
guardians, or tutelary observators.' Death reigns over the peoples
of the past, and we must fain be satisfied to cry with <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg338" id="pg338">338</a></span> Raleigh: 'O
eloquent, just, and mighty death! whom none could advise, thou hast
persuaded; what none hath dared, thou hast done; and whom all the
world hath flattered, thou only hast cast out of the world and
despised: thou hast drawn together all the far-stretched greatness,
all the pride, cruelty, and ambition of men, and covered it all
over with these two narrow words, <i>hic jacet</i>.' Even so. Yet
while the cadence of this august rhetoric is yet in our ears,
another voice is heard as of the angel seated by a void and open
tomb, 'Why seek ye the living among the dead?' The spirit of Hellas
is indestructible, however much the material existence of the
Greeks be lost beyond recovery; for the life of humanity is not
many but one, not parcelled into separate moments but
continuous.</p>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg339" id=
"pg339">339</a></span></p>

<h3><a name="ATHENS" id="ATHENS" /><i>ATHENS</i></h3>

<p>Athens, by virtue of scenery and situation, was predestined to
be the motherland of the free reason of mankind, long before the
Athenians had won by their great deeds the right to name their city
the ornament and the eye of Hellas. Nothing is more obvious to one
who has seen many lands and tried to distinguish their essential
characters, than the fact that no one country exactly resembles
another, but that, however similar in climate and locality, each
presents a peculiar and well-marked property belonging to itself
alone. The specific quality of Athenian landscape is
light&mdash;not richness or sublimity or romantic loveliness or
grandeur of mountain outline, but luminous beauty, serene exposure
to the airs of heaven. The harmony and balance of the scenery, so
varied in its details and yet so comprehensible, are sympathetic to
the temperance of Greek morality, the moderation of Greek art. The
radiance with which it is illuminated has all the clearness and
distinction of the Attic intellect. From whatever point the plain
of Athens with its semicircle of greater and lesser hills may be
surveyed, it always presents a picture of dignified and lustrous
beauty. The Acropolis is the centre of this landscape, splendid as
a work of art with its crown of temples; and the sea, surmounted by
the long low hills of the Morea, is the boundary to which the eye
is irresistibly led. Mountains and islands and plain alike are made
of limestone, hardening here and there into marble, broken <a name=
"pg340" id="pg340"></a><span class="pagenum">340</span> into
delicate and varied forms, and sprinkled with a vegetation of low
shrubs and brushwood so sparse and slight that the naked rock in
every direction meets the light. This rock is grey and colourless:
viewed in the twilight of a misty day, it shows the dull, tame
uniformity of bone. Without the sun it is asleep and sorrowful. But
by reason of this very deadness, the limestone of Athenian
landscape is always ready to take the colours of the air and sun.
In noonday it smiles with silvery lustre, fold upon fold of the
indented hills and islands melting from the brightness of the sea
into the untempered brilliance of the sky. At dawn and sunset the
same rocks array themselves with a celestial robe of rainbow-woven
hues: islands, sea, and mountains, far and near, burn with saffron,
violet, and rose, with the tints of beryl and topaz, sapphire and
almandine and amethyst, each in due order and at proper distances.
The fabled dolphin in its death could not have showed a more
brilliant succession of splendours waning into splendours through
the whole chord of prismatic colours. This sensitiveness of the
Attic limestone to every modification of the sky's light gives a
peculiar spirituality to the landscape. The hills remain in form
and outline unchanged; but the beauty breathed upon them lives or
dies with the emotions of the air from whence it emanates: the
spirit of light abides with them and quits them by alternations
that seem to be the pulses of an ethereally communicated life. No
country, therefore, could be better fitted for the home of a race
gifted with exquisite sensibilities, in whom humanity should first
attain the freedom of self-consciousness in art and thought.
&Alpha;&epsilon;&iota; &delta;&iota;&alpha;
&lambda;&alpha;&mu;&pi;&rho;&omicron;&tau;&#940;&tau;&omicron;&upsilon;
&beta;&alpha;&#943;&nu;&omicron;&nu;&tau;&epsilon;&sigmaf;
&alpha;&beta;&rho;&omicron;&sigmaf;
&alpha;&iota;&theta;&#941;&rho;&omicron;&sigmaf;&mdash;ever
delicately moving through most translucent air&mdash;said Euripides
of the Athenians: and truly the bright air of Attica was made to be
breathed by men in whom the light of culture should begin to shine.
&Iota;&omicron;&sigma;&tau;&#941;&phi;&alpha;&nu;&omicron;&sigmaf;
is an epithet <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg341" id=
"pg341">341</a></span> of Aristophanes for his city; and if not
crowned with other violets, Athens wears for her garland the
air-empurpled hills&mdash;Hymettus, Lycabettus, Pentelicus, and
Parnes.<a name="FNanchor_1_76" id="FNanchor_1_76" /><a href=
"#Footnote_1_76" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> Consequently,
while still the Greeks of Homer's age were Achaians, while Argos
was the titular seat of Hellenic empire, and the mythic deeds of
the heroes were being enacted in Thebes or Mycen&aelig;, Athens did
but bide her time, waiting to manifest herself as the true godchild
of Pallas, who sprang perfect from the brain of Zeus, Pallas, who
is the light of cloudless heaven emerging after storms. And Pallas,
when she planted her chosen people in Attica, knew well what she
was doing. To the far-seeing eyes of the goddess, although the
first-fruits of song and science and philosophy might be reaped
upon the shores of the &AElig;gean and the islands, yet the days
were clearly descried when Athens should stretch forth her hand to
hold the lamp of all her founder loved for Europe. As the priest of
Egypt told Solon: 'She chose the spot of earth in which you were
born, because she saw that the happy temperament of the seasons in
that land would produce the wisest of men. Wherefore the goddess,
who was a lover both of war and wisdom, selected and first of all
settled that spot which was the most likely to produce men likest
herself.' This sentence from the 'Tim&aelig;us' of Plato<a name=
"FNanchor_2_77" id="FNanchor_2_77" /><a href=
"#Footnote_2_77" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> reveals the
consciousness possessed by the Greeks of that intimate connection
which subsists between a country and the temper of its race. To us
the name Athenai&mdash;the fact that Athens by its title even in
the prehistoric age was marked out as the appanage of her <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg342" id="pg342">342</a></span> who was
the patroness of culture&mdash;seems a fortunate accident, an
undesigned coincidence of the most striking sort. To the Greeks,
steeped in mythologic faith, accustomed to regard their lineage as
autochthonous and their polity as the fabric of a god, nothing
seemed more natural than that Pallas should have selected for her
own exactly that portion of Hellas where the arts and sciences
might flourish best. Let the Boeotians grow fat and stagnant upon
their rich marshlands: let the Spartans form themselves into a race
of soldiers in their mountain fortress: let Corinth reign, the
queen of commerce, between her double seas: let the Arcadians in
their oak woods worship pastoral Pan: let the plains of Elis be the
meeting-place of Hellenes at their sacred games: let Delphi boast
the seat of sooth oracular from Phoebus. Meanwhile the sunny but
barren hills of Attica, open to the magic of the sky, and beautiful
by reason of their nakedness, must be the home of a people powerful
by might of intelligence rather than strength of limb, wealthy not
so much by natural resources as by enterprise. Here, and here only,
could stand the city sung by Milton:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i7">Built nobly, pure the air, and light the
soil,</div>

<div class="i7">Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts</div>

<div class="i7">And eloquence, native to famous wits</div>

<div class="i7">Or hospitable, in her sweet recess,</div>

<div class="i7">City or suburban, studious walks and shades.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>We who believe in no authentic Pallas, child of Zeus, may yet
pause awhile, when we contemplate Athens, to ponder whether those
old mythologic systems, which ascribed to godhead the foundation of
states and the patronage of peoples, had not some glimpse of truth
beyond a mere blind guess. Is not, in fact, this Athenian land the
promised and predestined home of a peculiar people, in the same
sense as that <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg343" id=
"pg343">343</a></span> in which Palestine was the heritage by faith
of a tribe set apart by Jehovah for His own?</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_76" id="Footnote_1_76" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_76"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> This
interpretation of the epithet
&Iota;&omicron;&sigma;&tau;&#941;&phi;&alpha;&nu;&omicron;&sigmaf;
is not, I think, merely fanciful. It seems to occur naturally to
those who visit Athens with the language of Greek poets in their
memory. I was glad to find, on reading a paper by the Dean of
Westminster on the topography of Greece, that the same thought had
struck him. Ovid, too, gives the adjective <i>purpureus</i> to
Hymettus.</p>
</div>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_2_77" id="Footnote_2_77" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_2_77"><span class="label">[2]</span></a>
Jowett's translation, vol. ii. p. 520.</p>
</div>

<p>Unlike Rome, Athens leaves upon the memory one simple and
ineffaceable impression. There is here no conflict between Paganism
and Christianity, no statues of Hellas baptised by popes into the
company of saints, no blending of the classical and medi&aelig;val
and Renaissance influences in a bewilderment of vast antiquity.
Rome, true to her historical vocation, embraces in her ruins all
ages, all creeds, all nations. Her life has never stood still, but
has submitted to many transformations, of which the traces are
still visible. Athens, like the Greeks of history, is isolated in a
sort of self-completion: she is a thing of the past, which still
exists, because the spirit never dies, because beauty is a joy for
ever. What is truly remarkable about the city is just this, that
while the modern town is an insignificant mushroom of the present
century, the monuments of Greek art in the best period&mdash;the
masterpieces of Ictinus and Mnesicles, and the theatre on which the
plays of the tragedians were produced&mdash;survive in comparative
perfection, and are so far unencumbered with subsequent edifices
that the actual Athens of Pericles absorbs our attention. There is
nothing of any consequence intermediate between us and the fourth
century B.C.. Seen from a distance the Acropolis presents nearly
the same appearance as it offered to Spartan guardsmen when they
paced the ramparts of Deceleia. Nature around is all unaltered.
Except that more villages, enclosed with olive-groves and
vineyards, were sprinkled over those bare hills in classic days, no
essential change in the landscape has taken place, no
transformation, for example, of equal magnitude with that which
converted the Campagna of Rome from a plain of cities to a
poisonous solitude. All through the centuries which divide us from
the age of Hadrian&mdash;centuries unfilled, as far as Athens is
concerned, <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg344" id=
"pg344">344</a></span> with memorable deeds or national
activity&mdash;the Acropolis has stood uncovered to the sun. The
tones of the marble of Pentelicus have daily grown more golden;
decay has here and there invaded frieze and capital; war too has
done its work, shattering the Parthenon in 1687 by the explosion of
a powder magazine, and the Propyl&aelig;a in 1656 by a similar
accident, and seaming the colonnades that still remain with
cannon-balls in 1827. Yet in spite of time and violence the
Acropolis survives, a miracle of beauty: like an everlasting
flower, through all that lapse of years it has spread its coronal
of marbles to the air, unheeded. And now, more than ever, its
temples seem to be incorporate with the rock they crown. The slabs
of column and basement have grown together by long pressure or
molecular adhesion into a coherent whole. Nor have weeds or
creeping ivy invaded the glittering fragments that strew the sacred
hill. The sun's kiss alone has caused a change from white to
amber-hued or russet. Meanwhile, the exquisite adaptation of Greek
building to Greek landscape has been enhanced rather than impaired
by that 'unimaginable touch of time,' which has broken the
regularity of outline, softened the chisel-work of the sculptor,
and confounded the painter's fretwork in one tint of glowing gold.
The Parthenon, the Erechtheum, and the Propyl&aelig;a have become
one with the hill on which they cluster, as needful to the scenery
around them as the everlasting mountains, as sympathetic as the
rest of nature to the successions of morning and evening, which
waken them to passionate life by the magic touch of colour.</p>

<p>Thus there is no intrusive element in Athens to distract the
mind from memories of its most glorious past. Walk into the theatre
of Dionysus. The sculptures that support the stage&mdash;Sileni
bending beneath the weight of cornices, and lines of graceful
youths and maidens&mdash;are still in their <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg345" id="pg345">345</a></span> ancient
station.<a name="FNanchor_1_78" id="FNanchor_1_78" /><a href=
"#Footnote_1_78" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> The pavement of
the orchestra, once trodden by Athenian choruses, presents its
tessellated marbles to our feet; and we may choose the seat of
priest or archon or herald or thesmothetes, when we wish to summon
before our mind's eye the pomp of the 'Agamemnon' or the dances of
the 'Birds' and 'Clouds.' Each seat still bears some carven
name&mdash;&Iota;&Epsilon;&Rho;&Epsilon;&Omega;&Sigma;
&Tau;&Omega;&Nu; &Mu;&Omicron;&Upsilon;&Sigma;&Omega;&Nu; or
&Iota;&Epsilon;&Rho;&Epsilon;&Omega;&Sigma;
&Alpha;&Sigma;&Kappa;&Lambda;&Eta;&Pi;&Iota;&Omicron;&Upsilon;&mdash;and
that of the priest of Dionysus is beautifully wrought with Bacchic
basreliefs. One of them, inscribed
&Iota;&Epsilon;&Rho;&Epsilon;&Omega;&Sigma;
&Alpha;&Nu;&Tau;&Iota;&Nu;&Omicron;&Omicron;&Upsilon;, proves
indeed that the extant chairs were placed here in the age of
Hadrian, who completed the vast temple of Zeus Olympius, and filled
its precincts with statues of his favourite, and named a new Athens
after his own name.<a name="FNanchor_2_79" id="FNanchor_2_79" /><a
href="#Footnote_2_79" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> Yet we need
not doubt that their position round the orchestra is traditional,
and that even in their form they do not differ from those which the
priests and officers of Athens used from the time of &AElig;schylus
downward. Probably a slave brought cushion and footstool to
complete the comfort of these stately armchairs. Nothing else is
wanted to render them fit now for their august occupants; and we
may imagine the long-stoled greybearded men throned in state, each
with his wand and with appropriate fillets on his head. As we rest
here in the light of the full moon, which simplifies all outlines
and heals with tender touch the wounds of ages, it is easy enough
to dream ourselves into the belief that the ghosts of dead actors
may once more glide across the stage. <span class="pagenum"><a
name="pg346" id="pg346">346</a></span> Fiery-hearted Medea,
statuesque Antigone, Prometheus silent beneath the hammer-strokes
of Force and Strength, Orestes hounded by his mother's Furies,
Cassandra aghast before the palace of Mycen&aelig;, pure-souled
Hippolytus, ruthful Alcestis, the divine youth of Helen, and
Clytemnestra in her queenliness, emerge like faint grey films
against the bluish background of Hymettus. The night air seems
vocal with echoes of old Greek, more felt than heard, like voices
wafted to our sense in sleep, the sound whereof we do not seize,
though the burden lingers in our memory.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_78" id="Footnote_1_78" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_78"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> It is
true, however, that these sculptures belong to a comparatively late
period, and that the theatre underwent some alterations in Roman
days, so that the stage is now probably a few yards farther from
the seats than in the time of Sophocles.</p>
</div>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_2_79" id="Footnote_2_79" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_2_79"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> It is
not a little surprising to come upon this relic of the worship of
the young Bithynian at Athens in the theatre still consecrated by
the memories of &AElig;schylus and Sophocles.</p>
</div>

<p>In like manner, when moonlight, falling aslant upon the
Propyl&aelig;a, restores the marble masonry to its original
whiteness, and the shattered heaps of ruined colonnades are veiled
in shadow, and every form seems larger, grander, and more perfect
than by day, it is well to sit upon the lowest steps, and looking
upwards, to remember what processions passed along this way bearing
the sacred peplus to Athene. The Panathenaic pomp, which Pheidias
and his pupils carved upon the friezes of the Parthenon, took place
once in five years, on one of the last days of July.<a name=
"FNanchor_1_80" id="FNanchor_1_80" /><a href=
"#Footnote_1_80" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> All the citizens
joined in the honour paid to their patroness. Old men bearing
olive-branches, young men clothed in bronze, chapleted youths
singing the praise of Pallas in prosodial hymns, maidens carrying
holy vessels, aliens bending beneath the weight of urns, servants
of the temple leading oxen crowned with fillets, troops of horsemen
reining in impetuous steeds: all these pass before us in the frieze
of Pheidias. But to our imagination must be left what he has
refrained from sculpturing, the chariot formed like a ship, in
which the most illustrious nobles of Athens sat, splendidly
arrayed, beneath the crocus-coloured curtain or <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg347" id="pg347">347</a></span> peplus
outspread upon a mast. Some concealed machinery caused this car to
move; but whether it passed through the Propyl&aelig;a, and entered
the Acropolis, admits of doubt. It is, however, certain that the
procession which ascended those steep slabs, and before whom the
vast gates of the Propyl&aelig;a swang open with the clangour of
resounding bronze, included not only the citizens of Athens and
their attendant aliens, but also troops of cavalry and chariots;
for the mark of chariot-wheels can still be traced upon the rock.
The ascent is so abrupt that this multitude moved but slowly.
Splendid indeed, beyond any pomp of modern ceremonial, must have
been the spectacle of the well-ordered procession, advancing
through those giant colonnades to the sound of flutes and solemn
chants&mdash;the shrill clear voices of boys in antiphonal chorus
rising above the confused murmurs of such a crowd, the chafing of
horses' hoofs upon the stone, and the lowing of bewildered
oxen.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_80" id="Footnote_1_80" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_80"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> My
purpose being merely picturesque, I have ignored the grave
antiquarian difficulties which beset the interpretation of this
frieze.</p>
</div>

<p>To realise by fancy the many-coloured radiance of the temples,
and the rich dresses of the votaries illuminated by that sharp
light of a Greek sun, which defines outline and shadow and gives
value to the faintest hue, would be impossible. All we can know for
positive about the chromatic decoration of the Greeks is, that
whiteness artificially subdued to the tone of ivory prevailed
throughout the stonework of the buildings, while blue and red and
green in distinct, yet interwoven patterns, added richness to the
fretwork and the sculpture of pediment and frieze. The sacramental
robes of the worshippers accorded doubtless with this harmony,
wherein colour was subordinate to light, and light was toned to
softness.</p>

<p>Musing thus upon the staircase of the Propyl&aelig;a, we may say
with truth that all our modern art is but child's play to that of
the Greeks. Very soul-subduing is the gloom of a <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg348" id="pg348">348</a></span> cathedral like
the Milanese Duomo, when the incense rises in blue clouds athwart
the bands of sunlight falling from the dome, and the crying of
choirs upborne upon the wings of organ music fills the whole vast
space with a mystery of melody. Yet such ceremonial pomps as this
are as dreams and the shapes of visions, when compared with the
clearly defined splendours of a Greek procession through marble
peristyles in open air beneath the sun and sky. That spectacle
combined the harmonies of perfect human forms in movement with the
divine shapes of statues, the radiance of carefully selected
vestments with hues inwrought upon pure marble. The rhythms and the
melodies of the Doric mood were sympathetic to the proportions of
the Doric colonnades. The grove of pillars through which the
pageant passed grew from the living rock into shapes of beauty,
fulfilling by the inbreathed spirit of man Nature's blind yearning
after absolute completion. The sun himself&mdash;not thwarted by
artificial gloom, or tricked with alien colours of stained
glass&mdash;was made to minister in all his strength to a pomp, the
pride of which was the display of form in manifold magnificence.
The ritual of the Greeks was the ritual of a race at one with
Nature, glorying in its affiliation to the mighty mother of all
life, and striving to add by human art the coping-stone and final
touch to her achievement. The ritual of the Catholic Church is the
ritual of a race shut out from Nature, holding no communion with
the powers of earth and air, but turning the spirit inwards and
aiming at the concentration of the whole soul upon an unseen God.
The temple of the Greeks was the house of a present deity; its cell
his chamber; its statue his reality. The Christian cathedral is the
fane where God who is a spirit is worshipped; no statue fills the
choir from wall to wall and lifts its forehead to the roof; but the
vacant aisles, with their convergent arches soaring upwards <span
class="pagenum"><a name="pg349" id="pg349">349</a></span> to the
dome, are made to suggest the brooding of infinite and omnipresent
Godhead. It was the object of the Greek artist to preserve a just
proportion between the god's statue and his house, in order that
the worshipper might approach him as a subject draws near to his
monarch's throne. The Christian architect seeks to affect the
emotions of the votary with a sense of vastness filled with unseen
power. Our cathedrals are symbols of the universe where God is
everywhere pavilioned and invisible. The Greek temple was a
practical, utilitarian dwelling-house, made beautiful enough to
suit divinity. The modern church is an idea expressed in stone, an
aspiration of the spirit, shooting up from arch and pinnacle and
spire into illimitable fields of air.</p>

<p>It follows from these differences between the religious aims of
Pagan and Christian architecture, that the former was far more
favourable to the plastic arts. No beautiful or simple incident of
human life was an inappropriate subject for the sculptor, in
adorning the houses of gods who were themselves but human on a
higher level; and the ritual whereby the gods were honoured was
merely an exhibition, in its strength and joyfulness, of mortal
beauty. Therefore the Panathenaic procession furnished Pheidias
with a series of sculptural motives, which he had only to express
according to the principles of his art. The frieze, three feet and
four inches in height, raised forty feet above the pavement of the
peristyle, ran for five hundred and twenty-four continuous feet
round the outside wall of the cella of the Parthenon. The whole of
this long line was wrought with carving of exquisite delicacy and
supreme vigour, in such low relief as its peculiar position, far
above the heads of the spectators, and only illuminated by light
reflected from below, required. Each figure, each attitude, and
each fold of drapery in its countless groups is a study; yet the
whole was a transcript from actual contemporary <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg350" id="pg350">350</a></span> Athenian life.
Truly in matters of art we are but infants to the Greeks.</p>

<p>The topographical certainty which invests the ruins of the
Acropolis with such peculiar interest, belongs in a less degree to
the whole of Athens. Although the most recent researches have
thrown fresh doubt upon the exact site of the Pnyx, and though no
traces of the agora remain, yet we may be sure that the Bema from
which Pericles sustained the courage of the Athenians during the
Peloponnesian war, was placed upon the northern slope looking
towards the Propyl&aelig;a, while the wide irregular space between
this hill, the Acropolis, the Areopagus, and the Theseum, must have
formed the meeting-ground for amusement and discussion of the
citizens at leisure. About Areopagus, with its tribunal hollowed in
the native rock, and the deep cleft beneath, where the shrine of
the Eumenides was built, there is no question. The extreme
insignificance of this little mound may at first indeed excite
incredulity and wonder; but a few hours in Athens accustom the
traveller to a smallness of scale which at first sight seemed
ridiculous. Colonus, for example, the Colonus which every student
of Sophocles has pictured to himself in the solitude of unshorn
meadows, where groves of cypresses and olives bent unpruned above
wild tangles of narcissus flowers and crocuses, and where the
nightingale sang undisturbed by city noise or labour of the
husbandman, turns out to be a scarcely appreciable mound, gently
swelling from the cultivated land of the Cephissus. The Cephissus
even in a rainy season may be crossed dryshod by an active jumper;
and the Ilissus, where it flows beneath the walls of the
Olympieion, is now dedicated to washerwomen instead of
water-nymphs. Nature herself remains, on the whole, unaltered. Most
notable are still the white poplars dedicated of old to Herakles,
and the spreading planes which whisper to the <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg351" id="pg351">351</a></span> limes in
spring. In the midst of so arid and bare a landscape, these
umbrageous trees are singularly grateful to the eye and to the
sense oppressed with heat and splendour. Nightingales have not
ceased to crowd the gardens in such numbers as to justify the
tradition of their Attic origin, nor have the bees of Hymettus
forgotten their labours: the honey of Athens can still boast a
quality superior to that of Hybla or any other famous haunt of
hives.</p>

<p>Tradition points out one spot which commands a beautiful distant
view of Athens and the hills, as the garden of the Academy. The
place is not unworthy of Plato and his companions. Very old olives
grow in abundance, to remind us of those sacred trees beneath which
the boys of Aristophanes ran races; and reeds with which they might
crown their foreheads are thickly scattered through the grass.
Abeles interlace their murmuring branches overhead, and the planes
are as leafy as that which invited Socrates and Ph&aelig;drus on
the morning when they talked of love. In such a place we comprehend
how philosophy went hand in hand at Athens with gymnastics, and why
the poplar and the plane were dedicated to athletic gods. For the
wrestling-grounds were built in groves like these, and their cool
peristyles, the meeting-places of young men and boys, supplied the
sages not only with an eager audience, but also with the leisure
and the shade that learning loves.</p>

<p>It was very characteristic of Greek life that speculative
philosophy should not have chosen 'to walk the studious cloister
pale,' but should rather have sought out places where 'the busy hum
of men' was loudest, and where youthful voices echoed. The Athenian
transacted no business, and pursued but few pleasures, under a
private roof. He conversed and bargained in the agora, debated on
the open rocks of the Pnyx, and enjoyed discussion in the courts of
the <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg352" id="pg352">352</a></span>
gymnasium. It is also far from difficult to understand beneath this
over-vaulted and grateful gloom of bee-laden branches, what part
love played in the haunts of runners and of wrestlers, why near the
statue of Hermes stood that of Er&ocirc;s, and wherefore Socrates
surnamed his philosophy the Science of Love.
&Phi;&iota;&lambda;&omicron;&sigma;&omicron;&phi;&omicron;&upsilon;&mu;&epsilon;&nu;
&alpha;&nu;&epsilon;&upsilon;
&mu;&alpha;&lambda;&alpha;&kappa;&#943;&alpha;&sigmaf; is the boast
of Pericles in his description of the Athenian spirit.
&Phi;&iota;&lambda;&omicron;&sigma;&omicron;&phi;&#943;&alpha;
&mu;&epsilon;&tau;&alpha;
&pi;&alpha;&iota;&delta;&epsilon;&rho;&alpha;&sigma;&tau;&#943;&alpha;&sigmaf;
is Plato's formula for the virtues of the most distinguished soul.
These two mottoes, apparently so contradictory, found their point
of meeting and their harmony in the gymnasium.</p>

<p>The mere contemplation of these luxuriant groves, set in the
luminous Attic landscape, and within sight of Athens, explains a
hundred passages of poets and philosophers. Turn to the opening
scenes of the 'Lysis' and the 'Charmides.' The action of the latter
dialogue is laid in the pal&aelig;stra of Taureas. Socrates has
just returned from the camp at Potid&aelig;a, and after answering
the questions of his friends, has begun to satisfy his own
curiosity:<a name="FNanchor_1_81" id="FNanchor_1_81" /><a href=
"#Footnote_1_81" class="fnanchor">[1]</a>&mdash;</p>

<div class="blockquotwide">
<p>When there had been enough of this, I, in my turn, began to make
inquiries about matters at home&mdash;about the present state of
philosophy, and about the youth. I asked whether any of them were
remarkable for beauty or sense&mdash;or both. Critias, glancing at
the door, invited my attention to some youths who were coming in,
and talking noisily to one another, followed by a crowd. 'Of the
beauties, Socrates,' he said, 'I fancy that you will soon be able
to form a judgment. For those who are just entering are the
advanced guard of the great beauty of the day&mdash;and he is
likely not to be far off himself.'</p>

<p>'Who is he?' I said; 'and who is his father?'</p>

<p>'Charmides,' he replied, 'is his name; he is my cousin, and the
son of my uncle Glaucon: I rather think that you know him, although
he was not grown up at the time of your departure.'</p>

<p>'Certainly I know him,' I said; 'for he was remarkable even
<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg353" id="pg353">353</a></span>
then when he was still a child, and now I should imagine that he
must be almost a young man.'</p>

<p>'You will see,' he said, 'in a moment what progress he has made,
and what he is like.' He had scarcely said the word, when Charmides
entered.</p>

<p>Now you know, my friend, that I cannot measure anything, and of
the beautiful, I am simply such a measure as a white line is of
chalk; for almost all young persons are alike beautiful in my eyes.
But at that moment, when I saw him coming in, I must admit that I
was quite astonished at his beauty and stature; all the world
seemed to be enamoured of him; amazement and confusion reigned when
he entered; and a troop of lovers followed him. That grown-up men
like ourselves should have been affected in this way was not
surprising, but I observed that there was the same feeling among
the boys; all of them, down to the very least child, turned and
looked at him as if he had been a statue.</p>

<p>Chaerephon called me and said: 'What do you think of him,
Socrates? Has he not a beautiful face?'</p>

<p>'That he has indeed,' I said.</p>

<p>'But you would think nothing of his face,' he replied, 'if you
could see his naked form: he is absolutely perfect.'</p>
</div>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_81" id="Footnote_1_81" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_81"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> I quote
from Professor Jowett's translation.</p>
</div>

<p>This Charmides is a true Greek of the perfect type. Not only is
he the most beautiful of Athenian youths; he is also temperate,
modest, and subject to the laws of moral health. His very beauty is
a harmony of well-developed faculties in which the mind and body
are at one. How a young Greek managed to preserve this balance in
the midst of the admiring crowds described by Socrates is a marvel.
Modern conventions unfit our minds for realising the conditions
under which he had to live. Yet it is indisputable that Plato has
strained no point in the animated picture he presents of the
pal&aelig;stra. Aristophanes and Xenophon bear him out in all the
details of the scene. We have to imagine a totally different system
of social morality from ours, with virtues and vices, temptations
and triumphs, unknown to our young men. The next scene from the
'Lysis' introduces us to another wrestling-ground <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg354" id="pg354">354</a></span> in the
neighbourhood of Athens. Here Socrates meets with Hippothales, who
is a devoted lover but a bad poet. Hippothales asks the
philosopher's advice as to the best method of pleasing the boy
Lysis:&mdash;</p>

<div class="blockquotwide">
<p>'Will you tell me by what words or actions I may become endeared
to my love?'</p>

<p>'That is not easy to determine,' I said; 'but if you will bring
your love to me, and will let me talk with him, I may perhaps be
able to show you how to converse with him, instead of singing and
reciting in the fashion of which you are accused.'</p>

<p>'There will be no difficulty in bringing him,' he replied; 'if
you will only go into the house with Ctesippus, and sit down and
talk, he will come of himself; for he is fond of listening,
Socrates. And as this is the festival of the Herm&aelig;a, there is
no separation of young men and boys, but they are all mixed up
together. He will be sure to come. But if he does not come,
Ctesippus, with whom he is familiar, and whose relation Menexenus
is, his great friend, shall call him.'</p>

<p>'That will be the way,' I said. Thereupon I and Ctesippus went
towards the Pal&aelig;stra, and the rest followed.</p>

<p>Upon entering we found that the boys had just been sacrificing;
and this part of the festival was nearly come to an end. They were
all in white array, and games at dice were going on among them.
Most of them were in the outer court amusing themselves; but some
were in a corner of the Apodyterium playing at odd-and-even with a
number of dice, which they took out of little wicker baskets. There
was also a circle of lookers-on, one of whom was Lysis. He was
standing among the other boys and youths, having a crown upon his
head, like a fair vision, and not less worthy of praise for his
goodness than for his beauty. We left them, and went over to the
opposite side of the room, where we found a quiet place, and sat
down; and then we began to talk. This attracted Lysis, who was
constantly turning round to look at us&mdash;he was evidently
wanting to come to us. For a time he hesitated and had not the
courage to come alone; but first of all, his friend Menexenus came
in out of the court in the interval of his play, and when he saw
Ctesippus and myself, came and sat by us; and then Lysis, seeing
him, followed and sat down with him; and the other boys joined. I
should observe that Hippothales, when he saw the <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="pg355" id="pg355">355</a></span> crowd, got
behind them, where he thought that he would be out of sight of
Lysis, lest he should anger him; and there he stood and
listened.</p>
</div>

<p>Enough has been quoted to show that beneath the porches of a
Greek pal&aelig;stra, among the youths of Athens, who wrote no
exercises in dead languages, and thought chiefly of attaining to
perfect manhood by the harmonious exercise of mind and body in
temperate leisure, divine philosophy must indeed have been charming
both to teachers and to learners:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i4">Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose,</div>

<div class="i4">But musical as is Apollo's lute,</div>

<div class="i4">And a perpetual feast of nectared sweets</div>

<div class="i4">Where no crude surfeit reigns.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>There are no remains above ground of the buildings which made
the Attic gymnasia splendid. Nor are there in Athens itself many
statues of the noble human beings who paced their porches and
reclined beneath their shade. The galleries of Italy and the verses
of the poets can alone help us to repeople the Academy with its
mixed multitude of athletes and of sages. The language of
Sim&aelig;tha, in Theocritus, brings the younger men before us:
their cheeks are yellower than helichrysus with the down of youth,
and their breasts shine brighter far than the moon, as though they
had but lately left the 'fair toils of the wrestling-ground.' Upon
some of the monumental tablets exposed in the burying-ground of
Cerameicus and in the Theseum may be seen portraits of Athenian
citizens. A young man holding a bird, with a boy beside him who
carries a lamp or strigil; a youth, naked, and scraping himself
after the games; a boy taking leave with clasped hands of his
mother, while a dog leaps up to fawn upon his knee; a wine-party; a
soul in Charon's boat; a husband parting from his wife: such are
the simple <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg356" id=
"pg356">356</a></span> subjects of these monuments; and under each
is written &Chi;&Rho;&Eta;&Sigma;&Tau;&Epsilon;
&Chi;&Alpha;&Iota;&Rho;&Epsilon;&mdash;Friend, farewell! The tombs
of the women are equally plain in character: a nurse brings a baby
to its mother, or a slave helps her mistress at the toilette table.
There is nothing to suggest either the gloom of the grave or the
hope of heaven in any of these sculptures. Their symbolism, if it
at all exist, is of the least mysterious kind. Our attention is
rather fixed upon the commonest affairs of life than on the secrets
of death.</p>

<p>As we wander through the ruins of Athens, among temples which
are all but perfect, and gardens which still keep their ancient
greenery, we must perforce reflect how all true knowledge of Greek
life has passed away. To picture to ourselves its details, so as to
become quite familiar with the way in which an Athenian thought and
felt and occupied his time, is impossible. Such books as the
'Charicles' of Becker or Wieland's 'Agathon' only increase our
sense of hopelessness, by showing that neither a scholar's learning
nor a poet's fancy can pierce the mists of antiquity. We know that
it was a strange and fascinating life, passed for the most part
beneath the public eye, at leisure, without the society of free
women, without what we call a home, in constant exercise of body
and mind, in the duties of the law-courts and the assembly, in the
toils of the camp and the perils of the sea, in the amusements of
the wrestling-ground and the theatre, in sportful study and
strenuous play. We also know that the citizens of Athens, bred up
under the peculiar conditions of this artificial life, became
impassioned lovers of their city;<a name="FNanchor_1_82" id=
"FNanchor_1_82" /><a href="#Footnote_1_82" class=
"fnanchor">[1]</a> that the greatest generals, statesmen, poets,
orators, artists, historians, and philosophers that the world can
boast, were produced in the short space of a century and a half by
a city <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg357" id=
"pg357">357</a></span> numbering about 20,000 burghers. It is
scarcely an exaggeration to say with the author of 'Hereditary
Genius,' that the population of Athens, taken as a whole, was as
superior to us as we are to the Australian savages. Long and
earnest, therefore, should be our hesitation before we condemn as
pernicious or unprofitable the instincts and the customs of such a
race.</p>

<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_82" id="Footnote_1_82" /><a href=
"#FNanchor_1_82"><span class="label">[1]</span></a>
&Tau;&eta;&nu; &tau;&eta;&sigmaf;
&pi;&#972;&lambda;&epsilon;&omega;&sigmaf;
&delta;&#973;&nu;&alpha;&mu;&iota;&nu; &kappa;&alpha;&theta;'
&epsilon;&mu;&epsilon;&rho;&alpha;&nu; &epsilon;&rho;&gamma;&omega;
&theta;&epsilon;&omega;&mu;&#941;&nu;&omicron;&upsilon;&sigmaf;
&kappa;&alpha;&iota;
&epsilon;&rho;&alpha;&sigma;&tau;&alpha;&sigmaf;
&gamma;&iota;&gamma;&nu;&omicron;&mu;&#941;&nu;&omicron;&upsilon;&sigmaf;
&alpha;&upsilon;&tau;&eta;&sigmaf;.&mdash;Thuc. ii. 43.</p>
</div>

<p>The permanence of strongly marked features in of Greece, and the
small scale of the whole country, add a vivid charm to the scenery
of its great events. In the harbour of Peir&aelig;us we can
scarcely fail to picture to ourselves the pomp which went forth to
Sicily that solemn morning, when the whole host prayed together and
made libations at the signal of the herald's trumpet. The nation of
athletes and artists and philosophers were embarked on what seemed
to some a holiday excursion, and for others bid fair to realise
unbounded dreams of ambition or avarice. Only a few were
heavy-hearted; but the heaviest of all was the general who had
vainly dissuaded his countrymen from the endeavour, and fruitlessly
refused the command thrust upon him. That was 'the morning of a
mighty day, a day of crisis' for the destinies of Athens. Of all
that multitude, how few would come again; of the empire which they
made so manifest in its pride of men and arms, how little but a
shadow would be left, when war and fever and the quarries of
Syracuse had done their fore-appointed work! Yet no commotion of
the elements, no eclipse or authentic oracle from heaven, was
interposed between the arrogance of Athens and sure-coming Nemesis.
The sun shone, and the waves laughed, smitten by the oars of
galleys racing to &AElig;gina. Meanwhile Zeus from the watchtower
of the world held up the scales of fate, and the balance of Athens
was wavering to its fall.</p>

<p>A few strokes of the oar carry us away from Peir&aelig;us to a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg358" id="pg358">358</a></span>
scene fraught with far more thrilling memories. That little point
of rock emergent from the water between Salamis and the mainland,
bare, insignificant, and void of honour among islands to the
natural eye, is Psyttaleia. A strange tightening at the heart
assails us when we approach the centre-point of the most memorable
battlefield of history. It was again 'the morning of a mighty day,
a day of crisis' for the destinies, not of Athens alone, but of
humanity, when the Persian fleet, after rowing all night up and
down the channel between Salamis and the shore, beheld the face of
Phoebus flash from behind Pentelicus and flood the Acropolis of
Athens with fire. The Peir&aelig;ius recalls a crisis in the
world's drama whereof the great actors were unconscious: fair winds
and sunny waves bore light hearts to Sicily. But Psyttaleia brings
before us the heroism of a handful of men, who knew that the
supreme hour of ruin or of victory for their nation and themselves
had come. Terrible therefore was the energy with which they prayed
and joined their p&aelig;an to the trumpet-blast of dawn that
blazed upon them from the Attic hills. And this time Zeus, when he
heard their cry, saw the scale of Hellas mount to the stars. Let
&AElig;schylus tell the tale; for he was there. A Persian is giving
an account of the defeat of Salamis to Atossa:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i4">The whole disaster, O my queen, began</div>

<div class="i4">With some fell fiend or devil,&mdash;I know not
whence:</div>

<div class="i4">For thus it was; from the Athenian host</div>

<div class="i4">A man of Hellas came to thy son, Xerxes,</div>

<div class="i4">Saying that when black night shall fall in
gloom,</div>

<div class="i4">The Hellenes would no longer stay, but leap</div>

<div class="i4">Each on the benches of his bark, and save</div>

<div class="i4">Hither and thither by stolen flight their
lives.</div>

<div class="i4">He, when he heard thereof, discerning not</div>

<div class="i4">The Hellene's craft, no, nor the spite of
heaven,</div>

<div class="i4">To all his captains gives this edict forth:</div>

<div class="i4">When as the sun doth cease to light the
world,</div>

<div class="i4"><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg359" id=
"pg359">359</a></span> And darkness holds the precincts of the
sky,</div>

<div class="i4">They should dispose the fleet in three close
ranks,</div>

<div class="i4">To guard the outlets and the water-ways;</div>

<div class="i4">Others should compass Ajax' isle around:</div>

<div class="i4">Seeing that if the Hellenes 'scaped grim
death</div>

<div class="i4">By finding for their ships some privy exit,</div>

<div class="i4">It was ordained that all should lose their
heads.</div>

<div class="i4">So spake he, led by a mad mind astray,</div>

<div class="i4">Nor knew what should be by the will of
heaven.</div>

<div class="i4">They, like well-ordered vassals, with assent</div>

<div class="i4">Straightway prepared their food, and every
sailor</div>

<div class="i4">Fitted his oar-blade to the steady rowlock.</div>

<div class="i4">But when the sunlight waned and night apace</div>

<div class="i4">Descended, every man who swayed an oar</div>

<div class="i4">Went to the boats with him who wielded
armour.</div>

<div class="i4">Then through the ship's length rank cheered rank in
concert,</div>

<div class="i4">Sailing as each was set in order due:</div>

<div class="i4">And all night long the tyrants of the ships</div>

<div class="i4">Kept the whole navy cruising to and fro.</div>

<div class="i4">Night passed: yet never did the host of
Hellene</div>

<div class="i4">At any point attempt their stolen sally;</div>

<div class="i4">Until at length, when day with her white
steeds</div>

<div class="i4">Forth shining, held the whole world under
sway.</div>

<div class="i4">First from the Hellenes with a loud clear cry</div>

<div class="i4">Song-like, a shout made music, and therewith</div>

<div class="i4">The echo of the rocky isle rang back</div>

<div class="i4">Shrill triumph: but the vast barbarian host</div>

<div class="i4">Shorn of their hope trembled; for not for
flight</div>

<div class="i4">The Hellenes hymned their solemn p&aelig;an
then&mdash;</div>

<div class="i4">Nay, rather as for battle with stout heart.</div>

<div class="i4">Then too the trumpet speaking fired our foes,</div>

<div class="i4">And with a sudden rush of oars in time</div>

<div class="i4">They smote the deep sea at that clarion cry;</div>

<div class="i4">And in a moment you might see them all.</div>

<div class="i4">The right wing in due order well arrayed</div>

<div class="i4">First took the lead; then came the serried
squadron</div>

<div class="i4">Swelling against us, and from many voices</div>

<div class="i4">One cry arose: Ho! sons of Hellenes, up!</div>

<div class="i4">Now free your fatherland, now free your sons,</div>

<div class="i4">Your wives, the fanes of your ancestral gods,</div>

<div class="i4"><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg360" id=
"pg360">360</a></span> Your fathers' tombs! Now fight you for your
all.</div>

<div class="i4">Yea, and from our side brake an answering hum</div>

<div class="i4">Of Persian voices. Then, no more delay,</div>

<div class="i4">Ship upon ship her beak of biting brass</div>

<div class="i4">Struck stoutly. 'Twas a bark, I ween, of
Hellas</div>

<div class="i4">First charged, dashing from a Tyrrhenian
galleon</div>

<div class="i4">Her prow-gear; then ran hull on hull
pell-mell.</div>

<div class="i4">At first the torrent of the Persian navy</div>

<div class="i4">Bore up: but when the multitude of ships</div>

<div class="i4">Were straitly jammed, and none could help
another,</div>

<div class="i4">Huddling with brazen-mouthed beaks they
clashed</div>

<div class="i4">And brake their serried banks of oars
together;</div>

<div class="i4">Nor were the Hellenes slow or slack to muster</div>

<div class="i4">And pound them in a circle. Then ships' hulks</div>

<div class="i4">Floated keel upwards, and the sea was covered</div>

<div class="i4">With shipwreck multitudinous and with
slaughter.</div>

<div class="i4">The shores and jutting reefs were full of
corpses.</div>

<div class="i4">In indiscriminate rout, with straining oar,</div>

<div class="i4">The whole barbarian navy turned and fled.</div>

<div class="i4">Our foes, like men 'mid tunnies, draughts of
fishes,</div>

<div class="i4">With splintered oars and spokes of shattered
spars</div>

<div class="i4">Kept striking, grinding, smashing us: shrill
shrieks</div>

<div class="i4">With groanings mingled held the hollow deep,</div>

<div class="i4">Till night's dark eye set limit to the
slaughter.</div>

<div class="i4">But for our mass of miseries, could I speak</div>

<div class="i4">Straight on for ten days, I should never sum
it:</div>

<div class="i4">For know this well, never in one day died</div>

<div class="i4">Of men so many multitudes before.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>After a pause he resumes his narrative by describing
Psyttaleia:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i4">There lies an island before Salamis,</div>

<div class="i4">Small, with scant harbour, which dance-loving
Pan</div>

<div class="i4">Is wont to tread, haunting the salt
sea-beaches.</div>

<div class="i4">There Xerxes placed his chiefs, that when the
foes</div>

<div class="i4">Chased from their ships should seek the sheltering
isle,</div>

<div class="i4">They might with ease destroy the host of
Hellas,</div>

<div class="i4">Saving their own friends from the briny
straits.</div>

<div class="i4">Ill had he learned what was to hap; for when</div>

<div class="i4">God gave the glory to the Greeks at sea,</div>

<div class="i4"><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg361" id=
"pg361">361</a></span> That same day, having fenced their flesh
with brass,</div>

<div class="i4">They leaped from out their ships; and in a
circle</div>

<div class="i4">Enclosed the whole girth of the isle, that so</div>

<div class="i4">None knew where he should turn; but many fell</div>

<div class="i4">Crushed with sharp stones in conflict, and swift
arrows</div>

<div class="i4">Flew from the quivering bowstrings winged with
murder.</div>

<div class="i4">At last in one fierce onset with one shout</div>

<div class="i4">They strike, hack, hew the wretches' limbs
asunder,</div>

<div class="i4">Till every man alive had fallen beneath them.</div>

<div class="i4">Then Xerxes groaned, seeing the gulf unclose</div>

<div class="i4">Of grief below him; for his throne was raised</div>

<div class="i4">High in the sight of all by the sea-shore.</div>

<div class="i4">Rending his robes, and shrieking a shrill
shriek,</div>

<div class="i4">He hurriedly gave orders to his host;</div>

<div class="i4">Then headlong rushed in rout and heedless
ruin.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>Atossa makes appropriate exclamations of despair and horror.
Then the messenger proceeds:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i4">The captains of the ships that were not
shattered,</div>

<div class="i4">Set speedy sail in flight as the winds blew.</div>

<div class="i4">The remnant of the host died miserably,</div>

<div class="i4">Some in Boeotia round the glimmering springs</div>

<div class="i4">Tired out with thirst; some of us scant of
breath</div>

<div class="i4">Escaped, with bare life to the Phocian
bounds,</div>

<div class="i4">And land of Doris, and the Melian Gulf,</div>

<div class="i4">Where with kind draughts Spercheius soaks the
soil.</div>

<div class="i4">Thence in our flight Achaia's ancient plain</div>

<div class="i4">And Thessaly's stronghold received us worn</div>

<div class="i4">For want of food. Most died in that fell
place</div>

<div class="i4">Of thirst and famine; for both deaths were
there.</div>

<div class="i4">Yet to Magnesia came we and the coast</div>

<div class="i4">Of Macedonia, to the ford of Axius,</div>

<div class="i4">And Bolbe's canebrakes and the Pang&aelig;an
range,</div>

<div class="i4">Edonian borders. Then in that grim night</div>

<div class="i4">God sent unseasonable frost, and froze</div>

<div class="i4">The stream of holy Strymon. He who erst</div>

<div class="i4">Recked nought of gods, now prayed with
supplication,</div>

<div class="i4">Bowing before the powers of earth and sky.</div>

<div class="i4">But when the hosts from lengthy orisons</div>

<div class="i4">Surceased, it crossed the ice-incrusted ford.</div>

<div class="i4"><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg362" id=
"pg362">362</a></span> And he among us who set forth before</div>

<div class="i4">The sun-god's rays were scattered, now was
saved.</div>

<div class="i4">For blazing with sharp beams the sun's bright
circle</div>

<div class="i4">Pierced the mid-stream, dissolving it with
fire.</div>

<div class="i4">There were they huddled. Happy then was he</div>

<div class="i4">Who soonest cut the breath of life asunder.</div>

<div class="i4">Such as survived and had the luck of living,</div>

<div class="i4">Crossed Thrace with pain and peril manifold,</div>

<div class="i4">'Scaping mischance, a miserable remnant,</div>

<div class="i4">Into the dear land of their homes. Wherefore</div>

<div class="i4">Persia may wail, wanting in vain her
darlings.</div>

<div class="i4">This is the truth. Much I omit to tell</div>

<div class="i4">Of woes by God wrought on the Persian race.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>Upon this triumphal note it were well, perhaps, to pause. Yet
since the sojourner in Athens must needs depart by sea, let us
advance a little way farther beyond Salamis. The low shore of the
isthmus soon appears; and there is the hill of Corinth and the site
of the city, as desolate now as when Antipater of Sidon made the
sea-waves utter a threnos over her ruins. 'The deathless Nereids,
daughters of Oceanus,' still lament by the shore, and the Isthmian
pines are as green as when their boughs were plucked to bind a
victor's forehead. Feathering the grey rock now as then, they bear
witness to the wisdom and the moderation of the Greeks, who gave to
the conquerors in sacred games no wreath of gold, or title of
nobility, or land, or jewels, but the honour of an illustrious
name, the guerdon of a mighty deed, and branches taken from the
wild pine of Corinth, or the olive of Olympia, or the bay that
flourished like a weed at Delphi. What was indigenous and
characteristic of his native soil, not rare and costly things from
foreign lands, was precious to the Greek. This piety, after the
lapse of centuries and the passing away of mighty cities, still
bears fruit. Oblivion cannot wholly efface the memory of those
great games while the fir-trees rustle to the sea-wind as of old.
Down the gulf we pass, between mountain <span class="pagenum"><a
name="pg363" id="pg363">363</a></span> range and mountain. On one
hand, two peaked Parnassus rears his cope of snow aloft over
Delphi; on the other, Erymanthus and Hermes' home, Cyllene, bar the
pastoral glades of Arcady. Greece is the land of mountains, not of
rivers or of plains. The titles of the hills of Hellas smite our
ears with echoes of ancient music&mdash;Olympus and Cith&aelig;ron,
Taygetus, Othrys, Helicon, and Ida. The headlands of the mainland
are mountains, and the islands are mountain summits of a submerged
continent. Austerely beautiful, not wild with an Italian
luxuriance, nor mournful with Sicilian monotony of outline, nor yet
again overwhelming with the sublimity of Alps, they seem the proper
home of a race which sought its ideal of beauty in distinction of
shape and not in multiplicity of detail, in light and not in
richness of colouring, in form and not in size.</p>

<p>At length the open sea is reached. Past Zante and Cephalonia we
glide 'under a roof of blue Ionian weather;' or, if the sky has
been troubled with storm, we watch the moulding of long glittering
cloud-lines, processions and pomps of silvery vapour, fretwork and
frieze of alabaster piled above the islands, pearled promontories
and domes of rounded snow. Soon Santa Maura comes in
sight:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i7">Leucat&aelig; nimbosa cacumina montis,</div>

<div class="i7">Et formidatus nautis aperitur Apollo.</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>Here Sappho leapt into the waves to cure love-longing, according
to the ancient story; and he who sees the white cliffs chafed with
breakers and burning with fierce light, as it was once my luck to
see them, may well with Childe Harold 'feel or deem he feels no
common glow.' All through the afternoon it had been raining, and
the sea was running high beneath a petulant west wind. But just
before evening, while yet there remained a hand's-breadth between
the sea and the <span class="pagenum"><a name="pg364" id=
"pg364">364</a></span> sinking sun, the clouds were rent and blown
in masses about the sky. Rain still fell fretfully in scuds and
fleeces; but where for hours there had been nothing but a monotone
of greyness, suddenly fire broke and radiance and storm-clouds in
commotion. Then, as if built up by music, a rainbow rose and grew
above Leucadia, planting one foot on Actium and the other on
Ithaca, and spanning with a horseshoe arch that touched the zenith,
the long line of roseate cliffs. The clouds upon which this bow was
woven were steel-blue beneath and crimson above; and the bow itself
was bathed in fire&mdash;its violets and greens and yellows visibly
ignited by the liquid flame on which it rested. The sea beneath,
stormily dancing, flashed back from all its crest the same red
glow, shining like a ridged lava-torrent in its first combustion.
Then as the sun sank, the crags burned deeper with scarlet blushes
as of blood, and with passionate bloom as of pomegranate or
oleander flowers. Could Turner rise from the grave to paint a
picture that should bear the name of 'Sappho's Leap,' he might
strive to paint it thus: and the world would complain that he had
dreamed the poetry of his picture. But who could <i>dream</i>
anything so wild and yet so definite? Only the passion of
orchestras, the fire-flight of the last movement of the C minor
symphony, can in the realms of art give utterance to the spirit of
scenes like this.</p>

<hr style="width: 65%;" />

<h3><a name="INDEX" id="INDEX">INDEX</a></h3>

<ul class="IX">
<li>Aar, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg020">20</a></li>

<li>Abano, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg098">98</a></li>

<li>Abruzzi, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg034">34</a>; iii. <a
href="#pg230">230</a>, <a href="#pg235">235</a>, <a href=
"#pg236">236</a></li>

<li>Acciaiuoli, Agnolo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg226">226</a></li>

<li>Acciauoli, the, iii. <a href="#pg098">98</a></li>

<li>Accolti, Bernardo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg083">83</a></li>

<li>Accona, iii. <a href="#pg072">72</a>, <a href=
"#pg074">74</a></li>

<li>Accoramboni, Camillo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg091">91</a>:

<ul>
<li>Claudio, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg089">89</a>:</li>
</ul>
</li>

<li>Flaminio, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg091">91</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg099">99</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg100">100</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg103">103</a> foll., <a href=
"ii.html#pg118">118</a> foll., <a href=
"ii.html#pg126">126</a>:</li>

<li>Marcello, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg091">91</a> foll., <a href=
"ii.html#pg099">99</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg102">102</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg103">103</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg105">105</a>:</li>

<li>Mario, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg091">91</a>:</li>

<li>Ottavio, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg091">91</a>:</li>

<li>Scipione, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg091">91</a>:</li>

<li>Tarquinia, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg089">89</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg092">92</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg103">103</a>:</li>

<li>Vittoria, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg089">89</a>-125</li>
</ul>

<ul class="noindent">
<li>Achilles, iii. <a href="#pg286">286</a></li>

<li>Achradina, iii. <a href="#pg321">321</a>, <a href=
"#pg324">324</a></li>

<li>Aci, iii. <a href="#pg287">287</a></li>

<li>Aci Castello, iii. <a href="#pg284">284</a></li>

<li>Acis and Galatea, iii. <a href="#pg284">284</a>, <a href=
"#pg285">285</a></li>

<li>Acropolis, the, iii. <a href="#pg339">339</a>, <a href=
"#pg344">344</a>, <a href="#pg347">347</a></li>

<li>Actium, iii. <a href="#pg364">364</a></li>

<li>Adda, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg050">50</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg051">51</a>, <a href="i.html#pg062">62</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg063">63</a>, <a href="i.html#pg174">174</a></li>

<li>Addison, i. <a href="i.html#pg003">3</a></li>

<li>Adelaide, Queen of Lothair, King of Italy, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg169">169</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg178">178</a></li>

<li>Adelaisie (wife of Berald des Baux), i. <a href=
"i.html#pg080">80</a></li>

<li>Adrian VI. (Pope), ii. <a href="ii.html#pg251">251</a></li>

<li>Adriatic, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg001">1</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg003">3</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg056">56</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg059">59</a></li>

<li>&AElig;, iii. <a href="#pg319">319</a></li>

<li>&AElig;schylus, iii. <a href="#pg162">162</a>, <a href=
"#pg271">271</a>, <a href="#pg345">345</a>, <a href=
"#pg358">358</a>-362</li>

<li>Aff&ograve;, Padre Ireneo, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg363">363</a> _note_</li>

<li>Agrigentines, the, iii. <a href="#pg335">335</a></li>

<li>Agrigentum, iii. <a href="#pg266">266</a></li>

<li>Ajaccio, i. <a href="i.html#pg104">104</a>-120</li>

<li>Alamanni, Antonio, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg328">328</a></li>

<li>Alban Hills, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg032">32</a></li>

<li>Albany, Countess of, i. <a href="i.html#pg352">352</a></li>

<li>Alberti, house of the, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg213">213</a></li>

<li>Alberti, Leo Battista, i. <a href="i.html#pg216">216</a>; ii.
<a href="ii.html#pg014">14</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg018">18</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg021">21</a>-29; iii. <a href=
"#pg102">102</a></li>

<li>Albizzi, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg050">50</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg209">209</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg213">213</a> foll.,
<a href="ii.html#pg221">221</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg224">224</a></li>

<li>Albizzi, Maso degli, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg213">213</a>-215</li>

<li>Albizzi, Rinaldo degli, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg215">215</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg218">218</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg220">220</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg221">221</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg256">256</a></li>

<li>Albula, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg127">127</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg128">128</a>;</li>
</ul>

<ul>
<li>Pass of, i. <a href="i.html#pg053">53</a></li>
</ul>

<ul class="noindent">
<li>Aleotti, Giambattista, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg180">180</a></li>

<li>Alexander the Great, iii. <a href="#pg262">262</a></li>

<li>Alexander VI., ii. <a href="ii.html#pg047">47</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg074">74</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg184">184</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg191">191</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg193">193</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg237">237</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg363">363</a> _note_</li>

<li>Alexandria, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg019">19</a>; iii. <a href=
"#pg189">189</a>, <a href="#pg190">190</a>, <a href=
"#pg201">201</a>, <a href="#pg253">253</a></li>

<li>Alfieri, i. <a href="i.html#pg342">342</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg345">345</a>-359</li>

<li>Alfonso of Aragon, i. <a href="i.html#pg195">195</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg203">203</a>; ii. <a href="ii.html#pg189">189</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg235">235</a></li>

<li>Alps, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg001">1</a>-67, <a href=
"i.html#pg122">122</a>, <a href="i.html#pg123">123</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg126">126</a>, <a href="i.html#pg133">133</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg209">209</a>, <a href="i.html#pg258">258</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg008">8</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg129">129</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg168">168</a> _et passim_</li>

<li>Amadeo, Gian Antonio, i. <a href="i.html#pg146">146</a>, <a
href="i.html#pg150">150</a>, <a href="i.html#pg151">151</a>, <a
href="i.html#pg191">191</a>-193, <a href=
"i.html#pg243">243</a></li>

<li>Amalasuntha, daughter of Theodoric the Ostrogoth, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg002">2</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg013">13</a></li>

<li>Amalfi, i. <a href="i.html#pg103">103</a> _note_; iii. <a
href="#pg250">250</a>-261</li>

<li>Ambrogini family, iii. <a href="#pg101">101</a></li>

<li>Ambrogini, Angelo. (_See_ Poliziano, Angelo)</li>

<li>Ambrogini, Benedetto, iii. <a href="#pg101">101</a>, <a href=
"#pg102">102</a></li>

<li>Ampezzo, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg268">268</a></li>

<li>Ana-Capri, iii. <a href="#pg231">231</a>, <a href=
"#pg232">232</a>, <a href="#pg271">271</a></li>

<li>Anapus, the, iii. <a href="#pg326">326</a>, <a href=
"#pg328">328</a></li>

<li>Anchises, iii. <a href="#pg319">319</a></li>

<li>Ancona, i. <a href="i.html#pg196">196</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg198">198</a>; ii. <a href="ii.html#pg014">14</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg038">38</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg045">45</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg055">55</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg102">102</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg199">199</a>; iii. <a href=
"#pg111">111</a></li>

<li>Ancona, Professor d', ii. <a href="ii.html#pg276">276</a>
_note_</li>

<li>Andrea, Giovann', i. <a href="i.html#pg318">318</a></li>

<li>Andreini, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg269">269</a></li>

<li>Angeli, Niccolo, iii. <a href="#pg151">151</a></li>

<li>Angelico, Fra, i. <a href="i.html#pg100">100</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg240">240</a>; ii. <a href="ii.html#pg049">49</a>; iii.
<a href="#pg035">35</a>, <a href="#pg061">61</a>, <a href=
"#pg147">147</a>-149, <a href="#pg151">151</a>, <a href=
"#pg248">248</a></li>

<li>Angelo, S., ii. <a href="ii.html#pg096">96</a></li>

<li>Angelo, Giovan. (_See_ Pius IV.)</li>

<li>Angiolieri, Cecco, iii. <a href="i.html#pg001">1</a> <a href=
"#pg002">2</a></li>

<li>Anguillara, Deifobo, Count of, i. <a href=
"i.html#pg202">202</a></li>

<li>Anjou, house of, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg188">188</a></li>

<li>Ansano, S., iii. <a href="#pg070">70</a></li>

<li>Anselmi, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg158">158</a></li>

<li>Antegnate, i. <a href="i.html#pg197">197</a></li>

<li>Antelao, i. <a href="i.html#pg268">268</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg283">283</a></li>

<li>Antibes, i. <a href="i.html#pg102">102</a></li>

<li>Antino&euml;, iii. <a href="#pg191">191</a>, <a href=
"#pg205">205</a></li>

<li>Antinoopolis, iii. <a href="#pg191">191</a>, <a href=
"#pg205">205</a></li>

<li>Antinous, iii. <a href="#pg184">184</a>-197, <a href=
"#pg200">200</a>-229</li>

<li>Antipater, iii. <a href="#pg322">322</a>, <a href=
"#pg362">362</a></li>

<li>Antiquari, Jacobo, iii. <a href="#pg126">126</a> _note_</li>

<li>Antonio da Venafro, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg047">47</a></li>

<li>Aosta, i. <a href="i.html#pg002">2</a></li>

<li>Apennines, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg045">45</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg099">99</a>, <a href="i.html#pg133">133</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg007">7</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg008">8</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg037">37</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg045">45</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg056">56</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg062">62</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg065">65</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg066">66</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg132">132</a> foll., <a href=
"ii.html#pg145">145</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg168">168</a>; iii.
<a href="#pg091">91</a> _et passim_</li>

<li>Apollonius of Tyana, iii. <a href="#pg216">216</a></li>

<li>Apulia, i. <a href="i.html#pg087">87</a> _note_; iii. <a href=
"#pg305">305</a></li>

<li>Aquaviva, Dominico d', ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg094">94</a></li>

<li>Aquila, i. <a href="i.html#pg196">196</a></li>

<li>Aragazzi, Bartolommeo, iii. <a href="#pg095">95</a>-100</li>

<li>Aragon, Kings of, i. <a href="i.html#pg079">79</a></li>

<li>Arausio, i. <a href="i.html#pg068">68</a></li>

<li>Archimedes, iii. <a href="#pg325">325</a></li>

<li>Arcipreti family, the, iii. <a href="#pg113">113</a></li>

<li>Ardoin of Milan, iii. <a href="#pg299">299</a>, <a href=
"#pg300">300</a></li>

<li>Aretine, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg083">83</a></li>

<li>Aretino, Pietro, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg091">91</a></li>

<li>Aretino, Spinello, iii. <a href="#pg304">304</a></li>

<li>Aretusi, Cesare, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg149">149</a>
_note_</li>

<li>Arezzo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg214">214</a>; iii. <a href=
"#pg007">7</a>, <a href="#pg091">91</a>, <a href="#pg096">96</a>,
<a href="#pg151">151</a> _note_;</li>
</ul>

<ul>
<li>Bishop of, iii. <a href="#pg074">74</a></li>
</ul>

<ul class="noindent">
<li>Ariosto, i. <a href="i.html#pg071">71</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg066">66</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg160">160</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg168">168</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg261">261</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg264">264</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg265">265</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg267">267</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg269">269</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg273">273</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg280">280</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg336">336</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg343">343</a></li>

<li>Aristides, iii. <a href="#pg196">196</a></li>

<li>Aristophanes, i. <a href="i.html#pg084">84</a> _note_; iii. <a
href="#pg161">161</a>, <a href="#pg341">341</a>, <a href=
"#pg351">351</a>, <a href="#pg353">353</a></li>

<li>Aristotle, i. <a href="i.html#pg249">249</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg074">74</a>; iii. <a href="#pg309">309</a></li>

<li>Aristoxenus, iii. <a href="#pg262">262</a>, <a href=
"#pg263">263</a></li>

<li>Arles, i. <a href="i.html#pg076">76</a>-81;</li>
</ul>

<ul>
<li>King of, i. <a href="i.html#pg079">79</a></li>
</ul>

<ul class="noindent">
<li>Arno, the, iii. <a href="#pg091">91</a>;</li>
</ul>

<ul>
<li>valley of, iii. <a href="#pg041">41</a></li>
</ul>

<ul class="noindent">
<li>Arosa, valley of, i. <a href="i.html#pg033">33</a></li>

<li>Arqua, i. <a href="i.html#pg167">167</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg168">168</a></li>

<li>Arrian, iii. <a href="#pg205">205</a></li>

<li>Aruns, iii. <a href="#pg094">94</a></li>

<li>Ascham, Roger, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg265">265</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg266">266</a></li>

<li>Asciano, iii. <a href="#pg086">86</a>, <a href=
"#pg087">87</a></li>

<li>Asinarus, iii. <a href="#pg327">327</a></li>

<li>Assisi, i. <a href="i.html#pg137">137</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg035">35</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg039">39</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg043">43</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg044">44</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg046">46</a>; iii. <a href="#pg035">35</a>, <a
href="#pg068">68</a>, <a href="#pg111">111</a>, <a href=
"#pg114">114</a>, <a href="#pg140">140</a></li>

<li>Asso, the, iii. <a href="#pg108">108</a></li>

<li>Asti, i. <a href="i.html#pg347">347</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg348">348</a>; ii. <a href="ii.html#pg193">193</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg197">197</a></li>

<li>Astolphus, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg002">2</a></li>

<li>Athens, i. <a href="i.html#pg243">243</a>; iii. <a href=
"#pg156">156</a>, <a href="#pg169">169</a>, <a href=
"#pg182">182</a>, <a href="#pg188">188</a>, <a href=
"#pg207">207</a>, <a href="#pg323">323</a>, <a href=
"#pg339">339</a>-364</li>

<li>Athens, Duke of, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg207">207</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg208">208</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg233">233</a>
_note_</li>

<li>Atrani, iii. <a href="#pg251">251</a>, <a href=
"#pg254">254</a></li>

<li>Attendolo, Sforza, i. <a href="i.html#pg195">195</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg071">71</a></li>

<li>Atti, Isotta degli, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg017">17</a> and
_note_, <a href="ii.html#pg020">20</a></li>

<li>Augustine, S., i. <a href="i.html#pg232">232</a></li>

<li>Augustus, Emperor, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg001">1</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg014">14</a>; iii. <a href="#pg215">215</a></li>

<li>Aurelius, Marcus, iii. <a href="#pg164">164</a>, <a href=
"#pg200">200</a></li>

<li>Ausonias, iii. <a href="#pg268">268</a></li>

<li>Aversa, iii. <a href="#pg253">253</a>, <a href=
"#pg299">299</a>, <a href="#pg300">300</a></li>

<li>Avignon, i. <a href="i.html#pg069">69</a>-71, <a href=
"i.html#pg077">77</a>, <a href="i.html#pg081">81</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg086">86</a>; ii. <a href="ii.html#pg136">136</a>; iii.
<a href="#pg051">51</a>, <a href="#pg074">74</a></li>

<li>Azzo (progenitor of Este and Brunswick), ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg175">175</a></li>

<li>Azzo (son of Sigifredo), ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg169">169</a></li>
</ul>

<ul class="IX">
<li>Badrutt, Herr Caspar, i. <a href="i.html#pg055">55</a></li>

<li>Baffo, i. <a href="i.html#pg259">259</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg260">260</a></li>

<li>Baganza, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg184">184</a></li>

<li>Baglioni, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg016">16</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg047">47</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg071">71</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg236">236</a>; iii. <a href="#pg081">81</a>, <a
href="#pg113">113</a>-115, <a href="#pg119">119</a>-136</li>

<li>Baglioni, Annibale, iii. <a href="#pg132">132</a>:

<ul>
<li>Astorre, iii. <a href="#pg113">113</a>, <a href=
"#pg114">114</a>, <a href="#pg121">121</a>, <a href=
"#pg122">122</a>, <a href="#pg125">125</a>, <a href=
"#pg126">126</a>:</li>

<li>Atalanta, iii. <a href="#pg116">116</a>, <a href=
"#pg124">124</a>, <a href="#pg127">127</a>-129:</li>

<li>Braccio, iii. <a href="#pg134">134</a>:</li>

<li>Carlo Barciglia, iii. <a href="#pg124">124</a>:</li>

<li>Constantino, iii. <a href="#pg131">131</a>:</li>

<li>Eusebio, iii. <a href="#pg131">131</a>:</li>

<li>Filene, iii. <a href="#pg132">132</a>:</li>

<li>Galeotto, iii. <a href="#pg124">124</a>, <a href=
"#pg132">132</a>:</li>

<li>Gentile, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg042">42</a>, iii. <a href=
"#pg122">122</a>, <a href="#pg132">132</a>:</li>

<li>Gian-Paolo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg047">47</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg220">220</a>, iii. <a href="#pg116">116</a>, <a href=
"#pg117">117</a>, <a href="#pg122">122</a>, <a href=
"#pg125">125</a>, <a href="#pg127">127</a>, <a href=
"#pg128">128</a>, <a href="#pg130">130</a>-132:</li>

<li>Gismondo, iii. <a href="#pg122">122</a>, <a href=
"#pg126">126</a>, <a href="#pg127">127</a>:</li>

<li>Grifone, iii. <a href="#pg124">124</a>:</li>

<li>Grifonetto, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg047">47</a>, iii. <a href=
"#pg113">113</a>, <a href="#pg114">114</a>, <a href=
"#pg124">124</a>-129:</li>

<li>Guido, iii. <a href="#pg121">121</a>, <a href="#pg126">126</a>,
<a href="#pg127">127</a>:</li>

<li>Ippolita, iii. <a href="#pg131">131</a>:</li>

<li>Malatesta, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg253">253</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg254">254</a>, iii. <a href="#pg127">127</a>, <a href=
"#pg132">132</a>:</li>

<li>Marcantonio, iii. <a href="#pg122">122</a>, <a href=
"#pg125">125</a>, <a href="#pg130">130</a>:</li>

<li>Morgante, iii. <a href="#pg119">119</a> _note_ 2:</li>

<li>Niccolo, iii. <a href="#pg120">120</a>:</li>

<li>Orazio, iii. <a href="#pg127">127</a>, <a href=
"#pg132">132</a>:</li>

<li>Pandolfo, iii. <a href="#pg120">120</a>:</li>

<li>Pietro Paolo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg041">41</a>:</li>

<li>Ridolfo (1), iii. <a href="#pg120">120</a>, <a href=
"#pg121">121</a>:</li>

<li>Ridolfo (2), iii. <a href="#pg133">133</a>, <a href=
"#pg134">134</a>:</li>

<li>Simonetto, iii. <a href="#pg123">123</a>, <a href=
"#pg124">124</a>, <a href="#pg126">126</a>:</li>

<li>Taddeo, iii. <a href="#pg131">131</a>:</li>

<li>Troilo, iii. <a href="#pg122">122</a>, <a href=
"#pg127">127</a></li>
</ul>
</li>

<li>Bai&aelig;, iii. <a href="#pg242">242</a></li>

<li>Balzac, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg160">160</a></li>

<li>Bandello, i. <a href="i.html#pg155">155</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg157">157</a>, <a href="i.html#pg158">158</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg270">270</a>; ii. <a href="ii.html#pg116">116</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg265">265</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg271">271</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg277">277</a></li>

<li>Bandinelli, Messer Francesco, iii. <a href=
"#pg010">10</a>-12</li>

<li>Barano, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg056">56</a>-58</li>

<li>Barbarossa, Frederick, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg069">69</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg201">201</a>; iii. <a href="#pg007">7</a>, <a
href="#pg271">271</a>, <a href="#pg290">290</a>, <a href=
"#pg306">306</a> _note_ 2</li>

<li>Bari, Duke of. (_See_ Sforza, Lodovico)</li>

<li>Bartolo, San, iii. <a href="#pg059">59</a></li>

<li>Bartolommeo, Fra, iii. <a href="#pg063">63</a>, <a href=
"#pg099">99</a></li>

<li>Basaiti, i. <a href="i.html#pg269">269</a></li>

<li>Basella, i. <a href="i.html#pg193">193</a></li>

<li>Basinio, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg018">18</a></li>

<li>Basle, i. <a href="i.html#pg001">1</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg002">2</a></li>

<li>Bassano, i. <a href="i.html#pg340">340</a></li>

<li>Bastelica, i. <a href="i.html#pg109">109</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg113">113</a>, <a href="i.html#pg115">115</a></li>

<li>Bastia, Matteo di, i. <a href="i.html#pg216">216</a></li>

<li>Battagli, Gian Battista, i. <a href=
"i.html#pg216">216</a></li>

<li>Battifolle, Count Simone da, iii. <a href="#pg011">11</a></li>

<li>Baudelaire, iii. <a href="#pg280">280</a></li>

<li>Baveno, i. <a href="i.html#pg019">19</a></li>

<li>Bayard, i. <a href="i.html#pg113">113</a></li>

<li>Bazzi, Giovannantonio. (_See_ Sodoma)</li>

<li>Beatrice, Countess, iii. <a href="#pg144">144</a></li>

<li>Beatrice, Dante's, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg006">6</a></li>

<li>Beatrice of Lorraine, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg170">170</a></li>

<li>Beaumarchais, i. <a href="i.html#pg228">228</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg229">229</a>, <a href="i.html#pg234">234</a></li>

<li>Beaumont and Fletcher, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg267">267</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg269">269</a></li>

<li>Becchi, Gentile, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg192">192</a></li>

<li>Beethoven, i. <a href="i.html#pg010">10</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg249">249</a>; ii. <a href="ii.html#pg160">160</a></li>

<li>Belcari, Feo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg305">305</a></li>

<li>Belcaro, iii. <a href="#pg066">66</a>, <a href=
"#pg068">68</a></li>

<li>Belisarius, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg002">2</a>; iii. <a href=
"#pg290">290</a></li>

<li>Bellagio, i. <a href="i.html#pg186">186</a></li>

<li>Bellano, i. <a href="i.html#pg186">186</a></li>

<li>Belleforest, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg116">116</a></li>

<li>Bellini, Gentile, i. <a href="i.html#pg269">269</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg270">270</a></li>

<li>Bellini, Gian, i. <a href="i.html#pg263">263</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg269">269</a>; ii. <a href="ii.html#pg055">55</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg135">135</a></li>

<li>Bellinzona, i. <a href="i.html#pg180">180</a></li>

<li>Bembo, Pietro, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg082">82</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg085">85</a></li>

<li>Benci, Spinello, iii. <a href="#pg094">94</a></li>

<li>Benedict, S., iii. <a href="#pg073">73</a>, <a href=
"#pg081">81</a>, <a href="#pg085">85</a>, <a href=
"#pg248">248</a></li>

<li>Benevento, iii. <a href="#pg251">251</a>, <a href=
"#pg252">252</a>, <a href="#pg299">299</a></li>

<li>Benincasa, Jacopo (father of S. Catherine of Siena), iii. <a
href="#pg050">50</a></li>

<li>Benivieni, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg305">305</a></li>

<li>Bentivogli, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg047">47</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg178">178</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg224">224</a></li>

<li>Bentivogli, Alessandro de', i. <a href="i.html#pg155">155</a>,
<a href="i.html#pg156">156</a></li>

<li>Bentivogli, Ercole de', ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg224">224</a></li>

<li>Bentivoglio, Ermes, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg047">47</a></li>

<li>Benzone, Giorgio, i. <a href="i.html#pg194">194</a></li>

<li>Beral des Baux, i. <a href="i.html#pg079">79</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg080">80</a></li>

<li>Berang&egrave;re des Baux, i. <a href=
"i.html#pg080">80</a></li>

<li>Berceto, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg131">131</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg133">133</a></li>

<li>Berenger, King of Italy, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg169">169</a></li>

<li>Berenger, Raymond, i. <a href="i.html#pg080">80</a></li>

<li>Bergamo, i. <a href="i.html#pg190">190</a>-207; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg082">82</a></li>

<li>Bernardino, S., iii. <a href="#pg069">69</a>, <a href=
"#pg113">113</a></li>

<li>Bernardo, iii. <a href="#pg069">69</a>-75</li>

<li>Bernardo da Campo, i. <a href="i.html#pg061">61</a></li>

<li>Berne, i. <a href="i.html#pg020">20</a></li>

<li>Bernhardt, Madame, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg108">108</a></li>

<li>Berni, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg270">270</a></li>

<li>Bernina, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg037">37</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg055">55</a>-57, <a href="i.html#pg060">60</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg064">64</a>, <a href="i.html#pg126">126</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg128">128</a></li>

<li>Bernini, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg159">159</a></li>

<li>Bersaglio, i. <a href="i.html#pg268">268</a></li>

<li>Bervic, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg149">149</a></li>

<li>Besa, iii. <a href="#pg190">190</a>, <a href="#pg191">191</a>,
<a href="#pg205">205</a></li>

<li>Besozzi, Francesco, i. <a href="i.html#pg156">156</a></li>

<li>Bevagna, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg035">35</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg038">38</a></li>

<li>Beyle, Henri, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg102">102</a></li>

<li>Bianco, Bernardo, i. <a href="i.html#pg177">177</a></li>

<li>Bibbiena, Cardinal, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg082">82</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg083">83</a></li>

<li>Bibboni, Francesco, or Cecco, i. <a href=
"i.html#pg327">327</a>-341</li>

<li>Bion, i. <a href="i.html#pg152">152</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg303">303</a></li>

<li>Biondo, Flavio, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg028">28</a></li>

<li>Bisola, Lodovico, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg150">150</a></li>

<li>Bithynia, iii. <a href="#pg208">208</a></li>

<li>Bithynium, iii. <a href="#pg187">187</a>, <a href=
"#pg208">208</a></li>

<li>Blacas (a knight of Provence), i. <a href=
"i.html#pg080">80</a></li>

<li>Blake, the poet, i. <a href="i.html#pg101">101</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg265">265</a>; ii. <a href="ii.html#pg273">273</a>;
iii. <a href="#pg166">166</a>, <a href="#pg260">260</a></li>

<li>Boccaccio, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg007">7</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg160">160</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg208">208</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg260">260</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg261">261</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg265">265</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg270">270</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg272">272</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg273">273</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg277">277</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg334">334</a>; iii. <a href="#pg016">16</a>, <a
href="#pg050">50</a>, <a href="#pg248">248</a>, <a href=
"#pg293">293</a></li>

<li>Bocognano, i. <a href="i.html#pg109">109</a>-111, <a href=
"i.html#pg115">115</a></li>

<li>Bohemond, Prince of Tarentum, iii. <a href="#pg297">297</a>, <a
href="#pg298">298</a></li>

<li>Boiardo, Matteo Maria, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg030">30</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg066">66</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg269">269</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg343">343</a></li>

<li>Boldoni, Polidoro, i. <a href="i.html#pg183">183</a></li>

<li>Bologna, i. <a href="i.html#pg121">121</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg155">155</a>, <a href="i.html#pg192">192</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg196">196</a>, <a href="i.html#pg326">326</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg029">29</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg047">47</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg085">85</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg185">185</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg224">224</a></li>

<li>Bologna, Gian, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg086">86</a></li>

<li>Bolsena, iii. <a href="#pg140">140</a>, <a href=
"#pg141">141</a>;

<ul>
<li>Lake of, iii. <a href="#pg022">22</a></li>
</ul>
</li>

<li>Bona of Savoy (wife of Galeazzo Maria Sforza), ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg230">230</a></li>

<li>Bondeno de' Roncori, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg178">178</a></li>

<li>Bonifazio (of Canossa), ii. <a href="ii.html#pg169">169</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg170">170</a></li>

<li>Bordighera, i. <a href="i.html#pg102">102</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg103">103</a></li>

<li>Bordone, Paris, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg109">109</a></li>

<li>Borgia family, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg066">66</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg117">117</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg363">363</a>
_note_</li>

<li>Borgia, Cesare, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg047">47</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg048">48</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg073">73</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg074">74</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg080">80</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg083">83</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg126">126</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg363">363</a> _note_; iii. <a href=
"#pg131">131</a></li>

<li>Borgia, Lucrezia, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg363">363</a>
_note_</li>

<li>Borgia, Roderigo, i. <a href="i.html#pg220">220</a>. (_See
also_ Alexander VI.)</li>

<li>Borgognone, Ambrogio, i. <a href="i.html#pg146">146</a>-148;
iii. <a href="#pg064">64</a></li>

<li>Bormio, i. <a href="i.html#pg061">61</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg180">180</a></li>

<li>Borromeo family, iii. <a href="#pg014">14</a></li>

<li>Borromeo, Carlo, i. <a href="i.html#pg182">182</a></li>

<li>Borromeo, Count Giberto, i. <a href=
"i.html#pg182">182</a></li>

<li>Boscoli, i. <a href="i.html#pg341">341</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg246">246</a></li>

<li>Bosola, i. <a href="i.html#pg149">149</a></li>

<li>Botticelli, Sandro, i. <a href="i.html#pg266">266</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg029">29</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg030">30</a>;
iii. <a href="#pg180">180</a> _note_</li>

<li>B&ouml;tticher, Charles, iii. <a href="#pg225">225</a></li>

<li>Bourbon, Duke of, i. <a href="i.html#pg158">158</a>;

<ul>
<li>Constable of, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg252">252</a></li>
</ul>
</li>

<li>Bracciano, Duke of, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg091">91</a> foll.,
<a href="ii.html#pg104">104</a></li>

<li>Bracciano, second Duke of, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg093">93</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg099">99</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg101">101</a></li>

<li>Braccio, i. <a href="i.html#pg195">195</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg197">197</a>, <a href="i.html#pg204">204</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg207">207</a>; ii. <a href="ii.html#pg047">47</a>; iii.
<a href="#pg081">81</a></li>

<li>Braccio, Filippo da, iii. <a href="#pg124">124</a>-126</li>

<li>Bracciolini, Poggio, iii. <a href="#pg096">96</a>, <a href=
"#pg336">336</a></li>

<li>Bragadin, Aloisio, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg101">101</a></li>

<li>Bramante, i. <a href="i.html#pg216">216</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg243">243</a></li>

<li>Brancacci, Cardinal, iii. <a href="#pg096">96</a></li>

<li>Brancaleone, Senator, iii. <a href="#pg336">336</a></li>

<li>Brancaleoni family, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg066">66</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg069">69</a></li>

<li>Bregaglia, i. <a href="i.html#pg035">35</a>;

<ul>
<li>valley of, i. <a href="i.html#pg184">184</a></li>
</ul>
</li>

<li>Brenner, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg168">168</a></li>

<li>Brenta, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg258">258</a></li>

<li>Brescia, i. <a href="i.html#pg063">63</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg200">200</a>; ii. <a href="ii.html#pg103">103</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg169">169</a></li>

<li>Brest, Anna Maria, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg149">149</a></li>

<li>Brianza, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg185">185</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg186">186</a></li>

<li>Brolio, iii. <a href="#pg094">94</a></li>

<li>Bronte, iii. <a href="#pg279">279</a></li>

<li>Browne, Sir Thomas, i. <a href="i.html#pg044">44</a>; iii. <a
href="#pg337">337</a></li>

<li>Browning, Robert, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg102">102</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg270">270</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg273">273</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg281">281</a>; iii. <a href=
"#pg173">173</a></li>

<li>Browning, Mrs., ii. <a href="ii.html#pg270">270</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg271">271</a>; iii. <a href="#pg173">173</a></li>

<li>Bruni, Lionardo, iii. <a href="#pg096">96</a>, <a href=
"#pg098">98</a>, <a href="#pg099">99</a></li>

<li>Buol family, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg035">35</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg036">36</a>, <a href="i.html#pg040">40</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg041">41</a>, <a href="i.html#pg049">49</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg061">61</a></li>

<li>Buol, Herr, i. <a href="i.html#pg034">34</a>-36</li>

<li>Buonaparte family, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg119">119</a>, <a
href="i.html#pg120">120</a></li>

<li>Buonarroti, Michel Angelo, i. <a href="i.html#pg176">176</a>,
<a href="i.html#pg193">193</a>, <a href="i.html#pg221">221</a>,
<a href="i.html#pg236">236</a>, <a href="i.html#pg243">243</a>,
<a href="i.html#pg326">326</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg021">21</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg030">30</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg040">40</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg152">152</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg158">158</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg160">160</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg161">161</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg178">178</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg253">253</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg332">332</a>; iii. <a href="#pg020">20</a>, <a
href="#pg022">22</a>, <a href="#pg145">145</a>, <a href=
"#pg146">146</a>, <a href="#pg150">150</a>, <a href=
"#pg154">154</a>, <a href="#pg161">161</a></li>

<li>Buonconvento, iii. <a href="#pg072">72</a>, <a href=
"#pg076">76</a></li>

<li>Burano, i. <a href="i.html#pg258">258</a></li>

<li>Burgundy, Duke of, i. <a href="i.html#pg202">202</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg203">203</a></li>

<li>Burne-Jones, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg029">29</a></li>

<li>Busti, Agostino, i. <a href="i.html#pg159">159</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg161">161</a>, <a href="i.html#pg193">193</a></li>

<li>Byron, i. <a href="i.html#pg280">280</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg007">7</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg013">13</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg015">15</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg146">146</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg162">162</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg270">270</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg271">271</a></li>
</ul>

<ul class="IX">
<li>Cadenabbia, i. <a href="i.html#pg121">121</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg173">173</a></li>

<li>Cadore, i. <a href="i.html#pg267">267</a></li>

<li>C&aelig;sarea, ii. <a href="i.html#pg001">1</a></li>

<li>Cagli, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg056">56</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg069">69</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg074">74</a></li>

<li>Cajano, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg221">221</a></li>

<li>Calabria, iii. <a href="#pg305">305</a>;

<ul>
<li>mountains of, iii.? <a href="#pg288">288</a></li>
</ul>
</li>

<li>Calabria, Duke of, iii. <a href="#pg011">11</a></li>

<li>Calascibetta, iii. <a href="#pg302">302</a></li>

<li>Caldora, Giovanni Antonio, i. <a href=
"i.html#pg202">202</a></li>

<li>Caldora, Jacopo, i. <a href="i.html#pg196">196</a></li>

<li>Caligula, i. <a href="i.html#pg134">134</a>-136; iii. <a href=
"#pg002">2</a>, <a href="#pg156">156</a>, <a href="#pg163">163</a>,
<a href="#pg197">197</a>, <a href="#pg273">273</a>, <a href=
"#pg274">274</a></li>

<li>Calles (Cagli), ii. <a href="ii.html#pg057">57</a></li>

<li>Camargue, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg078">78</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg081">81</a></li>

<li>Camerino, Duchy of, i. <a href="i.html#pg185">185</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg047">47</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg073">73</a></li>

<li>Campagna, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg032">32</a></li>

<li>Campaldino, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg206">206</a></li>

<li>Campanella, iii. <a href="#pg020">20</a>, <a href=
"#pg270">270</a></li>

<li>Camp&egrave;ll (or Campb&egrave;ll) family, the i. <a href=
"i.html#pg061">61</a>, <a href="i.html#pg062">62</a> and
_note_</li>

<li>Campione, i. <a href="i.html#pg175">175</a></li>

<li>Canale, Messer Carlo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg363">363</a>
_note_</li>

<li>Cannaregio, i. <a href="i.html#pg268">268</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg269">269</a>, <a href="i.html#pg339">339</a></li>

<li>Cannes, i. <a href="i.html#pg103">103</a> _note_; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg143">143</a></li>

<li>Canonge, Jules, i. <a href="i.html#pg081">81</a></li>

<li>Canossa, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg163">163</a>-179</li>

<li>Cant&ugrave;, i. <a href="i.html#pg340">340</a></li>

<li>Cap S. Martin, i. <a href="i.html#pg090">90</a></li>

<li>Capello, Bianca, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg093">93</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg126">126</a></li>

<li>Capponi, Agostino, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg246">246</a></li>

<li>Capponi, Niccolo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg253">253</a></li>

<li>Capri, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg058">58</a>; iii. <a href=
"#pg242">242</a>, <a href="#pg256">256</a>, <a href=
"#pg269">269</a>-276</li>

<li>Caracalla, i. <a href="i.html#pg135">135</a>; iii. <a href=
"#pg197">197</a></li>

<li>Cardona, Viceroy, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg244">244</a></li>

<li>Carducci, Francesco, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg253">253</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg325">325</a></li>

<li>Carini, Baronessa di, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg276">276</a></li>

<li>Carlyle (quoted), i. <a href="i.html#pg072">72</a></li>

<li>Carmagnola, i. <a href="i.html#pg197">197</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg200">200</a>, <a href="i.html#pg208">208</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg071">71</a></li>

<li>Carmagnuola, Bussoni di, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg017">17</a>
and _note_</li>

<li>Carpaccio, Vittore, i. <a href="i.html#pg269">269</a>, <a
href="i.html#pg270">270</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg042">42</a></li>

<li>Carpegna, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg064">64</a></li>

<li>Carpi, Duchy of, i. <a href="i.html#pg185">185</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg168">168</a></li>

<li>Carpi, the princes of, i. <a href="i.html#pg202">202</a></li>

<li>Carrara range, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg134">134</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg146">146</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg218">218</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg238">238</a></li>

<li>Casamicciola, iii. <a href="#pg234">234</a>, <a href=
"#pg239">239</a></li>

<li>Casanova, i. <a href="i.html#pg259">259</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg260">260</a></li>

<li>Cascese, Santi da, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg224">224</a></li>

<li>Casentino, iii. <a href="#pg092">92</a></li>

<li>Cassinesi, the, iii. <a href="#pg248">248</a></li>

<li>Cassius, Dion, iii. <a href="#pg191">191</a>, <a href=
"#pg193">193</a>, <a href="#pg195">195</a>-197, <a href=
"#pg219">219</a></li>

<li>Castagniccia, i. <a href="i.html#pg110">110</a></li>

<li>Castagno, Andrea del, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg233">233</a></li>

<li>Castellammare, i. <a href="i.html#pg103">103</a> _note_; iii.
<a href="#pg232">232</a>, <a href="#pg250">250</a>, <a href=
"#pg276">276</a></li>

<li>Casti, Abb&eacute;, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg270">270</a></li>

<li>Castiglione, i. <a href="i.html#pg144">144</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg145">145</a>; ii. <a href="ii.html#pg068">68</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg080">80</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg082">82</a>;
iii. <a href="#pg106">106</a>, <a href="#pg108">108</a></li>

<li>Castro Giovanni, mountains of, iii. <a href="#pg279">279</a>,
<a href="#pg302">302</a>, <a href="#pg304">304</a>, <a href=
"#pg320">320</a></li>

<li>Catania, i. <a href="i.html#pg087">87</a> _note_; iii. <a
href="#pg279">279</a>, <a href="#pg280">280</a>, <a href=
"#pg288">288</a>, <a href="#pg302">302</a>, <a href=
"#pg304">304</a>, <a href="#pg325">325</a></li>

<li>Catherine, S. (of Alexandria), i. <a href=
"i.html#pg136">136</a>, <a href="i.html#pg142">142</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg153">153</a>, <a href="i.html#pg155">155</a>-157, <a
href="i.html#pg178">178</a>; iii. <a href="#pg055">55</a>, <a
href="#pg061">61</a></li>

<li>Catherine, S. (of Sienna), i. <a href="i.html#pg070">70</a>;
iii. <a href="#pg048">48</a>-65</li>

<li>Catria, iii. <a href="#pg073">73</a></li>

<li>Catullus, iii. <a href="#pg180">180</a></li>

<li>Cavalcanti, Guido, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg261">261</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg308">308</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg325">325</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg343">343</a></li>

<li>Cavicciuoli, Messer Guerra, iii. <a href="#pg002">2</a></li>

<li>Cavro, i. <a href="i.html#pg109">109</a></li>

<li>C&eacute;cile (Passe Rose), i. <a href=
"i.html#pg081">81</a></li>

<li>Cefal&uacute;, iii. <a href="#pg291">291</a></li>

<li>Cellant, Contessa di, i. <a href=
"i.html#pg157">157</a>-159</li>

<li>Cellant, Count of, i. <a href="i.html#pg158">158</a></li>

<li>Cellini, Benvenuto, i. <a href="i.html#pg002">2</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg189">189</a>, <a href="i.html#pg240">240</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg241">241</a>, <a href="i.html#pg328">328</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg025">25</a></li>

<li>Celsano, i. <a href="i.html#pg329">329</a></li>

<li>Celsus, iii. <a href="#pg211">211</a>, <a href=
"#pg219">219</a>, <a href="#pg220">220</a></li>

<li>Cenci, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg017">17</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg089">89</a></li>

<li>Cenci, Beatrice, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg102">102</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg270">270</a></li>

<li>Ceno, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg183">183</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg195">195</a></li>

<li>Centorbi, iii. <a href="#pg302">302</a></li>

<li>Cephalonia, iii. <a href="#pg363">363</a></li>

<li>Cephissus, the, iii. <a href="#pg350">350</a></li>

<li>Cerami, iii. <a href="#pg304">304</a></li>

<li>Cervantes, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg160">160</a></li>

<li>Cesena, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg015">15</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg062">62</a></li>

<li>Cetona, iii. <a href="#pg103">103</a></li>

<li>Chalcedon, iii. <a href="#pg212">212</a></li>

<li>Ch&acirc;lons, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg079">79</a></li>

<li>Chapman, George, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg268">268</a></li>

<li>Charles IV., iii. <a href="#pg006">6</a></li>

<li>Charles V., i. <a href="i.html#pg184">184</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg185">185</a>, <a href="i.html#pg187">187</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg188">188</a>, <a href="i.html#pg319">319</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg338">338</a>, <a href="i.html#pg339">339</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg075">75</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg202">202</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg255">255</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg257">257</a></li>

<li>Charles VIII., ii. <a href="ii.html#pg067">67</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg132">132</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg183">183</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg189">189</a> and _note_, <a href=
"ii.html#pg191">191</a>-197, <a href="ii.html#pg238">238</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg328">328</a></li>

<li>Charles of Anjou, iii. <a href=
"#pg315">315</a> _note_</li>

<li>Charles the Bold, i. <a href="i.html#pg202">202</a></li>

<li>Charles Martel, i. <a href="i.html#pg075">75</a></li>

<li>Charles of Valois, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg207">207</a></li>

<li>Chartres, i. <a href="i.html#pg243">243</a></li>

<li>Chateaubriand, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg013">13</a></li>

<li>Chatterton, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg273">273</a></li>

<li>Chaucer, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg258">258</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg260">260</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg261">261</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg270">270</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg272">272</a></li>

<li>Chiana, the, iii. <a href="#pg091">91</a>; valley of, iii. <a
href="#pg090">90</a>, <a href="#pg097">97</a></li>

<li>Chianti, iii. <a href="#pg094">94</a></li>

<li>Chiara, S., ii. <a href="ii.html#pg036">36</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg037">37</a></li>

<li>Chiarelli, the, of Fabriano, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg236">236</a></li>

<li>Chiavari, iii. <a href="#pg256">256</a></li>

<li>Chiavenna, i. <a href="i.html#pg035">35</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg053">53</a>, <a href="i.html#pg063">63</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg180">180</a>, <a href="i.html#pg184">184</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg130">130</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg131">131</a></li>

<li>Chioggia, i. <a href="i.html#pg257">257</a>-261</li>

<li>Chiozzia, i. <a href="i.html#pg350">350</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg351">351</a></li>

<li>Chiusi, i. <a href="i.html#pg086">86</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg050">50</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg051">51</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg052">52</a>; iii. <a href="#pg022">22</a>, <a
href="#pg090">90</a>, <a href="#pg092">92</a>;

<ul>
<li>Lake of, iii. <a href="#pg091">91</a>, <a href="#pg094">94</a>,
<a href="#pg101">101</a></li>
</ul>
</li>

<li>Chiusure, iii. <a href="#pg077">77</a>, <a href=
"#pg078">78</a>, <a href="#pg080">80</a></li>

<li>Chivasso, i. <a href="i.html#pg019">19</a></li>

<li>Christiern of Denmark, i. <a href="i.html#pg205">205</a></li>

<li>Chur, i. <a href="i.html#pg049">49</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg065">65</a></li>

<li>Cicero, iii. <a href="#pg321">321</a></li>

<li>Ciclopidi rocks, iii. <a href="#pg284">284</a></li>

<li>Cima, i. <a href="i.html#pg263">263</a></li>

<li>Cimabue, iii. <a href="#pg035">35</a>, <a href=
"#pg144">144</a></li>

<li>Ciminian Hills, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg088">88</a>; iii. <a
href="#pg022">22</a></li>

<li>Cini family. (_See_ Ambrogini)</li>

<li>Cinthio, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg265">265</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg272">272</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg277">277</a></li>

<li>Ciompi, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg208">208</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg209">209</a></li>

<li>Cisa, i. <a href="i.html#pg340">340</a></li>

<li>Citt&agrave; della Pieve, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg051">51</a></li>

<li>Citt&agrave; di Castello, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg047">47</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg071">71</a></li>

<li>Ciuffagni, Bernardo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg030">30</a></li>

<li>Clair, S., ii. <a href="ii.html#pg037">37</a> and _note_</li>

<li>Clairvaux, Abbot of, iii. <a href="#pg070">70</a></li>

<li>Claudian, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg057">57</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg343">343</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg344">344</a></li>

<li>Clemens Alexandrinus, iii. <a href="#pg204">204</a>, <a href=
"#pg217">217</a>, <a href="#pg219">219</a></li>

<li>Clement VI., iii. <a href="#pg074">74</a>, <a href=
"#pg132">132</a></li>

<li>Clement VII., i. <a href="i.html#pg221">221</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg316">316</a>, <a href="i.html#pg317">317</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg321">321</a>; ii. <a href="ii.html#pg233">233</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg239">239</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg247">247</a>
foll.; iii. <a href="#pg138">138</a> _note_, <a href=
"#pg247">247</a></li>

<li>Climmnus, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg035">35</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg039">39</a></li>

<li>Cloanthus, iii. <a href="#pg319">319</a></li>

<li>Clough, the poet, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg273">273</a></li>

<li>Clusium, iii. <a href="#pg093">93</a>, <a href=
"#pg094">94</a></li>

<li>Coire, i. <a href="i.html#pg183">183</a></li>

<li>Col de Checruit, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg015">15</a></li>

<li>Coleridge, S.T., ii. <a href="ii.html#pg273">273</a>; iii. <a
href="#pg173">173</a></li>

<li>Colico, i. <a href="i.html#pg064">64</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg183">183</a></li>

<li>Collalto, Count Salici da, i. <a href=
"i.html#pg337">337</a></li>

<li>Colleoni family, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg194">194</a></li>

<li>Colleoni, Bartolommeo, i. <a href="i.html#pg192">192</a>-208;
ii. <a href="ii.html#pg071">71</a></li>

<li>Colleoni, Medea, i. <a href="i.html#pg193">193</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg204">204</a></li>

<li>Collona family, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg187">187</a></li>

<li>Colma, the, i. <a href="ii.html#pg018">18</a></li>

<li>Colombini, iii. <a href="#pg069">69</a></li>

<li>Colonna, Francesco, iii. <a href="#pg103">103</a></li>

<li>Colonna, Giovanni, iii. <a href="#pg125">125</a>, <a href=
"#pg254">254</a></li>

<li>Colonus, the, iii. <a href="#pg350">350</a></li>

<li>Columbus, i. <a href="i.html#pg097">97</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg237">237</a></li>

<li>Commodus, i. <a href="i.html#pg135">135</a>; iii. <a href=
"#pg164">164</a></li>

<li>Comnena, Anna, iii. <a href="#pg297">297</a></li>

<li>Como, i. <a href="i.html#pg136">136</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg174">174</a>-189</li>

<li>Como, Lake of, i. <a href="i.html#pg050">50</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg064">64</a>, <a href="i.html#pg122">122</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg173">173</a>, <a href="i.html#pg174">174</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg179">179</a>, <a href="i.html#pg181">181</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg183">183</a>-186</li>

<li>Conrad (of Canossa), ii. <a href="ii.html#pg178">178</a></li>

<li>Conrad, King of Italy, iii. <a href="#pg305">305</a></li>

<li>Conradin, iii. <a href="#pg298">298</a></li>

<li>Constance, daughter of King Roger of Sicily, iii. <a href=
"#pg297">297</a>, <a href="#pg318">318</a></li>

<li>Constance of Aragon, wife of Frederick II., iii. <a href=
"#pg307">307</a> _note_</li>

<li>Constantinople, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg186">186</a>; iii. <a
href="#pg311">311</a></li>

<li>Contado, iii. <a href="#pg090">90</a></li>

<li>Copton, iii. <a href="#pg205">205</a></li>

<li>Corfu, i. <a href="i.html#pg087">87</a> _note_, <a href=
"i.html#pg103">103</a> _note_</li>

<li>Corgna, Bernardo da, iii. <a href="#pg125">125</a></li>

<li>Corinth, iii. <a href="#pg212">212</a>, <a href=
"#pg322">322</a>, <a href="#pg342">342</a>, <a href=
"#pg362">362</a></li>

<li>Cormayeur, valley of, i. <a href="i.html#pg009">9</a>, <a
href="i.html#pg014">14</a>-16</li>

<li>Correggio, i. <a href="i.html#pg137">137</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg140">140</a>, <a href="i.html#pg163">163</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg126">126</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg147">147</a>-162</li>

<li>Corsica, i. <a href="i.html#pg085">85</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg102">102</a>-120; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg286">286</a></li>

<li>Corte, i. <a href="i.html#pg110">110</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg111">111</a></li>

<li>Corte Savella, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg096">96</a></li>

<li>Cortina, i. <a href="i.html#pg268">268</a></li>

<li>Cortona, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg048">48</a>-51, <a href=
"ii.html#pg214">214</a>; iii. <a href="#pg090">90</a>, <a href=
"#pg092">92</a>, <a href="#pg151">151</a> _note_</li>

<li>Cortusi, the, iii. <a href="#pg006">6</a></li>

<li>Corviolo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg170">170</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg178">178</a></li>

<li>Coryat, Tom, i. <a href="i.html#pg049">49</a></li>

<li>Costa (of Venice), Antonio, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg150">150</a></li>

<li>Costa (of Rome), ii. <a href="ii.html#pg033">33</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg146">146</a></li>

<li>Courthezon, i. <a href="i.html#pg081">81</a></li>

<li>Covo, i. <a href="i.html#pg197">197</a></li>

<li>Cramont, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg015">15</a></li>

<li>Credi, Lorenzo di, iii. <a href="#pg035">35</a></li>

<li>Crema, i. <a href="i.html#pg194">194</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg209">209</a>-222</li>

<li>Cremona, i. <a href="i.html#pg209">209</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg213">213</a>, <a href="i.html#pg215">215</a>; iii. <a
href="#pg006">6</a></li>

<li>Crimisus, the, iii. <a href="#pg304">304</a>, <a href=
"#pg319">319</a></li>

<li>Crotona, iii. <a href="#pg319">319</a></li>

<li>Crowne, the dramatist, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg159">159</a></li>

<li>Cuma, iii. <a href="#pg212">212</a></li>

<li>Curtius, Lancinus, i. <a href="i.html#pg159">159</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg193">193</a></li>

<li>Cyane, the, iii. <a href="#pg328">328</a></li>

<li>Cybo, Franceschetto, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg239">239</a></li>
</ul>

<ul class="IX">
<li>Dalc&ograve;, Antonio, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg150">150</a></li>

<li>Dandolo, Gherardo, i. <a href="i.html#pg198">198</a></li>

<li>Dandolo, Matteo, iii. <a href="#pg133">133</a></li>

<li>Daniel, Samuel (the poet), ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg263">263</a></li>

<li>Dante, i. <a href="i.html#pg029">29</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg080">80</a>; ii. <a href="ii.html#pg005">5</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg006">6</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg013">13</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg015">15</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg023">23</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg065">65</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg070">70</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg136">136</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg137">137</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg160">160</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg170">170</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg206">206</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg207">207</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg261">261</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg262">262</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg269">269</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg273">273</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg277">277</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg305">305</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg343">343</a>; iii. <a href="#pg002">2</a>, <a
href="#pg019">19</a>, <a href="#pg025">25</a>, <a href=
"#pg036">36</a>, <a href="#pg043">43</a> _note_, <a href=
"#pg067">67</a>, <a href="#pg069">69</a>, <a href="#pg073">73</a>,
<a href="#pg111">111</a>, <a href="#pg144">144</a>, <a href=
"#pg149">149</a>, <a href="#pg173">173</a>, <a href=
"#pg241">241</a>, <a href="#pg317">317</a></li>

<li>D'Arcello, Filippo, i. <a href="i.html#pg195">195</a></li>

<li>Davenant, Sir William, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg267">267</a></li>

<li>David, Jacques Louis, i. <a href="i.html#pg071">71</a>, <a
href="i.html#pg072">72</a></li>

<li>Davos, i. <a href="i.html#pg020">20</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg028">28</a>-47, <a href="i.html#pg049">49</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg053">53</a>, <a href="i.html#pg058">58</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg065">65</a>, <a href="i.html#pg183">183</a></li>

<li>Davos D&ouml;rfli, i. <a href="i.html#pg053">53</a></li>

<li>De Comines, Philippe, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg190">190</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg193">193</a>-197; iii. <a href="#pg045">45</a>
_note_, <a href="#pg069">69</a></li>

<li>De Gi&eacute;, Mar&eacute;chal, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg199">199</a></li>

<li>De Musset, iii. <a href="#pg163">163</a>, <a href=
"#pg235">235</a></li>

<li>De Quincey, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg113">113</a>; iii. <a
href="#pg273">273</a> _note_</li>

<li>De Rosset, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg103">103</a></li>

<li>Dekker, Thomas, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg267">267</a></li>

<li>Del Corvo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg136">136</a></li>

<li>Della Casa, Giovanni, i. <a href="i.html#pg331">331</a>, <a
href="i.html#pg333">333</a></li>

<li>Della Porta, i. <a href="i.html#pg193">193</a></li>

<li>Della Quercia, i. <a href="i.html#pg192">192</a></li>

<li>Della Rocca, Giudice, i. <a href="i.html#pg112">112</a>, <a
href="i.html#pg113">113</a></li>

<li>Della Rovere family, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg066">66</a> (_see
also_ Rovere)</li>

<li>Della Seta, Galeazzo, i. <a href="i.html#pg329">329</a></li>

<li>Demetrius, iii. <a href="#pg113">113</a></li>

<li>Demosthenes, iii. <a href="#pg323">323</a>, <a href=
"#pg324">324</a>, <a href="#pg326">326</a>, <a href=
"#pg327">327</a></li>

<li>Desenzano, i. <a href="i.html#pg173">173</a></li>

<li>Dickens, Charles, iii. <a href="#pg039">39</a></li>

<li>Dionysius, iii. <a href="#pg322">322</a>, <a href=
"#pg325">325</a></li>

<li>Dischma-Thal, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg049">49</a></li>

<li>Dolce Acqua, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg136">136</a></li>

<li>Dolcebono, Gian Giacomo, i. <a href=
"i.html#pg153">153</a></li>

<li>Domenico da Leccio, Fra, iii. <a href="#pg083">83</a></li>

<li>Dominic, S., i. <a href="i.html#pg221">221</a>; iii. <a href=
"#pg061">61</a></li>

<li>Donatello, i. <a href="i.html#pg150">150</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg178">178</a>; ii. <a href="ii.html#pg029">29</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg030">30</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg041">41</a>;
iii. <a href="#pg096">96</a>, <a href="#pg097">97</a>, <a href=
"#pg100">100</a></li>

<li>Doni, Adone, iii. <a href="#pg114">114</a></li>

<li>Dor&eacute;, Gustave, i. <a href="i.html#pg264">264</a>; ii.
<a href="ii.html#pg015">15</a></li>

<li>Doria, Pietro, i. <a href="i.html#pg260">260</a></li>

<li>Doria, Stephen, i. <a href="i.html#pg113">113</a></li>

<li>Dorias, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg097">97</a></li>

<li>Dossi, Dosso, i. <a href="i.html#pg166">166</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg170">170</a>, <a href="i.html#pg172">172</a></li>

<li>Drayton, Michael, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg263">263</a></li>

<li>Druids, the, iii. <a href="#pg029">29</a></li>

<li>Drummond, William (the poet), ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg263">263</a></li>

<li>Dryden, i. <a href="i.html#pg002">2</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg006">6</a>; ii. <a href="ii.html#pg007">7</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg270">270</a></li>

<li>Duccio, iii. <a href="#pg144">144</a>, <a href=
"#pg145">145</a></li>

<li>D&uuml;rer, Albert, i. <a href="i.html#pg345">345</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg275">275</a>; iii. <a href="#pg260">260</a></li>
</ul>

<ul class="IX">
<li>Eckermann, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg157">157</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg162">162</a></li>

<li>Edolo, i. <a href="i.html#pg063">63</a></li>

<li>Edrisi, iii. <a href="#pg308">308</a>, <a href=
"#pg309">309</a></li>

<li>Egypt, iii. <a href="#pg189">189</a>, <a href="#pg190">190</a>,
<a href="i.html#pg192">192</a>, <a href="i.html#pg210">210</a>
foll.</li>

<li>Eichens, Edward, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg150">150</a></li>

<li>Eiger, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg012">12</a></li>

<li>Electra, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg135">135</a></li>

<li>'Eliot, George,' ii. <a href="ii.html#pg270">270</a></li>

<li>Emilia, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg016">16</a></li>

<li>Emilia Pia, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg082">82</a></li>

<li>Empedocles, i. <a href="i.html#pg087">87</a>; iii. <a href=
"#pg172">172</a>, <a href="#pg173">173</a>, <a href=
"#pg174">174</a>, <a href="#pg181">181</a>, <a href=
"#pg337">337</a></li>

<li>Empoli, iii. <a href="#pg041">41</a>, <a href=
"#pg087">87</a></li>

<li>Engadine, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg048">48</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg055">55</a>, <a href="i.html#pg056">56</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg061">61</a>, <a href="i.html#pg183">183</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg128">128</a></li>

<li>Enna, iii. <a href="#pg302">302</a>, <a href="#pg303">303</a>
and _note_</li>

<li>Ennius, iii. <a href="#pg173">173</a>, <a href=
"#pg181">181</a></li>

<li>Enza, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg166">166</a></li>

<li>Enzio, King, iii. <a href="#pg298">298</a></li>

<li>Epicurus, iii. <a href="#pg173">173</a>, <a href=
"#pg174">174</a>, <a href="#pg181">181</a></li>

<li>Eridanus, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg131">131</a></li>

<li>Eryx (Lerici), ii. <a href="ii.html#pg142">142</a></li>

<li>Este, i. <a href="i.html#pg167">167</a></li>

<li>Este family, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg166">166</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg068">68</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg251">251</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg268">268</a></li>

<li>Este, Azzo d', iii. <a href="#pg006">6</a>:

<ul>
<li>Beatrice d', i. <a href="i.html#pg150">150</a>:</li>

<li>Cardinal d', ii. <a href="ii.html#pg091">91</a>:</li>

<li>Ercole d', i. <a href="i.html#pg202">202</a>, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg236">236</a>:</li>

<li>Guelfo d', ii. <a href="ii.html#pg177">177</a>:</li>

<li>Guinipera d', ii. <a href="ii.html#pg017">17</a>;</li>

<li>Lucrezia d', ii. <a href="ii.html#pg077">77</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg083">83</a>:</li>

<li>Niccolo d', ii. <a href="ii.html#pg236">236</a></li>
</ul>
</li>

<li>Estrelles, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg102">102</a></li>

<li>Etna, iii. <a href="#pg093">93</a>, <a href="#pg103">103</a>,
<a href="#pg198">198</a>, <a href="#pg279">279</a>-287, <a href=
"#pg319">319</a>, <a href="#pg325">325</a>, <a href=
"#pg327">327</a></li>

<li>Etruscans, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg049">49</a></li>

<li>Euganeans, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg258">258</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg281">281</a>, <a href="i.html#pg282">282</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg168">168</a></li>

<li>Eug&eacute;nie, Empress, i. <a href=
"i.html#pg119">119</a></li>

<li>Eugenius IV., i. <a href="i.html#pg199">199</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg070">70</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg220">220</a></li>

<li>Euhemerus, iii. <a href="#pg173">173</a></li>

<li>Euripides, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg142">142</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg159">159</a> _note_, <a href=
"ii.html#pg335">335</a>; iii. <a href="#pg089">89</a>, <a href=
"#pg215">215</a>, <a href="#pg340">340</a></li>

<li>Eusebius, iii. <a href="#pg197">197</a>, <a href=
"#pg219">219</a></li>

<li>Everelina, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg166">166</a></li>
</ul>

<ul class="IX">
<li>Fabretti, Raffaello, iii. <a href="#pg209">209</a></li>

<li>Faenza, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg047">47</a></li>

<li>Fairfax, Edward, translator of Tasso, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg265">265</a></li>

<li>Fano, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg057">57</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg059">59</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg069">69</a></li>

<li>Fanum Fortun&aelig; (Fano), ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg057">57</a></li>

<li>Farnese, Alessandro, i. <a href="i.html#pg317">317</a>:

<ul>
<li>Julia, i. <a href="i.html#pg193">193</a>:</li>

<li>Odoardo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg180">180</a>:</li>

<li>Pier Luigi, iii. <a href="#pg133">133</a>:</li>

<li>Ranunzio, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg180">180</a>:</li>

<li>Vittoria, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg076">76</a></li>
</ul>
</li>

<li>Farnesi family, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg075">75</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg090">90</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg117">117</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg180">180</a>; iii. <a href="#pg336">336</a></li>

<li>Faro, the, iii. <a href="#pg301">301</a>, <a href=
"#pg320">320</a></li>

<li>Favara, iii. <a href="#pg309">309</a></li>

<li>Federighi, Antonio, iii. <a href="#pg062">62</a></li>

<li>Federigo of Urbino. (_See_ Urbino)</li>

<li>Feltre, Vittorino da, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg070">70</a></li>

<li>Ferdinand, Grand Duke of Tuscany, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg078">78</a></li>

<li>Ferdinand of Aragon, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg189">189</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg191">191</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg192">192</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg193">193</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg234">234</a>; iii. <a href="#pg274">274</a>, <a href=
"#pg276">276</a></li>

<li>Fermo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg047">47</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg090">90</a></li>

<li>Ferrara, i. <a href="i.html#pg166">166</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg167">167</a>, <a href="i.html#pg171">171</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg067">67</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg068">68</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg168">168</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg169">169</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg185">185</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg221">221</a>; iii. <a href="#pg006">6</a></li>

<li>Ferrara, Duke of, i. <a href="i.html#pg206">206</a></li>

<li>Ferrari, Gaudenzio, i. <a href="i.html#pg137">137</a>-139, <a
href="i.html#pg141">141</a>, <a href="i.html#pg162">162</a>-164,
<a href="i.html#pg177">177</a></li>

<li>Ferretti, Professor, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg179">179</a></li>

<li>Ferrucci, Francesco, i. <a href="i.html#pg343">343</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg254">254</a></li>

<li>Fesch, Cardinal, i. <a href="i.html#pg118">118</a></li>

<li>Fiesole, i. <a href="i.html#pg086">86</a></li>

<li>Filelfo, Francesco, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg025">25</a></li>

<li>Filibert of Savoy, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg091">91</a></li>

<li>Filiberta, Princess of Savoy, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg247">247</a></li>

<li>Filippo, i. <a href="i.html#pg149">149</a></li>

<li>Filonardi, Cinzio, iii. <a href="#pg133">133</a></li>

<li>Fina, Santa, iii. <a href="#pg059">59</a></li>

<li>Finiguerra, Maso, i. <a href="i.html#pg218">218</a></li>

<li>Finsteraarhorn, the, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg130">130</a></li>

<li>Fiorenzuola, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg197">197</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg284">284</a></li>

<li>Flaminian Way, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg055">55</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg057">57</a></li>

<li>Flaxman, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg015">15</a></li>

<li>Fletcher, the dramatist, i. <a href="i.html#pg358">358</a>;
ii. <a href="ii.html#pg267">267</a></li>

<li>Florence, i. <a href="i.html#pg121">121</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg316">316</a>, <a href="i.html#pg318">318</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg319">319</a>; ii. <a href="ii.html#pg005">5</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg050">50</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg145">145</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg185">185</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg187">187</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg198">198</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg201">201</a>-257, <a href=
"ii.html#pg259">259</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg305">305</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg306">306</a>; iii. <a href="#pg007">7</a>, <a
href="#pg010">10</a>, <a href="#pg021">21</a>, <a href=
"#pg132">132</a>, <a href="#pg151">151</a> _note_, <a href=
"#pg317">317</a> _note_, _et passim_</li>

<li>Florence, Duke of, i. <a href="i.html#pg187">187</a></li>

<li>Fluela, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg029">29</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg037">37</a>, <a href="i.html#pg054">54</a></li>

<li>Fluela Bernina Pass, the, i. <a href=
"i.html#pg053">53</a></li>

<li>Fluela Hospice, i. <a href="i.html#pg059">59</a></li>

<li>Foglia, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg065">65</a></li>

<li>Foiano, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg050">50</a></li>

<li>Folcioni, Signor, i. <a href="i.html#pg217">217</a></li>

<li>Folengo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg270">270</a></li>

<li>Folgore da San Gemignano, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg053">53</a>;
iii. <a href="#pg001">1</a>-20, <a href="#pg067">67</a>, <a href=
"#pg070">70</a></li>

<li>Foligno, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg037">37</a>-41, <a href=
"ii.html#pg045">45</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg046">46</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg052">52</a></li>

<li>Fondi, i. <a href="i.html#pg318">318</a></li>

<li>Ford, John (the dramatist), ii, <a href=
"ii.html#pg267">267</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg277">277</a></li>

<li>Forio, iii. <a href="#pg236">236</a>, <a href=
"#pg237">237</a></li>

<li>Fornovo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg132">132</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg180">180</a>-200</li>

<li>Fortini, iii. <a href="#pg068">68</a></li>

<li>Forulus (Furlo), ii. <a href="ii.html#pg057">57</a></li>

<li>Forum Sempronii (Fossombrone), ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg057">57</a></li>

<li>Foscari, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg098">98</a></li>

<li>Fosdinovo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg134">134</a>-137</li>

<li>Fossato, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg052">52</a></li>

<li>Fossombrone, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg057">57</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg058">58</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg069">69</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg085">85</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg091">91</a></li>

<li>Fouquet, i. <a href="i.html#pg080">80</a></li>

<li>Francesco, Fra, i. <a href="i.html#pg269">269</a></li>

<li>Francesco da Carrara, iii. <a href="#pg006">6</a></li>

<li>Francesco Maria I. of Urbino. (_See_ Urbino)</li>

<li>Francesco Maria II. of Urbino. (_See_ Urbino)</li>

<li>Francia, Francesco, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg033">33</a></li>

<li>Francis I. of France, i. <a href="i.html#pg113">113</a>, <a
href="i.html#pg183">183</a>, <a href="i.html#pg184">184</a></li>

<li>Francis of Assisi, S., i. <a href="i.html#pg099">99</a>, <a
href="i.html#pg100">100</a>; ii. <a href="ii.html#pg023">23</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg044">44</a>; iii. <a href="#pg057">57</a>, <a
href="#pg058">58</a>, <a href="#pg061">61</a>, <a href=
"#pg113">113</a></li>

<li>Fran&ccedil;ois des Baux, i. <a href=
"i.html#pg081">81</a></li>

<li>Frederick, Emperor, i. <a href="i.html#pg080">80</a></li>

<li>Frederick II., Emperor, iii. <a href="#pg297">297</a>, <a href=
"#pg315">315</a> and _note_, <a href="#pg316">316</a>-318</li>

<li>Frere, J.H., ii. <a href="ii.html#pg270">270</a></li>

<li>Friedrichs, ----, iii. <a href="#pg224">224</a></li>

<li>Frisingensis, Otto, iii. <a href="#pg007">7</a></li>

<li>Friuli, i. <a href="i.html#pg351">351</a></li>

<li>Furka, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg130">130</a></li>

<li>Furlo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg055">55</a></li>

<li>Furlo Pass, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg057">57</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg058">58</a></li>

<li>Fusina, i. <a href="i.html#pg281">281</a></li>
</ul>

<ul class="IX">
<li>Gaeta, i. <a href="i.html#pg318">318</a>; iii. <a href=
"#pg235">235</a></li>

<li>Galatea, i. <a href="i.html#pg091">91</a></li>

<li>Galileo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg027">27</a></li>

<li>Galli Islands, iii. <a href="#pg270">270</a></li>

<li>Gallio, Marchese Giacomo, i. <a href=
"i.html#pg179">179</a></li>

<li>Gallo, Antonio di San, iii. <a href="#pg090">90</a>, <a href=
"#pg102">102</a></li>

<li>Gallo, Francesco da San, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg253">253</a>;
iii. <a href="#pg247">247</a></li>

<li>Garda, i. <a href="i.html#pg173">173</a>;

<ul>
<li>Lake of, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg098">98</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg169">169</a></li>
</ul>
</li>

<li>Gardon, the, valley of, i. <a href="i.html#pg075">75</a></li>

<li>Garfagnana, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg168">168</a></li>

<li>Garigliano, iii. <a href="#pg247">247</a></li>

<li>Gaston de Foix, i. <a href="i.html#pg160">160</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg161">161</a>, <a href="i.html#pg193">193</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg002">2</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg010">10</a></li>

<li>Gattamelata (Erasmo da Narni), i. <a href=
"i.html#pg197">197</a>; ii. <a href="ii.html#pg041">41</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg071">71</a></li>

<li>Gellias, iii. <a href="#pg337">337</a></li>

<li>Gelon, iii. <a href="#pg290">290</a>, <a href=
"#pg304">304</a></li>

<li>Genoa, i. <a href="i.html#pg097">97</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg105">105</a>, <a href="i.html#pg113">113</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg259">259</a>; ii. <a href="ii.html#pg185">185</a>;
iii. <a href="#pg250">250</a>, <a href="#pg253">253</a>, <a href=
"#pg317">317</a> _note_</li>

<li>Gentile, Girolamo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg236">236</a></li>

<li>George of Antioch, iii. <a href="#pg307">307</a>, <a href=
"#pg311">311</a></li>

<li>G&eacute;rard, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg149">149</a></li>

<li>Gerardo da Camino, iii. <a href="#pg006">6</a></li>

<li>Ghiacciuolo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg015">15</a></li>

<li>Ghibellines, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg015">15</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg054">54</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg069">69</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg202">202</a> foll.; iii. <a href="#pg017">17</a>,
<a href="#pg043">43</a> _note_, <a href="#pg073">73</a>, <a href=
"#pg110">110</a></li>

<li>Ghiberti, Lorenzo di Cino, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg030">30</a>; iii. <a href="#pg145">145</a>, <a href=
"#pg146">146</a></li>

<li>Giannandrea, bravo of Verona, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg085">85</a></li>

<li>Giardini, iii. <a href="#pg287">287</a></li>

<li>Giarre, iii. <a href="#pg279">279</a></li>

<li>Gibbon, Edward (cited), i. <a href="i.html#pg346">346</a></li>

<li>Ginori, Caterina, i. <a href="i.html#pg323">323</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg324">324</a></li>

<li>Ginori, Lionardo, i. <a href="i.html#pg323">323</a></li>

<li>Giordani, i. <a href="i.html#pg326">326</a></li>

<li>Giorgione, i. <a href="i.html#pg345">345</a>; iii. <a href=
"#pg247">247</a></li>

<li>Giottino, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg233">233</a> _note_</li>

<li>Giotto, i. <a href="i.html#pg152">152</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg043">43</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg206">206</a>; iii.
<a href="#pg035">35</a>, <a href="#pg145">145</a>, <a href=
"#pg248">248</a></li>

<li>Giovanni da Fogliani, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg047">47</a></li>

<li>Giovenone, i. <a href="i.html#pg139">139</a></li>

<li>Giovio, i. <a href="i.html#pg322">322</a></li>

<li>Girgenti, iii. <a href="#pg266">266</a>, <a href=
"#pg291">291</a>, <a href="#pg302">302</a>, <a href=
"#pg304">304</a>, <a href="#pg320">320</a>, <a href=
"#pg321">321</a>, <a href="#pg332">332</a>-338</li>

<li>Giulio Romano, i. <a href="i.html#pg140">140</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg152">152</a></li>

<li>Glastonbury, iii. <a href="#pg029">29</a>, <a href=
"#pg047">47</a></li>

<li>Gnoli, Professor, i. <a href="i.html#pg327">327</a> _note_;
ii. <a href="ii.html#pg102">102</a> _note_, <a href=
"ii.html#pg103">103</a></li>

<li>Godfrey, the Hunchback, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg170">170</a></li>

<li>Godfrey, Duke of Lorraine, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg170">170</a></li>

<li>Goethe, i. <a href="i.html#pg005">5</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg006">6</a>, <a href="i.html#pg010">10</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg011">11</a>, <a href="i.html#pg131">131</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg164">164</a>, <a href="i.html#pg237">237</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg026">26</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg157">157</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg160">160</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg162">162</a>; iii. <a href="#pg172">172</a>, <a href=
"#pg173">173</a>, <a href="#pg320">320</a></li>

<li>Goldoni, i. <a href="i.html#pg259">259</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg345">345</a>-359</li>

<li>Golo, the, valley of, i. <a href="i.html#pg111">111</a></li>

<li>Gonfalonier of Florence, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg083">83</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg206">206</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg209">209</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg243">243</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg245">245</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg253">253</a></li>

<li>Gonzaga family, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg068">68</a></li>

<li>Gonzaga, Alessandro, i. <a href="i.html#pg186">186</a>:

<ul>
<li>Elisabetta, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg073">73</a>:</li>

<li>Grancesco, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg073">73</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg194">194</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg196">196</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg197">197</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg345">345</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg363">363</a> _note_:</li>

<li>Giulia, i. <a href="i.html#pg318">318</a>:</li>

<li>Leonora, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg076">76</a></li>
</ul>
</li>

<li>Gorbio, i. <a href="i.html#pg085">85</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg091">91</a></li>

<li>Gozzoli, Benozzo, i. <a href="i.html#pg137">137</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg035">35</a></li>

<li>Graub&uuml;nden, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg050">50</a></li>

<li>Gravedona, i. <a href="i.html#pg181">181</a></li>

<li>Gray, the poet, i. <a href="i.html#pg003">3</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg273">273</a></li>

<li>Greece, and the Greeks, i. <a href="i.html#pg101">101</a>, <a
href="i.html#pg102">102</a>, <a href="i.html#pg240">240</a>, <a
href="i.html#pg244">244</a>; ii. <a href="ii.html#pg018">18</a>;
iii. <a href="#pg155">155</a> foll., <a href="#pg260">260</a>
foll., <a href="#pg285">285</a>-287, <a href="#pg290">290</a>-292,
<a href="#pg320">320</a> foll., <a href="#pg339">339</a>-364</li>

<li>Greene, Robert, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg265">265</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg266">266</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg267">267</a></li>

<li>Gregory VII., ii. <a href="ii.html#pg172">172</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg173">173</a>-176 (_see also_ Hildebrand)</li>

<li>Gregory XI., iii. <a href="#pg051">51</a></li>

<li>Gregory XIII., ii. <a href="ii.html#pg088">88</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg095">95</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg096">96</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg097">97</a></li>

<li>Grenoble, i. <a href="i.html#pg111">111</a></li>

<li>Grigioni, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg049">49</a></li>

<li>Grindelwald, iii. <a href="#pg275">275</a></li>

<li>Grisons, Canton of the, i. <a href="i.html#pg048">48</a>, <a
href="i.html#pg049">49</a>, <a href="i.html#pg050">50</a>, <a
href="i.html#pg183">183</a>, <a href="i.html#pg184">184</a>, <a
href="i.html#pg186">186</a>, <a href="i.html#pg188">188</a></li>

<li>Grivola, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg126">126</a></li>

<li>Grosseto, iii. <a href="#pg066">66</a></li>

<li>Grote, the historian, iii. <a href="#pg323">323</a></li>

<li>Grumello, i. <a href="i.html#pg048">48</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg064">64</a></li>

<li>Guarini, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg267">267</a></li>

<li>Guazzi, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg329">329</a></li>

<li>Gubbio, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg035">35</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg045">45</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg052">52</a>-55, <a
href="ii.html#pg069">69</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg085">85</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg089">89</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg097">97</a></li>

<li>Guelfs, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg015">15</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg054">54</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg202">202</a> foll.;
iii. <a href="#pg017">17</a>, <a href="#pg110">110</a>, <a href=
"#pg112">112</a></li>

<li>Gu&eacute;rin, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg043">43</a></li>

<li>Guicciardini, Francesco, i. <a href="i.html#pg319">319</a>;
ii. <a href="ii.html#pg075">75</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg255">255</a></li>

<li>Guiccioli, Countess, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg007">7</a></li>

<li>Guidantonio, Count, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg070">70</a></li>

<li>Guido, iii. <a href="#pg184">184</a></li>

<li>Guidobaldo I. (_See_ Urbino)</li>

<li>Guidobaldo II. (_See_ Urbino)</li>

<li>Guillaume de Cabestan, i. <a href="i.html#pg080">80</a></li>

<li>Guiscard, Robert, iii. <a href="#pg262">262</a>, <a href=
"#pg297">297</a>, <a href="#pg298">298</a>, <a href=
"#pg300">300</a></li>

<li>Gyas, iii. <a href="#pg319">319</a></li>

<li>Gylippus, iii. <a href="#pg323">323</a>, <a href=
"#pg324">324</a>, <a href="#pg326">326</a>, <a href=
"#pg337">337</a></li>
</ul>

<ul class="IX">
<li>Hadrian, iii. <a href="#pg164">164</a>, <a href=
"#pg185">185</a>, <a href="#pg187">187</a>-205, <a href=
"#pg208">208</a>, <a href="#pg210">210</a>, <a href=
"#pg212">212</a>, <a href="#pg224">224</a>, <a href=
"#pg225">225</a>, <a href="#pg226">226</a>, <a href=
"#pg228">228</a>, <a href="#pg343">343</a>, <a href=
"#pg345">345</a></li>

<li>Halycus, the, iii. <a href="#pg319">319</a></li>

<li>Handel, iii. <a href="#pg040">40</a></li>

<li>Harmodius, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg135">135</a>; iii. <a href=
"#pg155">155</a></li>

<li>Harrington, Sir John, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg265">265</a></li>

<li>Harvey, Gabriel, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg265">265</a></li>

<li>Hauteville, house of, iii. <a href="#pg252">252</a>, <a href=
"#pg253">253</a>, <a href="#pg254">254</a>, <a href=
"#pg290">290</a>, <a href="#pg294">294</a> foll.</li>

<li>Hazlitt, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg109">109</a></li>

<li>Hegesippus, iii. <a href="#pg188">188</a></li>

<li>Helbig, iii. <a href="#pg187">187</a></li>

<li>Heliogabalus, i. <a href="i.html#pg135">135</a>; iii. <a href=
"#pg164">164</a></li>

<li>Henry II. of France, i. <a href="i.html#pg316">316</a></li>

<li>Henry III., ii. <a href="ii.html#pg170">170</a></li>

<li>Henry IV., King of Italy, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg170">170</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg173">173</a>-177;
iii. <a href="#pg300">300</a> _note_</li>

<li>Henry V., Emperor, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg178">178</a></li>

<li>Henry VI. (of Sicily), iii. <a href="#pg297">297</a>, <a href=
"#pg318">318</a></li>

<li>Henry VII., Emperor, iii. <a href="#pg072">72</a>, <a href=
"#pg076">76</a></li>

<li>Hermopolis, iii. <a href="#pg205">205</a></li>

<li>Herodotus, iii. <a href="#pg319">319</a></li>

<li>Herrick, Robert, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg324">324</a></li>

<li>Hesiod, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg338">338</a>; iii. <a href=
"#pg172">172</a>, <a href="#pg173">173</a></li>

<li>Hiero II., iii. <a href="#pg325">325</a></li>

<li>Hildebrand, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg163">163</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg171">171</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg172">172</a>; iii.
<a href="#pg300">300</a> _note_ 2, <a href="#pg305">305</a></li>

<li>Himera, the, iii. <a href="#pg304">304</a></li>

<li>Hispellum (Spello), ii. <a href="ii.html#pg038">38</a></li>

<li>Hoby, Thomas, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg265">265</a></li>

<li>Hoffnungsau, i. <a href="i.html#pg066">66</a></li>

<li>Hohenstauffen, house of, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg188">188</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg202">202</a>; iii. <a href="#pg290">290</a>,
<a href="#pg297">297</a>, <a href="#pg315">315</a></li>

<li>Homer, i. <a href="i.html#pg084">84</a> _note_; iii. <a href=
"#pg155">155</a>, <a href="#pg226">226</a>, <a href=
"#pg286">286</a>, <a href="#pg287">287</a>, <a href=
"#pg320">320</a></li>

<li>Honorius, Emperor, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg002">2</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg057">57</a></li>

<li>Horace, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg273">273</a>; iii. <a href=
"#pg180">180</a></li>

<li>Howell, James, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg266">266</a></li>

<li>Hugh, Abbot of Clugny, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg175">175</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg176">176</a></li>

<li>Hugo, Victor, iii. <a href="#pg164">164</a></li>

<li>Hunt, Leigh, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg015">15</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg146">146</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg270">270</a></li>

<li>Hymettus, iii. <a href="#pg351">351</a></li>
</ul>

<ul class="IX">
<li>Ibn-Ham&ucirc;d, iii. <a href="#pg304">304</a></li>

<li>Ictinus, iii. <a href="#pg267">267</a>, <a href=
"#pg343">343</a></li>

<li>Il Medeghino. (_See_ Medici, Gian Giacomo de')</li>

<li>Ilaria del Caretto, iii. <a href="#pg098">98</a></li>

<li>Ilario, Fra, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg136">136</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg137">137</a></li>

<li>Ilissus, the, iii. <a href="#pg350">350</a></li>

<li>Imola, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg231">231</a></li>

<li>Imperial, Prince, i. <a href="i.html#pg119">119</a></li>

<li>Inn river, the, i, <a href="i.html#pg054">54</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg055">55</a></li>

<li>Innocent III., ii. <a href="ii.html#pg203">203</a></li>

<li>Innocent VIII., ii. <a href="ii.html#pg184">184</a></li>

<li>Innspr&uuml;ck, i. <a href="i.html#pg111">111</a></li>

<li>Isabella of Aragon, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg192">192</a></li>

<li>Isac, Antonio, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg149">149</a></li>

<li>Ischia, iii. <a href="#pg233">233</a>, <a href=
"#pg234">234</a>, <a href="#pg236">236</a>, <a href=
"#pg238">238</a>, <a href="#pg241">241</a></li>

<li>Isella, i. <a href="i.html#pg019">19</a></li>

<li>Iseo, Lake, i. <a href="i.html#pg173">173</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg174">174</a></li>

<li>Ithaca, iii. <a href="#pg364">364</a></li>

<li>Itri, i. <a href="i.html#pg318">318</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg319">319</a></li>
</ul>

<ul class="IX">
<li>Jacobshorn, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg131">131</a></li>

<li>James 'III. of England,' ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg083">83</a></li>

<li>Joachim, Abbot, iii. <a href="#pg141">141</a>, <a href=
"#pg142">142</a></li>

<li>Joan of Naples, i. <a href="i.html#pg081">81</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg195">195</a></li>

<li>John XXII., iii. <a href="#pg074">74</a></li>

<li>John XXIII., iii. <a href="#pg096">96</a></li>

<li>John of Austria, Don, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg077">77</a></li>

<li>Jonson, Ben, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg267">267</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg268">268</a></li>

<li>Jourdain (the hangman of the Glaci&egrave;re), i. <a href=
"i.html#pg072">72</a></li>

<li>Judith of Evreux, iii. <a href="#pg303">303</a></li>

<li>Julia, daughter of Claudius, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg036">36</a></li>

<li>Julian, iii. <a href="#pg197">197</a></li>

<li>Julier, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg127">127</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg128">128</a></li>

<li>Julius II., i. <a href="i.html#pg221">221</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg074">74</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg083">83</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg220">220</a>; iii. <a href="#pg131">131</a></li>

<li>Jungfrau, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg012">12</a></li>

<li>Justin Martyr, iii. <a href="#pg197">197</a>, <a href=
"#pg219">219</a></li>

<li>Justinian, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg010">10</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg012">12</a></li>

<li>Juvara, Aloisio, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg150">150</a></li>

<li>Juvenal, iii. <a href="#pg181">181</a>, <a href=
"#pg199">199</a></li>
</ul>

<ul class="IX">
<li>Keats, the poet, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg262">262</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg263">263</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg270">270</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg273">273</a></li>

<li>Kelbite dynasty, iii. <a href="#pg292">292</a>, <a href=
"#pg301">301</a></li>

<li>Killigrew, the dramatist, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg159">159</a></li>

<li>Klosters, i. <a href="i.html#pg030">30</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg046">46</a></li>
</ul>

<ul class="IX">
<li>La Cisa, the pass, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg132">132</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg133">133</a></li>

<li>La Madonna di Tirano, i. <a href="i.html#pg061">61</a>, <a
href="i.html#pg062">62</a></li>

<li>La Magione, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg046">46</a>-48</li>

<li>La Rosa, i. <a href="i.html#pg059">59</a></li>

<li>La Spezzia, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg137">137</a>-139, <a href=
"ii.html#pg143">143</a></li>

<li>La Staffa family, the, iii. <a href="#pg113">113</a></li>

<li>Lacca, iii. <a href="#pg236">236</a></li>

<li>Lamb, Charles, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg110">110</a></li>

<li>Lampridius, iii. <a href="#pg197">197</a></li>

<li>Landona, iii. <a href="#pg127">127</a></li>

<li>Lanini, i. <a href="i.html#pg139">139</a>-142, <a href=
"i.html#pg162">162</a></li>

<li>Lanuvium, iii. <a href="#pg209">209</a></li>

<li>Lars Porsena, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg052">52</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg093">93</a></li>

<li>Laschi, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg329">329</a></li>

<li>Le Prese, i. <a href="i.html#pg060">60</a></li>

<li>Leake, Colonel, iii. <a href="#pg325">325</a></li>

<li>Lecco, i. <a href="i.html#pg183">183</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg185">185</a>, <a href="i.html#pg186">186</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg188">188</a></li>

<li>Legnano, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg198">198</a></li>

<li>Lenz, i. <a href="i.html#pg065">65</a></li>

<li>Leo IX., iii. <a href="#pg300">300</a></li>

<li>Leo X., i. <a href="i.html#pg221">221</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg075">75</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg088">88</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg246">246</a>; iii. <a href="#pg132">132</a></li>

<li>Leonardo. (_See_ Vinci, Leonardo da)</li>

<li>Leoncina, Monna Ippolita, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg308">308</a></li>

<li>Leopardi, Alessandro, i. <a href="i.html#pg207">207</a>, <a
href="i.html#pg326">326</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg062">62</a></li>

<li>Lepanto, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg077">77</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg093">93</a></li>

<li>Lepidus, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg027">27</a></li>

<li>Lerici, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg139">139</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg142">142</a>-145</li>

<li>Les Baux, i. <a href="i.html#pg077">77</a>-81; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg136">136</a></li>

<li>Leucadia, iii. <a href="#pg364">364</a></li>

<li>Levezow, Von, iii. <a href="#pg211">211</a></li>

<li>Leyva, Anton de, i. <a href="i.html#pg187">187</a></li>

<li>Lido, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg280">280</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg283">283</a>-286; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg001">1</a></li>

<li>Liguria, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg097">97</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg178">178</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg283">283</a></li>

<li>Lilyboeum, iii. <a href="#pg294">294</a> _note_</li>

<li>Lioni, Leone, i. <a href="i.html#pg188">188</a></li>

<li>L'Isle, i. <a href="i.html#pg072">72</a></li>

<li>Livorno, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg145">145</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg214">214</a></li>

<li>Livy, iii. <a href="#pg094">94</a>, <a href=
"#pg171">171</a></li>

<li>Lo Spagna, iii. <a href="#pg114">114</a></li>

<li>Lodi, i. <a href="i.html#pg216">216</a></li>

<li>Lomazzo, i. <a href="i.html#pg137">137</a></li>

<li>Lombardy, i. <a href="i.html#pg019">19</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg049">49</a>, <a href="i.html#pg061">61</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg121">121</a>, <a href="i.html#pg122">122</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg129">129</a>, <a href="i.html#pg133">133</a>-172, <a
href="i.html#pg209">209</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg129">129</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg132">132</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg147">147</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg165">165</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg168">168</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg182">182</a></li>

<li>Lorenzaccio, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg041">41</a></li>

<li>Lorenzetti, Ambrogio, iii. <a href="#pg008">8</a>, <a href=
"#pg036">36</a>, <a href="#pg043">43</a>, <a href=
"#pg044">44</a></li>

<li>Lorenzo, Bernardo di, iii. <a href="#pg105">105</a></li>

<li>Loreto, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg097">97</a></li>

<li>Lothair, King of Italy, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg169">169</a></li>

<li>Louis XI, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg237">237</a></li>

<li>Louis of Anjou, i. <a href="i.html#pg195">195</a></li>

<li>Lovere, i. <a href="i.html#pg174">174</a></li>

<li>Loyola, Ignatius, iii. <a href="#pg061">61</a></li>

<li>Lucan (quoted), i. <a href="i.html#pg092">92</a></li>

<li>Lucca, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg145">145</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg168">168</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg170">170</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg203">203</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg211">211</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg214">214</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg218">218</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg286">286</a>; iii.
<a href="#pg004">4</a>, <a href="#pg098">98</a></li>

<li>Lucca, Pauline, i. <a href="i.html#pg224">224</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg226">226</a>, <a href="i.html#pg227">227</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg229">229</a>, <a href="i.html#pg233">233</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg234">234</a>, <a href="i.html#pg237">237</a></li>

<li>Lucera, iii. <a href="#pg315">315</a> and _note_</li>

<li>Lucius III., iii. <a href="#pg312">312</a></li>

<li>Lucretius, iii. <a href="#pg157">157</a>-183</li>

<li>Lugano, i. <a href="i.html#pg125">125</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg128">128</a>, <a href="i.html#pg156">156</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg180">180</a></li>

<li>Lugano, Lake, i. <a href="i.html#pg122">122</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg125">125</a>, <a href="i.html#pg169">169</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg185">185</a></li>

<li>Luigi, Pier, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg180">180</a></li>

<li>Luini, i. <a href="i.html#pg141">141</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg148">148</a>, <a href="i.html#pg153">153</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg154">154</a>, <a href="i.html#pg155">155</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg156">156</a>, <a href="i.html#pg157">157</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg162">162</a>, <a href="i.html#pg164">164</a>-166, <a
href="i.html#pg177">177</a>, <a href="i.html#pg178">178</a>; iii.
<a href="#pg184">184</a></li>

<li>Luna, Etruscan, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg131">131</a></li>

<li>Luziano of Lauranna, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg078">78</a></li>

<li>Lyly, John, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg268">268</a></li>

<li>Lysimeleia, iii. <a href="#pg327">327</a></li>
</ul>

<ul class="IX">
<li>Macedonia, iii. <a href="#pg323">323</a></li>

<li>Machiavelli, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg016">16</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg041">41</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg075">75</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg117">117</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg219">219</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg220">220</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg225">225</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg231">231</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg250">250</a>; iii. <a href="#pg131">131</a></li>

<li>Macugnaga, i. <a href="i.html#pg018">18</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg020">20</a>; iii. <a href="#pg282">282</a></li>

<li>Madrid, iii. <a href="#pg223">223</a></li>

<li>Magenta, i. <a href="i.html#pg127">127</a></li>

<li>Maggiore, Lake, i. <a href="i.html#pg124">124</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg173">173</a></li>

<li>Magnanapoli, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg095">95</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg096">96</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg103">103</a></li>

<li>Magnani, Giuseppe, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg150">150</a></li>

<li>Magra, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg133">133</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg134">134</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg136">136</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg238">238</a></li>

<li>Maitani, Lorenzo, iii. <a href="#pg142">142</a></li>

<li>Majano, Benedetto da, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg030">30</a></li>

<li>Malamocco, i. <a href="i.html#pg257">257</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg280">280</a>, <a href="i.html#pg281">281</a></li>

<li>Malaspina family, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg134">134</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg136">136</a></li>

<li>Malaspina, Moroello, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg136">136</a></li>

<li>Malaterra, Godfrey, iii. <a href="#pg298">298</a></li>

<li>Malatesta family, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg015">15</a>-17, <a
href="ii.html#pg062">62</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg066">66</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg069">69</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg071">71</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg278">278</a>; iii. <a href="#pg121">121</a></li>

<li>Malatesta, Gian Galeazzo, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg016">16</a></li>

<li>Malatesta, Giovanni, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg015">15</a></li>

<li>Malatesta, Sigismondo Pandolfo, i. <a href=
"i.html#pg135">135</a>, <a href="i.html#pg202">202</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg203">203</a>; ii. <a href="ii.html#pg014">14</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg016">16</a>-21, <a href="ii.html#pg072">72</a>;
iii. <a href="#pg007">7</a></li>

<li>Malfi, Duchess of, i. <a href="i.html#pg149">149</a></li>

<li>Malghera, i. <a href="i.html#pg339">339</a></li>

<li>Malipiero, Pasquale, i. <a href="i.html#pg200">200</a></li>

<li>Maloja, i. <a href="i.html#pg055">55</a>, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg128">128</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg129">129</a>;

<ul>
<li>the Pass of, i. <a href="i.html#pg053">53</a></li>
</ul>
</li>

<li>Malpaga, i. <a href="i.html#pg205">205</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg206">206</a></li>

<li>Manente, M. Francesco, i. <a href="i.html#pg329">329</a></li>

<li>Manfred, King, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg203">203</a></li>

<li>Manfredi, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg047">47</a></li>

<li>Manfredi, Astorre, i. <a href="i.html#pg202">202</a>; iii. <a
href="#pg197">197</a></li>

<li>Manfredi, Taddeo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg231">231</a></li>

<li>Maniaces, iii. <a href="#pg299">299</a>, <a href=
"#pg301">301</a></li>

<li>Mansueti, i. <a href="i.html#pg269">269</a></li>

<li>Mantegna, i. <a href="i.html#pg176">176</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg100">100</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg197">197</a>; iii.
<a href="#pg180">180</a></li>

<li>Mantinea, iii. <a href="#pg207">207</a></li>

<li>Mantua, i. <a href="i.html#pg340">340</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg068">68</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg070">70</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg074">74</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg168">168</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg185">185</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg345">345</a></li>

<li>Mantua, Dukes of, i. <a href="i.html#pg186">186</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg243">243</a></li>

<li>Mantua, Marquis of, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg194">194</a>-196,
<a href="ii.html#pg199">199</a></li>

<li>Marcellinus, Ammianus, iii. <a href="#pg197">197</a>, <a href=
"#pg205">205</a></li>

<li>Marcellus, iii. <a href="#pg186">186</a></li>

<li>March, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg016">16</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg187">187</a></li>

<li>Marches of Ancona, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg199">199</a></li>

<li>Marecchia, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg014">14</a></li>

<li>Maremma, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg286">286</a>; iii. <a
href="#pg069">69</a>, <a href="#pg103">103</a></li>

<li>Marenzio, iii. <a href="#pg037">37</a></li>

<li>Margaret of Austria, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg180">180</a></li>

<li>Maria, Galeazzo, i. <a href="i.html#pg149">149</a></li>

<li>Maria, Gian, i. <a href="i.html#pg149">149</a></li>

<li>Maria Louisa, Duchess of Parma, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg149">149</a></li>

<li>Marianazzo, robber chieftain, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg088">88</a></li>

<li>Mariano family, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg139">139</a></li>

<li>Marignano, i. <a href="i.html#pg186">186</a></li>

<li>Marignano, Marquis of. (_See_ Medici, Gian Giacomo de')</li>

<li>Mark, S., ii. <a href="ii.html#pg019">19</a></li>

<li>Marlowe, Christopher, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg159">159</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg181">181</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg258">258</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg267">267</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg268">268</a> and _note_; iii. <a href=
"#pg228">228</a></li>

<li>Maroggia, i. <a href="i.html#pg175">175</a></li>

<li>Marseilles, i. <a href="i.html#pg002">2</a></li>

<li>Marston, the dramatist, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg113">113</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg267">267</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg268">268</a></li>

<li>Martelli, Giovan Battista, i. <a href="i.html#pg334">334</a>,
<a href="i.html#pg335">335</a></li>

<li>Martelli, Luca, i. <a href="i.html#pg340">340</a></li>

<li>Martial, i. <a href="i.html#pg002">2</a>; iii. <a href=
"i.html#pg268">268</a></li>

<li>Martin V., iii. <a href="#pg095">95</a></li>

<li>Martinengo, i. <a href="i.html#pg203">203</a></li>

<li>Martinengo family, i. <a href="i.html#pg204">204</a></li>

<li>Martini, Biagio, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg149">149</a></li>

<li>Masaccio, i. <a href="i.html#pg144">144</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg145">145</a></li>

<li>Masolino da Panicale, i. <a href="i.html#pg144">144</a>, <a
href="i.html#pg145">145</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg055">55</a></li>

<li>Mason (artist), ii. <a href="ii.html#pg032">32</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg129">129</a></li>

<li>Massinger, Philip, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg267">267</a></li>

<li>Matarazzo, iii. <a href="#pg121">121</a>, <a href=
"#pg122">122</a>, <a href="#pg128">128</a>, <a href=
"#pg130">130</a>, <a href="#pg134">134</a></li>

<li>Matilda, Countess, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg165">165</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg168">168</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg170">170</a>-173, <a href="ii.html#pg179">179</a>;
iii. <a href="#pg300">300</a> _note_ 2</li>

<li>Matteo of Ajello, iii. <a href="#pg308">308</a> _note_, <a
href="#pg311">311</a></li>

<li>Mauro, S., iii. <a href="#pg248">248</a></li>

<li>Mayenfeld, i. <a href="i.html#pg065">65</a></li>

<li>Mazara, iii. <a href="#pg281">281</a></li>

<li>Mazzorbo, i. <a href="i.html#pg282">282</a></li>

<li>Medici family, i. <a href="i.html#pg187">187</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg315">315</a>-344; ii. <a href="ii.html#pg066">66</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg090">90</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg117">117</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg187">187</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg208">208</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg209">209</a>
foll., <a href="ii.html#pg245">245</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg247">247</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg278">278</a></li>

<li>Medici, Alessandro de', i. <a href="i.html#pg315">315</a>-327,
ii. <a href="ii.html#pg083">83</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg248">248</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg251">251</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg255">255</a>:

<ul>
<li>Battista de', i. <a href="i.html#pg188">188</a>:</li>

<li>Bernardo de', i. <a href="i.html#pg180">180</a>:</li>

<li>Bianca de', ii. <a href="ii.html#pg233">233</a>:</li>

<li>Casa de', i. <a href="i.html#pg317">317</a>:</li>

<li>Catherine de', i. <a href="i.html#pg316">316</a>, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg076">76</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg255">255</a>:</li>

<li>Clarina de', i. <a href="i.html#pg182">182</a>:</li>

<li>Claudia de', ii. <a href="ii.html#pg077">77</a>:</li>

<li>Cosimo de', i. <a href="i.html#pg319">319</a>, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg225">225</a> _note_, iii. <a href="#pg067">67</a>, <a
href="#pg247">247</a>:</li>

<li>Cosimo (the younger) de', i. <a href="i.html#pg326">326</a>,
<a href="i.html#pg330">330</a>, <a href="i.html#pg340">340</a>,
ii. <a href="ii.html#pg255">255</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg257">257</a>:</li>

<li>Ferdinand de', (Cardinal), ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg093">93</a>:</li>

<li>Francesco di Raffaello de', i. <a href="i.html#pg321">321</a>,
ii. <a href="ii.html#pg093">93</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg104">104</a>:</li>

<li>Gabrio de', i. <a href="i.html#pg188">188</a>:</li>

<li>Gian Giacomo de' (Il Medeghino), i. <a href=
"i.html#pg179">179</a>-188, iii. <a href="#pg067">67</a>:</li>

<li>Giovanni de', ii. <a href="ii.html#pg215">215</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg216">216</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg239">239</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg244">244</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg245">245</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg246">246</a> (_see also_ Leo X.):</li>

<li>Giovanni de' (general), ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg249">249</a>:</li>

<li>Giuliano, son of Piero de', ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg083">83</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg226">226</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg232">232</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg233">233</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg239">239</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg318">318</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg334">334</a>:</li>

<li>Giuliano de' (Duke of Nemours), ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg239">239</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg244">244</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg245">245</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg247">247</a>:</li>

<li>Giulio dei (_see_ Clement VII.):</li>

<li>Ippolito de', i. <a href="i.html#pg316">316</a>-319, ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg083">83</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg248">248</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg251">251</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg255">255</a>:</li>

<li>Isabella de', ii. <a href="ii.html#pg093">93</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg104">104</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg105">105</a>:</li>

<li>Lorenzino de', i. <a href="i.html#pg315">315</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg319">319</a>-335, <a href="i.html#pg338">338</a>, <a
href="i.html#pg341">341</a>-344, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg083">83</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg255">255</a>:</li>

<li>Lorenzo de' (the Magnificent), ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg067">67</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg184">184</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg185">185</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg187">187</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg216">216</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg218">218</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg226">226</a> foll.,
<a href="ii.html#pg305">305</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg311">311</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg325">325</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg326">326</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg330">330</a>,
iii. <a href="#pg101">101</a>:</li>

<li>Lorenzo de' (Duke of Urbino) (_see_ Urbino):</li>

<li>Maddalena de', ii. <a href="ii.html#pg239">239</a>:</li>

<li>Piero de', ii. <a href="ii.html#pg184">184</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg191">191</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg192">192</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg226">226</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg227">227</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg238">238</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg328">328</a>, iii. <a href="#pg101">101</a>:</li>

<li>Pietro de', iii. <a href="#pg247">247</a>:</li>

<li>Salvestro de', ii. <a href="ii.html#pg208">208</a></li>
</ul>
</li>

<li>Mediterranean, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg002">2</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg145">145</a></li>

<li>Melfi, iii. <a href="#pg300">300</a></li>

<li>Melo of Bari, iii. <a href="#pg299">299</a></li>

<li>Meloria, the, iii. <a href="#pg253">253</a></li>

<li>Menaggio, i. <a href="i.html#pg181">181</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg186">186</a>, <a href="i.html#pg188">188</a></li>

<li>Menander, iii. <a href="#pg072">72</a></li>

<li>Mendelssohn, i. <a href="i.html#pg010">10</a></li>

<li>Mendrisio, i. <a href="i.html#pg122">122</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg175">175</a></li>

<li>Menoetes, iii. <a href="#pg319">319</a></li>

<li>Mentone, i. <a href="i.html#pg083">83</a>-93, <a href=
"i.html#pg094">94</a>, <a href="i.html#pg098">98</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg102">102</a>, <a href="i.html#pg103">103</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg106">106</a>; iii. <a href="#pg250">250</a></li>

<li>Menzoni, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg285">285</a></li>

<li>Mer de Glace, iii. <a href="#pg282">282</a></li>

<li>Meran, i. <a href="i.html#pg111">111</a></li>

<li>Mercatello, Gentile, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg070">70</a></li>

<li>Mesomedes, iii. 201</li>

<li>Messina, iii. <a href="#pg288">288</a>, <a href=
"#pg292">292</a> and _note_, <a href="#pg301">301</a></li>

<li>Mestre, i. <a href="i.html#pg339">339</a></li>

<li>Metaurus, or Metauro, the, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg038">38</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg058">58</a></li>

<li>Mevania (Bevagna), ii. <a href="ii.html#pg038">38</a></li>

<li>Michelangelo. (_See_ Buonarroti, Michel Angelo)</li>

<li>Michelhorn, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg127">127</a></li>

<li>Michelozzi, Michelozzo, iii. <a href="#pg096">96</a></li>

<li>Middleton, Thomas, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg267">267</a></li>

<li>Mignucci, Francesco, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg090">90</a></li>

<li>Milan, i. <a href="i.html#pg014">14</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg019">19</a>, <a href="i.html#pg020">20</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg050">50</a>, <a href="i.html#pg121">121</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg124">124</a>, <a href="i.html#pg136">136</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg152">152</a>-161, <a href="i.html#pg168">168</a>, <a
href="i.html#pg178">178</a>, <a href="i.html#pg180">180</a>, <a
href="i.html#pg184">184</a>, <a href="i.html#pg195">195</a>, <a
href="i.html#pg203">203</a>, <a href="i.html#pg212">212</a>, <a
href="i.html#pg213">213</a>, <a href="i.html#pg223">223</a>
foll.; ii. <a href="ii.html#pg185">185</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg186">186</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg190">190</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg191">191</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg224">224</a>;
iii. <a href="#pg151">151</a> _note_, <a href="#pg253">253</a>, <a
href="#pg348">348</a></li>

<li>Milan, Dukes of, i. <a href="i.html#pg049">49</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg149">149</a>, <a href="i.html#pg180">180</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg186">186</a>, <a href="i.html#pg200">200</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg214">214</a></li>

<li>Millet, iii. <a href="#pg077">77</a></li>

<li>Milton, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg160">160</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg258">258</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg262">262</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg263">263</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg269">269</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg274">274</a>; iii. <a href="#pg025">25</a>, <a
href="#pg035">35</a>, <a href="#pg037">37</a>, <a href=
"#pg038">38</a>, <a href="#pg158">158</a>, <a href=
"#pg169">169</a>, <a href="#pg342">342</a></li>

<li>Mino da Fiesole, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg081">81</a></li>

<li>Mirandola, Duchy of, i. <a href="i.html#pg185">185</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg168">168</a></li>

<li>Mirandola, the Counts of, i. <a href=
"i.html#pg202">202</a></li>

<li>Mirandola, Pico della, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg021">21</a></li>

<li>Mirano, i. <a href="i.html#pg294">294</a></li>

<li>Miseno, iii. <a href="#pg238">238</a>, <a href=
"#pg239">239</a>, <a href="#pg242">242</a></li>

<li>Mnesicles, iii. <a href="#pg343">343</a></li>

<li>Mnestheus, iii. <a href="#pg319">319</a></li>

<li>Modena, i. <a href="i.html#pg170">170</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg172">172</a>; ii. <a href="ii.html#pg168">168</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg169">169</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg221">221</a></li>

<li>Molsa, Francesco Maria, i. <a href="i.html#pg326">326</a></li>

<li>Monaco, i. <a href="i.html#pg092">92</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg102">102</a></li>

<li>Mondello, iii. <a href="#pg294">294</a></li>

<li>Monreale, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg010">10</a>; iii. <a href=
"#pg291">291</a>, <a href="#pg311">311</a>-314</li>

<li>Mont Blanc, i. <a href="i.html#pg014">14</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg126">126</a>, <a href="i.html#pg134">134</a>:

<ul>
<li>Cenis, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg174">174</a>:</li>

<li>Cervin, i. <a href="i.html#pg169">169</a>:</li>

<li>Ch&eacute;tif, i. <a href="i.html#pg014">14</a>:</li>

<li>Finsteraarhorn, i. <a href="i.html#pg169">169</a>:</li>

<li>Gen&ecirc;vre, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg193">193</a>:</li>

<li>S. Michel, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg167">167</a>:</li>

<li>de la Saxe, i. <a href="i.html#pg014">14</a>:</li>

<li>Solaro, iii. <a href="#pg230">230</a>:</li>

<li>Ventoux, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg022">22</a></li>
</ul>
</li>

<li>Montalcino, iii. <a href="#pg076">76</a>, <a href=
"#pg079">79</a>, <a href="#pg092">92</a></li>

<li>Montalembert, iii. <a href="#pg249">249</a></li>

<li>Montalto, Cardinal, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg090">90</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg091">91</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg095">95</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg098">98</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg103">103</a>
(_see also_ Sixtus V.)</li>

<li>Montdragon, i. <a href="i.html#pg068">68</a></li>

<li>Monte Adamello, i. <a href="i.html#pg174">174</a>, ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg168">168</a>:

<ul>
<li>Amiata, iii. <a href="#pg042">42</a>, <a href="#pg069">69</a>,
<a href="#pg076">76</a>, <a href="#pg080">80</a>, <a href=
"#pg090">90</a>, <a href="#pg091">91</a>, <a href="#pg093">93</a>,
<a href="#pg103">103</a>, <a href="#pg104">104</a>, <a href=
"#pg106">106</a>, <a href="#pg108">108</a>:</li>

<li>d'Asdrubale, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg066">66</a>:</li>

<li>Aureo, iii. <a href="#pg253">253</a>:</li>

<li>Calvo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg055">55</a>:</li>

<li>Carboniano, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg168">168</a>:</li>

<li>Cassino, iii. <a href="#pg248">248</a>:</li>

<li>Catini, iii. <a href="#pg004">4</a>:</li>

<li>Catria, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg066">66</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg068">68</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg069">69</a>, iii. <a
href="#pg111">111</a>:</li>

<li>Cavallo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg094">94</a>:</li>

<li>Cetona, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg051">51</a>, iii. <a href=
"#pg090">90</a>, <a href="#pg091">91</a>:</li>

<li>Coppiolo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg064">64</a>:</li>

<li>Delle Celle, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg168">168</a>:</li>

<li>di Disgrazia, i. <a href="i.html#pg064">64</a>:</li>

<li>Epomeo, iii. <a href="#pg234">234</a>, <a href=
"#pg236">236</a>, <a href="#pg237">237</a>-240, <a href=
"#pg241">241</a>:</li>

<li>Fallonica, iii. <a href="#pg103">103</a>, <a href=
"#pg110">110</a>:</li>

<li>Gargano, iii. <a href="#pg299">299</a>:</li>

<li>Generoso, i. <a href="i.html#pg121">121</a>-132, <a href=
"i.html#pg173">173</a>:</li>

<li>Leone, i. <a href="i.html#pg174">174</a>:</li>

<li>Nerone, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg066">66</a>:</li>

<li>Nuovo, iii. <a href="#pg242">242</a>:</li>

<li>Oliveto, i. <a href="i.html#pg166">166</a>, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg082">82</a>, iii. <a href="#pg008">8</a>, <a href=
"#pg069">69</a>, <a href="#pg073">73</a>, <a href="#pg074">74</a>
foll., <a href="#pg151">151</a> _note_:</li>

<li>d'Oro, i. <a href="i.html#pg105">105</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg111">111</a>:</li>

<li>Pellegrino, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg176">176</a>, iii. <a
href="#pg294">294</a>:</li>

<li>Rosa, i. <a href="i.html#pg008">8</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg018">18</a>, <a href="i.html#pg105">105</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg125">125</a>, <a href="i.html#pg126">126</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg129">129</a>, <a href="i.html#pg134">134</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg169">169</a>:</li>

<li>Rosso, iii. <a href="#pg279">279</a>:</li>

<li>Rotondo, i. <a href="i.html#pg111">111</a>, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg033">33</a>:</li>

<li>Salvadore, i. <a href="i.html#pg125">125</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg128">128</a>:</li>

<li>Soracte, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg051">51</a>:</li>

<li>Viso, i. <a href="i.html#pg126">126</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg134">134</a>, <a href="i.html#pg169">169</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg174">174</a></li>
</ul>
</li>

<li>Montefalco, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg035">35</a>-37, <a href=
"ii.html#pg039">39</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg045">45</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg046">46</a></li>

<li>Montefeltro family, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg062">62</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg064">64</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg066">66</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg069">69</a>-72</li>

<li>Montefeltro, Federigo di, i. <a href="i.html#pg207">207</a>,
<a href="i.html#pg208">208</a></li>

<li>Montefeltro, Giovanna, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg073">73</a></li>

<li>Mont&eacute;limart, i. <a href="i.html#pg068">68</a></li>

<li>Montepulciano, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg050">50</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg214">214</a>; iii. <a href="#pg068">68</a>, <a href=
"#pg069">69</a>, <a href="#pg077">77</a>, <a href=
"#pg087">87</a>-102, <a href="#pg109">109</a>, <a href=
"#pg110">110</a></li>

<li>Montferrat, Boniface, Marquis of, i. <a href=
"i.html#pg202">202</a></li>

<li>Monti della Sibilla, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg046">46</a></li>

<li>Monza, i. <a href="i.html#pg199">199</a></li>

<li>Moors, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg085">85</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg094">94</a>; iii. <a href="#pg296">296</a>, <a href=
"#pg299">299</a>, <a href="#pg301">301</a></li>

<li>Morbegno, i. <a href="i.html#pg049">49</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg051">51</a>, <a href="i.html#pg064">64</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg186">186</a></li>

<li>Morea, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg018">18</a>; iii. <a href=
"#pg339">339</a></li>

<li>Morris, William, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg271">271</a></li>

<li>Morteratsch, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg056">56</a></li>

<li>Mozart, i. <a href="i.html#pg223">223</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg227">227</a>, <a href="i.html#pg229">229</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg231">231</a>-237, <a href="i.html#pg249">249</a>; ii.
<a href="ii.html#pg153">153</a></li>

<li>M&uuml;hlen, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg128">128</a></li>

<li>Mulhausen, i. <a href="i.html#pg001">1</a></li>

<li>Murano, i. <a href="i.html#pg268">268</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg282">282</a>, <a href="i.html#pg333">333</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg001">1</a></li>

<li>Murillo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg153">153</a></li>

<li>M&uuml;rren, i. <a href="i.html#pg009">9</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg011">11</a>, <a href="i.html#pg014">14</a></li>

<li>Musset, De, i. <a href="i.html#pg342">342</a></li>

<li>Mussulmans, iii. <a href="#pg290">290</a>, <a href=
"#pg291">291</a>, <a href="#pg294">294</a> _note_, <a href=
"#pg302">302</a>, <a href="#pg305">305</a>, <a href=
"#pg307">307</a>, <a href="#pg316">316</a></li>
</ul>

<ul class="IX">
<li>Naples, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg185">185</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg188">188</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg189">189</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg191">191</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg193">193</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg234">234</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg282">282</a>; iii. <a href="#pg221">221</a>, <a href=
"#pg231">231</a>, <a href="#pg239">239</a>, <a href=
"#pg243">243</a>, <a href="#pg253">253</a>, <a href=
"#pg254">254</a>, <a href="#pg256">256</a>, <a href=
"#pg270">270</a>, <a href="#pg276">276</a>, <a href=
"#pg289">289</a>, <a href="#pg317">317</a> _note_</li>

<li>Naples, Queens of, i. <a href="i.html#pg079">79</a></li>

<li>Napoleon Buonaparte, i. <a href="i.html#pg050">50</a>, <a
href="i.html#pg106">106</a>, <a href="i.html#pg118">118</a>, <a
href="i.html#pg119">119</a>, <a href="i.html#pg120">120</a></li>

<li>Narni, i. <a href="i.html#pg086">86</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg034">34</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg038">38</a></li>

<li>Nash, Thomas, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg265">265</a></li>

<li>Nassaus, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg079">79</a></li>

<li>Navone, Signor Giulio, iii. <a href="#pg004">4</a> _note_</li>

<li>Naxos, iii. <a href="#pg288">288</a></li>

<li>Negro, Abbate de, iii. <a href="#pg078">78</a>, <a href=
"#pg079">79</a></li>

<li>Nera, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg034">34</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg037">37</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg046">46</a></li>

<li>Nero, i. <a href="i.html#pg135">135</a>; iii. <a href=
"#pg156">156</a>, <a href="#pg164">164</a></li>

<li>Neroni, Diotisalvi, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg226">226</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg256">256</a></li>

<li>Niccolini, i. <a href="i.html#pg342">342</a></li>

<li>Niccolo da Bari, S., iii. <a href="#pg238">238</a></li>

<li>Niccolo da Uzzano, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg215">215</a></li>

<li>Nice, i. <a href="i.html#pg083">83</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg106">106</a>; iii. <a href="#pg250">250</a></li>

<li>Nicholas II., iii. <a href="#pg300">300</a></li>

<li>Nicholas V., ii. <a href="ii.html#pg028">28</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg187">187</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg236">236</a></li>

<li>Nicholas the Pisan, iii. <a href="#pg260">260</a></li>

<li>Nicolosi, iii. <a href="#pg283">283</a></li>

<li>Nikias, iii. <a href="#pg288">288</a>, <a href=
"#pg324">324</a>, <a href="#pg326">326</a>, <a href=
"#pg327">327</a></li>

<li>Nile, the, iii. <a href="#pg190">190</a>, <a href=
"#pg201">201</a>, <a href="i.html#pg205">205</a></li>

<li>Niolo, i. <a href="i.html#pg112">112</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg115">115</a></li>

<li>Nisi, Messer Nichol&ograve; di, iii. <a href="#pg002">2</a>, <a
href="#pg003">3</a></li>

<li>Nismes, i. <a href="i.html#pg074">74</a>-77</li>

<li>Noel, Mr. Roden, i. <a href="i.html#pg010">10</a></li>

<li>Norcia, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg035">35</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg046">46</a>; iii. <a href="#pg092">92</a></li>

<li>Normans (in Sicily), iii. <a href="#pg290">290</a> foll.</li>

<li>Novara, i. <a href="i.html#pg019">19</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg124">124</a></li>
</ul>

<ul class="IX">
<li>Oberland valleys, i. <a href="i.html#pg012">12</a></li>

<li>Oddantonio, Duke of Urbino, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg070">70</a></li>

<li>Oddi family, the, iii. <a href="#pg113">113</a>, <a href=
"#pg119">119</a>, <a href="#pg122">122</a>, <a href=
"#pg134">134</a></li>

<li>Odoacer, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg002">2</a></li>

<li>Offamilio, iii. <a href="#pg311">311</a></li>

<li>Oglio, the, iii. <a href="#pg006">6</a></li>

<li>Olgiati, i. <a href="i.html#pg341">341</a></li>

<li>Oliverotto da Fermo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg047">47</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg048">48</a></li>

<li>Ombrone, the, iii. <a href="#pg108">108</a>;

<ul>
<li>Val d', iii. <a href="#pg090">90</a></li>
</ul>
</li>

<li>Oortman, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg149">149</a></li>

<li>Orange, i. <a href="i.html#pg068">68</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg069">69</a></li>

<li>Orange, Prince of, i. <a href="i.html#pg079">79</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg316">316</a>; ii. <a href="ii.html#pg253">253</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg254">254</a></li>

<li>Orcagna, iii. <a href="#pg036">36</a></li>

<li>Orcia, the, iii. <a href="#pg104">104</a>, <a href=
"#pg108">108</a></li>

<li>Ordelaffi, Cicco and Pino, i. <a href=
"i.html#pg202">202</a></li>

<li>Origen, iii. <a href="#pg211">211</a>, <a href=
"#pg219">219</a>, <a href="#pg220">220</a> Orlando, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg042">42</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg043">43</a></li>

<li>Ornani, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg114">114</a></li>

<li>Orpheus, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg346">346</a>-364</li>

<li>Orsini, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg047">47</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg091">91</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg157">157</a></li>

<li>Orsini, Alfonsina, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg239">239</a>:

<ul>
<li>Cardinal, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg047">47</a>:</li>

<li>Clarice, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg227">227</a>:</li>

<li>Francesco, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg048">48</a>:</li>

<li>Giustina, iii. <a href="#pg125">125</a>:</li>

<li>Lodovico, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg099">99</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg100">100</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg101">101</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg104">104</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg105">105</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg108">108</a>:</li>

<li>Paolo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg047">47</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg048">48</a>:</li>

<li>Paolo Giordano (_see_ Bracciano, Duke of):</li>

<li>Troilo, i. <a href="i.html#pg327">327</a> _note_, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg093">93</a> and _note_:</li>

<li>Virginio (_see_ Bracciano, second Duke of)</li>
</ul>
</li>

<li>Orta, i. <a href="i.html#pg173">173</a></li>

<li>Ortler, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg126">126</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg168">168</a></li>

<li>Ortygia, iii. <a href="#pg321">321</a>, <a href=
"#pg326">326</a>, <a href="#pg327">327</a></li>

<li>Orvieto, i. <a href="i.html#pg086">86</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg051">51</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg136">136</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg362">362</a>; iii. <a href="#pg005">5</a>, <a
href="#pg082">82</a>, <a href="#pg111">111</a>, <a href=
"#pg137">137</a>-154</li>

<li>Otho I., ii. <a href="ii.html#pg169">169</a></li>

<li>Otho III., ii. <a href="ii.html#pg015">15</a></li>

<li>Otranto, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg235">235</a></li>

<li>'Ottimati,' the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg242">242</a> foll.,
<a href="ii.html#pg251">251</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg254">254</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg255">255</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg257">257</a></li>

<li>Overbeck, iii. <a href="#pg187">187</a></li>

<li>Ovid, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg338">338</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg344">344</a>; iii. <a href="#pg149">149</a>, <a href=
"#pg268">268</a>, <a href="#pg320">320</a>, <a href=
"#pg341">341</a> _note_ 1</li>
</ul>

<ul class="IX">
<li>Padua, i. <a href="i.html#pg152">152</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg197">197</a>, <a href="i.html#pg260">260</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg041">41</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg098">98</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg099">99</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg101">101</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg104">104</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg168">168</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg218">218</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg221">221</a>; iii. <a href="#pg006">6</a></li>

<li>P&aelig;stum, iii. <a href="#pg250">250</a>, <a href=
"#pg259">259</a>, <a href="#pg261">261</a>-269</li>

<li>Paganello, Conte, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg102">102</a></li>

<li>Paglia, the, iii. <a href="#pg137">137</a></li>

<li>Painter, William, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg117">117</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg265">265</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg272">272</a></li>

<li>Palermo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg010">10</a>; iii. <a href=
"#pg252">252</a>, <a href="#pg290">290</a>-318</li>

<li>Palestrina, iii. <a href="#pg037">37</a></li>

<li>Palladio, i. <a href="i.html#pg075">75</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg256">256</a>; ii. <a href="ii.html#pg029">29</a></li>

<li>Pallavicino, Matteo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg091">91</a></li>

<li>Palma, i. <a href="i.html#pg263">263</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg269">269</a></li>

<li>Palmaria, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg142">142</a></li>

<li>Palmer, Richard, Bishop of Syracuse, iii. <a href=
"#pg306">306</a> _note_</li>

<li>Pancrates, iii. <a href="#pg201">201</a>, <a href=
"#pg204">204</a>, <a href="#pg205">205</a></li>

<li>Panizzi, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg043">43</a></li>

<li>Panormus, iii. <a href="#pg291">291</a></li>

<li>Pantellaria, iii. <a href="#pg294">294</a> _note_</li>

<li>Paoli, General, i. <a href="i.html#pg111">111</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg115">115</a></li>

<li>Paris, i. <a href="i.html#pg020">20</a></li>

<li>Parker, ----, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg266">266</a></li>

<li>Parma, i. <a href="i.html#pg163">163</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg131">131</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg147">147</a>-162,
<a href="ii.html#pg168">168</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg180">180</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg184">184</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg196">196</a></li>

<li>Parma, Duke of, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg076">76</a></li>

<li>Parmegiano, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg150">150</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg158">158</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg159">159</a></li>

<li>Parmenides, iii. <a href="#pg171">171</a>, <a href=
"#pg173">173</a></li>

<li>Passerini, Silvio (Cardinal of Cortona), ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg251">251</a></li>

<li>Passerini da Cortona, Cardinal, i. <a href=
"i.html#pg316">316</a></li>

<li>Passignano, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg048">48</a></li>

<li>Pasta, Dr., i. <a href="i.html#pg123">123</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg124">124</a> _note_</li>

<li>Patmore, Coventry, iii. <a href="#pg136">136</a></li>

<li>Patrizzi, Patrizio, iii. <a href="#pg072">72</a></li>

<li>Paul III., i. <a href="i.html#pg318">318</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg088">88</a>; iii. <a href="#pg120">120</a>, <a href=
"#pg133">133</a></li>

<li>Pausanias, iii. <a href="#pg207">207</a></li>

<li>Pavia, i. <a href="i.html#pg146">146</a>-151, <a href=
"i.html#pg158">158</a>, <a href="i.html#pg176">176</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg184">184</a>, <a href="i.html#pg189">189</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg198">198</a>, <a href="i.html#pg212">212</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg351">351</a>; ii. <a href="ii.html#pg182">182</a></li>

<li>Pavia, Cardinal of, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg075">75</a></li>

<li>Pazzi, Francesco, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg232">232</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg233">233</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg256">256</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg335">335</a></li>

<li>Pazzi, Guglielmo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg233">233</a></li>

<li>Peir&aelig;eus, iii. <a href="#pg357">357</a></li>

<li>Pelestrina, i. <a href="i.html#pg258">258</a></li>

<li>Pelusium, iii. <a href="#pg189">189</a></li>

<li>Pembroke, Countess of, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg265">265</a></li>

<li>Penna, Jeronimo della, iii. <a href="#pg124">124</a></li>

<li>Pentelicus, i. <a href="i.html#pg210">210</a></li>

<li>Pepin, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg002">2</a></li>

<li>Peretti family, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg090">90</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg094">94</a></li>

<li>Peretti, Camilla, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg090">90</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg098">98</a></li>

<li>Peretti, Francesco, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg090">90</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg092">92</a> foll., <a href=
"ii.html#pg103">103</a></li>

<li>Pericles, iii. <a href="#pg343">343</a>, <a href=
"#pg350">350</a></li>

<li>Persephone, iii. <a href="#pg290">290</a></li>

<li>Persius, iii. <a href="#pg165">165</a>, <a href=
"#pg172">172</a></li>

<li>Perugia, i. <a href="i.html#pg188">188</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg214">214</a>, <a href="i.html#pg350">350</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg035">35</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg038">38</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg046">46</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg052">52</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg163">163</a>; iii. <a href="#pg053">53</a>, <a
href="#pg068">68</a>, <a href="#pg092">92</a>, <a href=
"#pg111">111</a>-136</li>

<li>Perugino, i. <a href="i.html#pg149">149</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg239">239</a>; ii. <a href="ii.html#pg042">42</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg057">57</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg059">59</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg159">159</a>; iii. <a href="#pg114">114</a>, <a
href="#pg116">116</a>, <a href="#pg117">117</a>-119, <a href=
"#pg184">184</a></li>

<li>Perusia Augusta, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg045">45</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg046">46</a></li>

<li>Peruzzi, i. <a href="i.html#pg152">152</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg049">49</a></li>

<li>Pesaro, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg059">59</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg069">69</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg076">76</a></li>

<li>Pescara, Marquis of, i. <a href="i.html#pg184">184</a></li>

<li>Petrarch, i. <a href="i.html#pg072">72</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg073">73</a>, <a href="i.html#pg074">74</a> and _note_,
<a href="i.html#pg086">86</a>, <a href="i.html#pg168">168</a>;
ii. <a href="ii.html#pg022">22</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg261">261</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg262">262</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg269">269</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg273">273</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg280">280</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg303">303</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg332">332</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg344">344</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg365">365</a>-368; iii. <a href="#pg254">254</a>-256,
<a href="#pg308">308</a>, <a href="#pg316">316</a></li>

<li>Petrucci, Pandolfo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg047">47</a>; iii.
<a href="#pg082">82</a></li>

<li>Ph&aelig;drus, iii. <a href="#pg188">188</a>, <a href=
"#pg351">351</a></li>

<li>Pheidias, i. <a href="i.html#pg239">239</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg246">246</a>; iii. <a href="#pg155">155</a>, <a href=
"#pg346">346</a>, <a href="#pg349">349</a></li>

<li>Philippus, iii. <a href="#pg319">319</a></li>

<li>Philistis, Queen, iii. <a href="#pg337">337</a></li>

<li>Philostratus, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg293">293</a></li>

<li>Phlegr&aelig;an plains, iii. <a href="#pg235">235</a>, <a href=
"#pg239">239</a></li>

<li>Phoenicians, iii. <a href="#pg290">290</a>, <a href=
"#pg291">291</a>, <a href="#pg335">335</a></li>

<li>Piacenza, i. <a href="i.html#pg142">142</a>-144, <a href=
"i.html#pg195">195</a>, <a href="i.html#pg340">340</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg180">180</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg197">197</a></li>

<li>'Piagnoni,' the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg253">253</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg254">254</a></li>

<li>Piccinino, Jacopo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg234">234</a></li>

<li>Piccinino, Niccol&ograve;, i. <a href="i.html#pg207">207</a>;
ii. <a href="ii.html#pg070">70</a></li>

<li>Piccolomini family, iii. <a href="#pg107">107</a></li>

<li>Piccolomini, &AElig;neas Sylvius, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg023">23</a> (_see also_ Pius II.)</li>

<li>Piccolomini, Ambrogio, iii. <a href="#pg072">72</a>, <a href=
"#pg074">74</a></li>

<li>Piedmont, i. <a href="i.html#pg129">129</a></li>

<li>Pienza, iii. <a href="#pg077">77</a>, <a href="#pg092">92</a>,
<a href="#pg102">102</a>, <a href="#pg104">104</a>-107</li>

<li>Piero della Francesca, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg072">72</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg322">322</a></li>

<li>Piero Delle Vigne, iii. <a href="#pg316">316</a></li>

<li>Pietra Rubia, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg064">64</a></li>

<li>Pietra Santa, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg238">238</a></li>

<li>Pietro di Cardona, Don, i. <a href="i.html#pg158">158</a></li>

<li>Pignatta, Captain, i. <a href="i.html#pg319">319</a></li>

<li>Pindar, iii. <a href="#pg162">162</a>, <a href=
"#pg215">215</a>, <a href="#pg289">289</a>, <a href=
"#pg332">332</a></li>

<li>Pinturicchio, Bernardo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg042">42</a>;
iii. <a href="#pg062">62</a>, <a href="#pg105">105</a>, <a href=
"#pg114">114</a></li>

<li>Piranesi, i. <a href="i.html#pg077">77</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg181">181</a></li>

<li>Pisa, i. <a href="i.html#pg340">340</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg170">170</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg203">203</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg211">211</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg214">214</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg239">239</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg244">244</a>; iii. <a href="#pg145">145</a>, <a href=
"#pg253">253</a>, <a href="#pg304">304</a>, <a href=
"#pg311">311</a></li>

<li>Pisani, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg030">30</a>; iii. <a
href="#pg071">71</a></li>

<li>Pisani, Vittore, i. <a href="i.html#pg259">259</a></li>

<li>Pisano, Andrea, iii. <a href="#pg144">144</a></li>

<li>Pisano, Giovanni, iii. <a href="#pg112">112</a>, <a href=
"#pg144">144</a></li>

<li>Pisano, Niccola, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg170">170</a>; iii. <a
href="#pg144">144</a>, <a href="#pg146">146</a></li>

<li>Pisciadella, i. <a href="i.html#pg060">60</a></li>

<li>Pistoja, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg281">281</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg283">283</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg287">287</a></li>

<li>Pitr&eacute;, Signor, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg281">281</a>
_note_</li>

<li>Pitta, Luca, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg226">226</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg256">256</a></li>

<li>Pitz d'Aela, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg127">127</a></li>

<li>Pitz Badin, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg130">130</a></li>

<li>Pitz Languard, i. <a href="i.html#pg055">55</a></li>

<li>Pitz Palu, i. <a href="i.html#pg056">56</a></li>

<li>Pius II., i. <a href="i.html#pg202">202</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg018">18</a>; iii. <a href="#pg062">62</a>, <a href=
"#pg104">104</a>, <a href="#pg105">105</a></li>

<li>Pius IV., i. <a href="i.html#pg182">182</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg188">188</a></li>

<li>Pius IX., iii. <a href="#pg196">196</a></li>

<li>Placidia, Galla, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg008">8</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg011">11</a></li>

<li>Planta, i. <a href="i.html#pg049">49</a></li>

<li>Plato, i. <a href="i.html#pg249">249</a>; iii. <a href=
"#pg337">337</a>, <a href="#pg341">341</a>, <a href=
"#pg351">351</a>, <a href="#pg352">352</a>, <a href=
"#pg353">353</a></li>

<li>Pletho, Gemisthus, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg019">19</a> and
_note_</li>

<li>Plinies, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg177">177</a></li>

<li>Plutarch, iii. <a href="#pg199">199</a></li>

<li>Po, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg050">50</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg124">124</a>, <a href="i.html#pg134">134</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg001">1</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg168">168</a>;
iii. <a href="#pg094">94</a></li>

<li>Poggio. (_See_ Bracciolini, Poggio)</li>

<li>Polenta, Francesca da, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg015">15</a></li>

<li>Politian, iii. <a href="#pg102">102</a></li>

<li>Poliziano, Angelo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg233">233</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg237">237</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg273">273</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg305">305</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg306">306</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg308">308</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg309">309</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg312">312</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg314">314</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg318">318</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg322">322</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg323">323</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg324">324</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg334">334</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg335">335</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg338">338</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg340">340</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg342">342</a>-344, <a href=
"ii.html#pg345">345</a>-364; iii. <a href="#pg101">101</a></li>

<li>Polyphemus, i. <a href="i.html#pg091">91</a></li>

<li>Pompeii, iii. <a href="#pg232">232</a>, <a href=
"#pg244">244</a></li>

<li>Pompey, iii. <a href="#pg189">189</a></li>

<li>Pontano, iii. <a href="#pg242">242</a>, <a href=
"#pg243">243</a> _note_</li>

<li>Ponte, Da, i. <a href="i.html#pg227">227</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg236">236</a></li>

<li>Pontremoli, i. <a href="i.html#pg340">340</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg133">133</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg183">183</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg194">194</a></li>

<li>Pontresina, i. <a href="i.html#pg049">49</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg053">53</a>, <a href="i.html#pg055">55</a></li>

<li>Pope, Alexander, i. <a href="i.html#pg006">6</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg273">273</a>; iii. <a href="#pg172">172</a></li>

<li>Porcari, Stefano, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg236">236</a></li>

<li>Porcellio, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg018">18</a></li>

<li>Porlezza, i. <a href="i.html#pg184">184</a></li>

<li>Portici, iii. <a href="#pg232">232</a></li>

<li>Porto d' Anzio, iii. <a href="#pg273">273</a></li>

<li>Porto Fino, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg142">142</a></li>

<li>Porto Venere, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg140">140</a>-142</li>

<li>Portogallo, Cardinal di, iii. <a href="#pg098">98</a></li>

<li>Portus Classis, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg001">1</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg008">8</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg011">11</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg012">12</a></li>

<li>Poschiavo, i. <a href="i.html#pg049">49</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg060">60</a></li>

<li>Poseidonia, iii. <a href="#pg261">261</a> foll.</li>

<li>Posilippo, iii. <a href="#pg231">231</a>, <a href=
"#pg270">270</a>, <a href="#pg309">309</a></li>

<li>Poussin (cited), i. <a href="i.html#pg262">262</a></li>

<li>Poveglia, i. <a href="i.html#pg257">257</a></li>

<li>Pozzuoli, iii. <a href="#pg232">232</a>, <a href=
"#pg241">241</a>, <a href="#pg242">242</a>, <a href=
"#pg243">243</a></li>

<li>Prato, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg244">244</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg245">245</a></li>

<li>Procida, iii. <a href="#pg238">238</a>, <a href=
"#pg239">239</a>, <a href="#pg242">242</a></li>

<li>Promontogno, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg130">130</a></li>

<li>Provence, i. <a href="i.html#pg068">68</a>-82</li>

<li>Provence, Counts of, i. <a href="i.html#pg079">79</a></li>

<li>Psyttaleia, iii. <a href="#pg358">358</a></li>

<li>Ptolemy, iii. <a href="#pg205">205</a></li>

<li>Puccini (Medicean) party, the, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg222">222</a></li>

<li>Pulci, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg269">269</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg270">270</a></li>

<li>Pythagoras, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg024">24</a></li>
</ul>

<ul class="IX">
<li>Quattro Castelli, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg165">165</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg171">171</a></li>

<li>Quirini, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg331">331</a></li>
</ul>

<ul class="IX">
<li>Rabelais, iii. <a href="#pg161">161</a></li>

<li>Radicofani, iii. <a href="#pg069">69</a>, <a href=
"#pg090">90</a>, <a href="#pg091">91</a>, <a href="#pg103">103</a>,
<a href="#pg106">106</a>, <a href="#pg111">111</a></li>

<li>Ragatz, i. <a href="i.html#pg065">65</a></li>

<li>Raimond, Count of Provence, iii. <a href="#pg305">305</a></li>

<li>Raimondi, Carlo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg150">150</a></li>

<li>Rainulf, Count, iii. <a href="#pg299">299</a>, <a href=
"#pg300">300</a></li>

<li>Raleigh, Sir Walter, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg264">264</a></li>

<li>Rametta, iii. <a href="#pg302">302</a></li>

<li>Rapallo, iii. <a href="#pg256">256</a></li>

<li>Raphael, i. <a href="i.html#pg138">138</a>-140, <a href=
"i.html#pg149">149</a>, <a href="i.html#pg152">152</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg239">239</a>, <a href="i.html#pg266">266</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg027">27</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg037">37</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg046">46</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg056">56</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg082">82</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg083">83</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg085">85</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg126">126</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg147">147</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg152">152</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg159">159</a>; iii.
<a href="#pg035">35</a>, <a href="#pg114">114</a>, <a href=
"#pg117">117</a>, <a href="#pg123">123</a>, <a href=
"#pg129">129</a>, <a href="#pg141">141</a>, <a href=
"#pg145">145</a>, <a href="#pg146">146</a>, <a href=
"#pg227">227</a>, <a href="#pg228">228</a></li>

<li>Ravello, iii. <a href="#pg259">259</a></li>

<li>Ravenna, i. <a href="i.html#pg160">160</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg001">1-13</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg075">75</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg244">244</a>; iii. <a href="#pg315">315</a></li>

<li>Raymond, iii. <a href="#pg052">52</a>, <a href=
"#pg053">53</a></li>

<li>Recanati, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg063">63</a></li>

<li>Redi, iii. <a href="#pg095">95</a></li>

<li>Reggio d'Emilia, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg165">165</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg167">167</a>-169, <a href=
"ii.html#pg196">196</a>; iii. <a href="#pg288">288</a></li>

<li>Regno, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg196">196</a></li>

<li>Rembrandt, i. <a href="i.html#pg345">345</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg156">156</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg275">275</a></li>

<li>Ren&eacute; of Anjou, King, i. <a href=
"i.html#pg202">202</a></li>

<li>Reni, Guido, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg086">86</a></li>

<li>Rh&aelig;tia, i. <a href="i.html#pg049">49</a></li>

<li>Rh&aelig;tikon, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg029">29</a></li>

<li>Rhine, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg002">2</a></li>

<li>Rhone, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg070">70</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg071">71</a>, <a href="i.html#pg076">76</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg078">78</a></li>

<li>Riario, Girolamo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg231">231</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg232">232</a></li>

<li>Ricci, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg213">213</a></li>

<li>Ridolfi, Cardinal, i. <a href="i.html#pg318">318</a></li>

<li>Ridolfi, Pietro, iii. <a href="#pg011">11</a></li>

<li>Rienzi, i. <a href="i.html#pg070">70</a></li>

<li>Rieti, valley of, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg034">34</a></li>

<li>Rimini, i. <a href="i.html#pg350">350</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg353">353</a>; ii. <a href="ii.html#pg014">14</a>-31,
<a href="ii.html#pg060">60</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg070">70</a></li>

<li>Rimini, Francesca da, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg270">270</a></li>

<li>Riviera, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg002">2</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg097">97</a>, <a href="i.html#pg104">104</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg143">143</a></li>

<li>Riviera, mountains of, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg142">142</a></li>

<li>Robbia, Luca della, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg029">29</a></li>

<li>Robustelli, Jacopo, i. <a href="i.html#pg061">61</a></li>

<li>Rocca d' Orcia, iii. <a href="#pg106">106</a>, <a href=
"#pg108">108</a></li>

<li>Roccabruna, i. <a href="i.html#pg083">83</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg091">91</a>, <a href="i.html#pg092">92</a></li>

<li>Rodari, Bernardino, i. <a href="i.html#pg175">175</a></li>

<li>Rodari, Jacopo, i. <a href="i.html#pg175">175</a></li>

<li>Rodari, Tommaso, i. <a href="i.html#pg175">175</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg176">176</a></li>

<li>Roger of Hauteville, iii. <a href="#pg295">295</a> and _note_,
<a href="#pg296">296</a> foll.</li>

<li>Roger (the younger) of Hauteville, King of Sicily, iii. <a
href="#pg252">252</a>, <a href="#pg253">253</a>, <a href=
"#pg293">293</a>, <a href="#pg305">305</a>, <a href=
"#pg307">307</a>-311, <a href="#pg318">318</a></li>

<li>Rogers, Samuel, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg270">270</a></li>

<li>Roland, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg042">42</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg043">43</a></li>

<li>Roma, Antonio da, i. <a href="i.html#pg328">328</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg329">329</a></li>

<li>Romagna, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg016">16</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg073">73</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg185">185</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg187">187</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg199">199</a></li>

<li>Romano, i. <a href="i.html#pg197">197</a></li>

<li>Romano, Giulio, i. <a href="i.html#pg243">243</a></li>

<li>Rome, i. <a href="i.html#pg002">2</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg049">49</a>, <a href="i.html#pg068">68</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg075">75</a>, <a href="i.html#pg139">139</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg010">10</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg032">32</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg088">88</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg089">89</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg187">187</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg259">259</a>;
iii. <a href="#pg022">22</a> foll., <a href="#pg085">85</a>, <a
href="#pg156">156</a>, <a href="#pg323">323</a></li>

<li>Ronco, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg001">1</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg010">10</a></li>

<li>Rossellino, Bernardo, iii. <a href="#pg062">62</a>, <a href=
"#pg105">105</a>, <a href="#pg106">106</a></li>

<li>Rossetti, Dante Gabriel, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg262">262</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg263">263</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg270">270</a>; iii. <a href="#pg001">1</a>, <a href=
"#pg003">3</a>, <a href="#pg017">17</a> foll.</li>

<li>Rousseau, i. <a href="i.html#pg005">5</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg006">6</a>; ii. <a href="ii.html#pg027">27</a>; iii.
<a href="#pg157">157</a></li>

<li>Rovere, Francesco della. (_See_ Sixtus IV.)</li>

<li>Rovere, Francesco Maria (Duke of Urbino). (_See_ Urbino)</li>

<li>Rovere, Giovanni della, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg073">73</a></li>

<li>Rovere, Livia della, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg077">77</a></li>

<li>Rovere, Vittoria della, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg078">78</a></li>

<li>Rubens, i. <a href="i.html#pg345">345</a></li>

<li>Rubicon, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg014">14</a></li>

<li>Rucellai family, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg028">28</a></li>

<li>Rumano, i. <a href="i.html#pg204">204</a></li>

<li>Rusca, Francesco, i. <a href="i.html#pg177">177</a></li>

<li>Ruskin, Mr., i. <a href="i.html#pg010">10</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg125">125</a></li>

<li>Rydberg, Victor, iii. <a href="#pg224">224</a> _note_, <a href=
"#pg227">227</a></li>
</ul>

<ul class="IX">
<li>Sabine Mountains, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg032">32</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg033">33</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg039">39</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg088">88</a></li>

<li>Sacchetti, iii. <a href="#pg012">12</a>, <a href=
"#pg013">13</a>, <a href="#pg016">16</a></li>

<li>Saintr&egrave;, Jehan de, iii. <a href="#pg013">13</a></li>

<li>Salamis, iii. <a href="#pg358">358</a>, <a href=
"#pg362">362</a></li>

<li>Salerno, iii. <a href="#pg250">250</a>, <a href=
"#pg262">262</a>, <a href="#pg268">268</a>, <a href=
"#pg299">299</a></li>

<li>Salimbeni, house of, iii. <a href="#pg007">7</a></li>

<li>Salimbeni, Niccol&ograve; de', iii. <a href="#pg003">3</a></li>

<li>Salis, Von, family, i. <a href="i.html#pg050">50</a></li>

<li>Salis, Von, i. <a href="i.html#pg049">49</a></li>

<li>Sal&ograve;, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg098">98</a></li>

<li>Salviati, Cardinal, i. <a href="i.html#pg318">318</a></li>

<li>Salviati, Francesco (Archbishop of Pisa), ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg232">232</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg233">233</a></li>

<li>Salviati (Governor of Cortona), ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg050">50</a></li>

<li>Salviati, Madonna Lucrezia, i. <a href=
"i.html#pg320">320</a></li>

<li>Salviati, Madonna Maria, i. <a href=
"i.html#pg320">320</a></li>

<li>Samaden, i. <a href="i.html#pg048">48</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg053">53</a>, <a href="i.html#pg055">55</a></li>

<li>Samminiato, iii. <a href="#pg098">98</a></li>

<li>Sampiero, i. <a href="i.html#pg112">112</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg113">113</a>-115</li>

<li>Sanazzaro, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg264">264</a> and _note_
1</li>

<li>S. Agnese, i. <a href="i.html#pg085">85</a></li>

<li>S. Erasmo, i. <a href="i.html#pg256">256</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg283">283</a></li>

<li>S. Gilles, i. <a href="i.html#pg081">81</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg082">82</a></li>

<li>S. Pietro, i. <a href="i.html#pg258">258</a></li>

<li>S. Spirito, i. <a href="i.html#pg257">257</a></li>

<li>San Gemignano, iii. <a href="#pg003">3</a>, <a href=
"#pg059">59</a></li>

<li>San Germano, iii. <a href="#pg246">246</a>, <a href=
"#pg305">305</a></li>

<li>San Giacomo, i. <a href="i.html#pg063">63</a></li>

<li>San Lazzaro, i. <a href="i.html#pg280">280</a></li>

<li>San Leo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg064">64</a></li>

<li>San Marino, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg060">60</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg062">62</a>-64</li>

<li>San Martino, i. <a href="i.html#pg173">173</a></li>

<li>San Michele, i. <a href="i.html#pg268">268</a></li>

<li>San Moritz, i. <a href="i.html#pg055">55</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg058">58</a></li>

<li>San Nicoletto, i. <a href="i.html#pg283">283</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg286">286</a></li>

<li>San Quirico, iii. <a href="#pg077">77</a>, <a href=
"#pg092">92</a>, <a href="#pg102">102</a>, <a href=
"#pg107">107</a>-110</li>

<li>San Remo, i. <a href="i.html#pg087">87</a> _note_, <a href=
"i.html#pg093">93</a>-98, <a href="i.html#pg105">105</a>; iii. <a
href="#pg256">256</a></li>

<li>San Rocco, i. <a href="i.html#pg265">265</a></li>

<li>San Romolo, i. <a href="i.html#pg098">98</a>-100, <a href=
"i.html#pg103">103</a></li>

<li>San Terenzio, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg143">143</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg144">144</a></li>

<li>Sangarius, the, iii. <a href="#pg187">187</a></li>

<li>Sanseverino, Roberto, i. <a href="i.html#pg158">158</a></li>

<li>Sansovino, i. <a href="i.html#pg337">337</a> _note_, ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg017">17</a> _note_</li>

<li>Sant' Elisabetta, i. <a href="i.html#pg283">283</a></li>

<li>Santa Agata, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg064">64</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg090">90</a></li>

<li>Santa Lucia, iii. <a href="#pg232">232</a></li>

<li>Santa Maura, iii. <a href="#pg363">363</a>.</li>

<li>Santi, Giovanni, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg056">56</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg059">59</a></li>

<li>Sappho, iii. <a href="#pg363">363</a></li>

<li>Saracens, iii. <a href="#pg252">252</a>, <a href=
"#pg263">263</a>, <a href="#pg294">294</a> _note_, <a href=
"#pg302">302</a> foll., <a href="#pg308">308</a>, <a href=
"#pg321">321</a></li>

<li>Sardinia, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg189">189</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg286">286</a></li>

<li>Saronno, i. <a href="i.html#pg137">137</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg156">156</a>, <a href="i.html#pg161">161</a>-166</li>

<li>Sarto, Andrea del, i. <a href="i.html#pg345">345</a>; iii.
100</li>

<li>Sarzana, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg131">131</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg134">134</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg143">143</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg183">183</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg238">238</a></li>

<li>Sassella, i. <a href="i.html#pg048">48</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg062">62</a></li>

<li>Sasso Rancio, i. <a href="i.html#pg173">173</a></li>

<li>Savonarola, i. <a href="i.html#pg171">171</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg122">122</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg193">193</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg237">237</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg238">238</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg239">239</a>-242</li>

<li>Scala, Can Grande della, iii. <a href="#pg006">6</a></li>

<li>Scaletta, pass of the, i. <a href="i.html#pg049">49</a></li>

<li>Scaligers, the, iii. <a href="#pg318">318</a></li>

<li>Scalza, Ippolito, iii. <a href="#pg147">147</a></li>

<li>Scandiano, Count of. ii. <a href="ii.html#pg067">67</a></li>

<li>Scheffer, Ary, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg015">15</a></li>

<li>Scheggia, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg055">55</a></li>

<li>Schiahorn, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg054">54</a></li>

<li>Schwartzhorn, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg054">54</a></li>

<li>Schyn, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg127">127</a></li>

<li>Sciacca, iii. <a href="#pg281">281</a></li>

<li>Scolastica, S., iii. <a href="#pg073">73</a></li>

<li>Scott, Sir Walter, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg273">273</a></li>

<li>Sebastian, S., iii. <a href="#pg184">184</a>, <a href=
"#pg185">185</a></li>

<li>Seehorn, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg029">29</a></li>

<li>Seelisberg, i. <a href="i.html#pg014">14</a></li>

<li>Segeste, iii. <a href="#pg291">291</a>, <a href=
"#pg319">319</a>, <a href="#pg335">335</a></li>

<li>Selinus, iii. <a href="#pg291">291</a>, <a href=
"#pg333">333</a>, <a href="#pg335">335</a>, <a href=
"#pg337">337</a></li>

<li>Serafino, Fra, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg083">83</a></li>

<li>Serbelloni, Cecilia, i. <a href="i.html#pg180">180</a></li>

<li>Sergestus, iii. <a href="#pg319">319</a></li>

<li>Serio, river, i. <a href="i.html#pg204">204</a></li>

<li>Sermini, iii. <a href="#pg068">68</a></li>

<li>Sesia, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg019">19</a></li>

<li>Sestri, i. <a href="i.html#pg103">103</a> _note_; iii. <a
href="#pg250">250</a></li>

<li>Sforza family, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg146">146</a>, <a
href="i.html#pg155">155</a>, <a href="i.html#pg179">179</a>, <a
href="i.html#pg184">184</a>, <a href="i.html#pg185">185</a>, <a
href="i.html#pg197">197</a>, <a href="i.html#pg244">244</a></li>

<li>Sforza, Alessandro, i. <a href="i.html#pg202">202</a>, ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg072">72</a>:

<ul>
<li>Battista, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg072">72</a>:</li>

<li>Beatrice, i. <a href="i.html#pg176">176</a>:</li>

<li>Cardinal Ascanio, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg091">91</a>:</li>

<li>Francesco, i. <a href="i.html#pg149">149</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg181">181</a>, <a href="i.html#pg186">186</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg198">198</a>, <a href="i.html#pg200">200</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg203">203</a>, <a href="i.html#pg208">208</a>, ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg017">17</a>17 _note_, <a href=
"ii.html#pg071">71</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg185">185</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg224">224</a>:</li>

<li>Galeazzo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg236">236</a>:</li>

<li>Galeazzo Maria, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg185">185</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg230">230</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg236">236</a>, iii.
<a href="#pg117">117</a>:</li>

<li>Giovanni Galeazzo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg185">185</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg192">192</a>:</li>

<li>Ippolita, i. <a href="i.html#pg155">155</a>:</li>

<li>Lodovico, i. <a href="i.html#pg149">149</a>, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg185">185</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg186">186</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg191">191</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg193">193</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg194">194</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg236">236</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg238">238</a>:</li>

<li>Polissena, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg017">17</a>:</li>

<li>Zenobia, iii. <a href="#pg124">124</a>, <a href=
"#pg125">125</a>, <a href="#pg128">128</a></li>
</ul>
</li>

<li>Shakspere, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg258">258</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg262">262</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg263">263</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg267">267</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg268">268</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg271">271</a>-274, <a href=
"ii.html#pg277">277</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg335">335</a>; iii.
<a href="#pg036">36</a>, <a href="#pg037">37</a>, <a href=
"#pg166">166</a>, <a href="#pg280">280</a>, <a href=
"#pg282">282</a></li>

<li>Shelley, i. <a href="i.html#pg005">5</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg010">10</a>, <a href="i.html#pg025">25</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg026">26</a>, <a href="i.html#pg087">87</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg166">166</a>, <a href="i.html#pg232">232</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg138">138</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg140">140</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg143">143</a>-145, <a href=
"ii.html#pg270">270</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg271">271</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg273">273</a>; iii. <a href="#pg172">172</a>, <a
href="#pg186">186</a></li>

<li>Shirley, the dramatist, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg159">159</a></li>

<li>Sicily, i. <a href="i.html#pg103">103</a> _note_; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg066">66</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg189">189</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg276">276</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg281">281</a>
_note_, <a href="ii.html#pg282">282</a>; iii. <a href=
"#pg252">252</a>, <a href="#pg279">279</a> foll., <a href=
"#pg286">286</a>, <a href="#pg288">288</a>, <a href=
"#pg290">290</a> foll., <a href="#pg319">319</a> foll.</li>

<li>Sidney, Sir Philip, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg263">263</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg264">264</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg266">266</a></li>

<li>Siena, i. <a href="i.html#pg166">166</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg187">187</a>, <a href="i.html#pg192">192</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg042">42</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg185">185</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg214">214</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg281">281</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg286">286</a>; iii.
<a href="#pg001">1</a>, <a href="#pg007">7</a>, <a href=
"#pg010">10</a>, <a href="#pg012">12</a>, <a href=
"#pg041">41</a>-65, <a href="#pg066">66</a> foll., <a href=
"#pg092">92</a>, <a href="#pg105">105</a> _et passim_</li>

<li>Sigifredo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg168">168</a></li>

<li>Signorelli, i. <a href="i.html#pg239">239</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg049">49</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg362">362</a>; iii.
<a href="#pg035">35</a>, <a href="#pg081">81</a>, <a href=
"#pg082">82</a>, <a href="#pg085">85</a>, <a href="#pg145">145</a>,
<a href="#pg147">147</a>-152, <a href="#pg154">154</a></li>

<li>Silarus, the, iii. <a href="#pg264">264</a></li>

<li>Silchester, i. <a href="i.html#pg214">214</a></li>

<li>Silvaplana, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg128">128</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg129">129</a></li>

<li>Silvretta, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg031">31</a></li>

<li>Silz Maria, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg129">129</a></li>

<li>Simaetha, i. <a href="i.html#pg140">140</a></li>

<li>Simeto, the, iii. <a href="#pg279">279</a>, <a href=
"#pg304">304</a></li>

<li>Simon Magus, iii. <a href="#pg216">216</a></li>

<li>Simonetta, La Bella, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg318">318</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg322">322</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg335">335</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg343">343</a></li>

<li>Simonides, iii. <a href="#pg167">167</a></li>

<li>Simplon, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg019">19</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg125">125</a></li>

<li>Sinigaglia, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg048">48</a>; iii. <a href=
"#pg131">131</a></li>

<li>Sirmione, i. <a href="i.html#pg173">173</a></li>

<li>Sixtus IV., i. <a href="i.html#pg221">221</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg073">73</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg231">231</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg232">232</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg234">234</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg235">235</a></li>

<li>Sixtus V., ii. <a href="ii.html#pg090">90</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg095">95</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg098">98</a></li>

<li>Smyrna, iii. <a href="#pg212">212</a></li>

<li>Sobieski, Clementina, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg083">83</a></li>

<li>Socrates, iii. <a href="#pg155">155</a>, <a href=
"#pg329">329</a>, <a href="#pg351">351</a>, <a href=
"#pg352">352</a>, <a href="#pg353">353</a>, <a href=
"#pg354">354</a></li>

<li>Soderini, Alessandro, i. <a href="i.html#pg332">332</a>, <a
href="i.html#pg334">334</a>, <a href="i.html#pg335">335</a>, <a
href="i.html#pg338">338</a>, <a href="i.html#pg341">341</a></li>

<li>Soderini, Maria, i. <a href="i.html#pg320">320</a></li>

<li>Soderini, Niccolo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg226">226</a></li>

<li>Soderini, Paolo Antonio, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg192">192</a></li>

<li>Soderini, Piero, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg243">243</a>-245</li>

<li>Sodoma, i. <a href="i.html#pg141">141</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg152">152</a>, <a href="i.html#pg165">165</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg166">166</a>; iii. <a href="#pg063">63</a>, <a href=
"#pg081">81</a>, <a href="#pg082">82</a>-84, <a href=
"#pg184">184</a></li>

<li>Sogliano, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg015">15</a></li>

<li>Solari, Andrea, i. <a href="i.html#pg148">148</a></li>

<li>Solari, Cristoforo (Il Gobbo), i. <a href=
"i.html#pg149">149</a>, <a href="i.html#pg176">176</a></li>

<li>Solferino, i. <a href="i.html#pg127">127</a></li>

<li>Solon, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg163">163</a>; iii. <a href=
"#pg172">172</a>, <a href="#pg341">341</a></li>

<li>Solza, i. <a href="i.html#pg194">194</a></li>

<li>Sondrio, i. <a href="i.html#pg049">49</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg061">61</a>, <a href="i.html#pg063">63</a></li>

<li>Sophocles, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg160">160</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg161">161</a>; iii. <a href="#pg215">215</a>, <a href=
"#pg287">287</a>, <a href="#pg345">345</a> _notes_ 1 and 2, <a
href="#pg350">350</a></li>

<li>Sordello, i. <a href="i.html#pg080">80</a></li>

<li>Sorgues river, i. <a href="i.html#pg072">72</a></li>

<li>Sorrento, iii. <a href="#pg233">233</a>, <a href=
"#pg250">250</a>, <a href="#pg276">276</a>-278</li>

<li>Sozzo, Messer, iii. <a href="#pg010">10</a>, <a href=
"#pg011">11</a></li>

<li>Sparta, iii. <a href="#pg323">323</a></li>

<li>Spartian, iii. <a href="#pg192">192</a>, <a href=
"#pg193">193</a>, <a href="#pg197">197</a></li>

<li>Spartivento, iii. <a href="#pg288">288</a></li>

<li>Spello, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg035">35</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg038">38</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg039">39</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg041">41</a>-43, <a href="ii.html#pg045">45</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg046">46</a></li>

<li>Spenser, Edmund, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg258">258</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg262">262</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg264">264</a></li>

<li>Spezzia, Bay of, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg135">135</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg146">146</a></li>

<li>Spl&uuml;gen, i. <a href="i.html#pg064">64</a></li>

<li>Spl&uuml;gen, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg050">50</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg053">53</a>, <a href="i.html#pg064">64</a>;

<ul>
<li>valley of, i. <a href="i.html#pg184">184</a></li>
</ul>
</li>

<li>Spolentino, hills of, iii. <a href="#pg092">92</a></li>

<li>Spoleto, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg035">35</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg038">38</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg045">45</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg046">46</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg170">170</a>;
iii. <a href="#pg111">111</a>, <a href="#pg120">120</a></li>

<li>Sprecher von Bernegg, i. <a href="i.html#pg049">49</a></li>

<li>Stabi&aelig;, iii. <a href="#pg246">246</a></li>

<li>Staffa, Jeronimo della, iii. <a href="#pg125">125</a></li>

<li>Stelvio, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg009">9</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg050">50</a>, <a href="i.html#pg061">61</a></li>

<li>Stephen des Rotrous, Archbishop of Palermo, iii. <a href=
"#pg306">306</a> _note_ 1</li>

<li>Stimigliano, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg034">34</a></li>

<li>Strabo, iii. <a href="#pg206">206</a></li>

<li>Strozzi family, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg075">75</a></li>

<li>Strozzi, Filippo, i. <a href="i.html#pg318">318</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg321">321</a>, <a href="i.html#pg326">326</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg344">344</a></li>

<li>Strozzi (Governor of Cortona), ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg050">50</a></li>

<li>Strozzi, Palla degli, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg222">222</a></li>

<li>Strozzi, Pietro, i. <a href="i.html#pg332">332</a></li>

<li>Strozzi, Ruberto, i. <a href="i.html#pg331">331</a></li>

<li>Suardi, Bartolommeo, i. <a href="i.html#pg154">154</a></li>

<li>Subasio, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg045">45</a></li>

<li>Suetonius, i. <a href="i.html#pg134">134</a>-136; iii. <a
href="#pg164">164</a>, <a href="#pg196">196</a>, <a href=
"#pg199">199</a>, <a href="#pg272">272</a>, <a href=
"#pg274">274</a></li>

<li>Sufenas, iii. <a href="#pg209">209</a></li>

<li>Superga, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg133">133</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg134">134</a></li>

<li>Surrey, Earl of, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg261">261</a>-263, <a
href="ii.html#pg271">271</a></li>

<li>Susa, vale of, i. <a href="i.html#pg134">134</a></li>

<li>S&uuml;ss, i. <a href="i.html#pg055">55</a></li>

<li>Swinburne, Mr., ii. <a href="ii.html#pg270">270</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg273">273</a></li>

<li>Switzerland, i. <a href="i.html#pg001">1</a>-67, <a href=
"i.html#pg105">105</a>, <a href="i.html#pg129">129</a></li>

<li>Sybaris, ancient Hellenic city of, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg002">2</a> _note_; iii. <a href="#pg261">261</a></li>

<li>Syracuse, i. <a href="i.html#pg087">87</a> _note_; iii. <a
href="#pg262">262</a>, <a href="#pg279">279</a>, <a href=
"#pg288">288</a>, <a href="#pg290">290</a>, <a href=
"#pg291">291</a>, <a href="#pg294">294</a> _note_, <a href=
"#pg304">304</a>, <a href="#pg320">320</a>-331</li>
</ul>

<ul class="IX">
<li>Tacitus, iii. <a href="#pg199">199</a></li>

<li>Tadema, Alma, i. <a href="i.html#pg210">210</a></li>

<li>Tanagra, iii. <a href="#pg209">209</a></li>

<li>Tancred de Hauteville, iii. <a href="#pg294">294</a>, <a href=
"#pg295">295</a></li>

<li>Taormina, iii. <a href="#pg287">287</a>, <a href=
"#pg288">288</a>, <a href="#pg304">304</a></li>

<li>Tarentum, iii. <a href="#pg263">263</a></li>

<li>Tarentum, Prince of, i. <a href="i.html#pg079">79</a></li>

<li>Tarlati, Guido, iii. <a href="#pg074">74</a></li>

<li>Taro, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg340">340</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg132">132</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg183">183</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg184">184</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg195">195</a></li>

<li>Tarsus, iii. <a href="#pg212">212</a></li>

<li>Tasso, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg083">83</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg264">264</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg265">265</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg267">267</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg269">269</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg273">273</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg274">274</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg280">280</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg332">332</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg337">337</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg343">343</a></li>

<li>Tavignano, the, valley of, i. <a href=
"i.html#pg111">111</a></li>

<li>Tedaldo, Count of Reggio and Modena, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg169">169</a></li>

<li>Tennyson, Lord, i. <a href="i.html#pg004">4</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg023">23</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg270">270</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg273">273</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg296">296</a>;
iii. <a href="#pg173">173</a></li>

<li>Terlan, i. <a href="i.html#pg063">63</a></li>

<li>Terni, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg034">34</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg253">253</a></li>

<li>Terracina, i. <a href="i.html#pg318">318</a>; iii. <a href=
"#pg235">235</a></li>

<li>Tertullian, iii. <a href="#pg219">219</a></li>

<li>Theocritus, i. <a href="i.html#pg084">84</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg094">94</a>; ii. <a href="ii.html#pg304">304</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg330">330</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg335">335</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg337">337</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg355">355</a>; iii. <a href="#pg319">319</a></li>

<li>Theodoric the Ostrogoth, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg002">2</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg010">10</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg011">11</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg013">13</a></li>

<li>Theognis, iii. <a href="#pg172">172</a></li>

<li>Thomas &agrave; Kempis (quoted), i. <a href=
"i.html#pg098">98</a>, <a href="i.html#pg100">100</a></li>

<li>Thomas of Sarzana, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg028">28</a></li>

<li>Thrasymene, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg045">45</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg046">46</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg048">48</a>; iii. <a
href="#pg090">90</a>, <a href="#pg091">91</a>, <a href=
"#pg101">101</a>, <a href="#pg111">111</a></li>

<li>Thucydides, iii. <a href="#pg321">321</a>-324, <a href=
"#pg327">327</a>, <a href="#pg328">328</a>, <a href=
"#pg331">331</a></li>

<li>Thuillier, Prefect, i. <a href="i.html#pg109">109</a></li>

<li>Tiber, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg033">33</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg046">46</a>; iii. <a href="#pg112">112</a></li>

<li>Tiberio d'Assisi, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg035">35</a></li>

<li>Tiberius, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg014">14</a>; iii. <a href=
"#pg271">271</a>-274</li>

<li>Ticino, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg124">124</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg211">211</a></li>

<li>Tieck, R. iii. <a href=
"#pg224">224</a></li>

<li>Timoleon, iii. <a href="#pg288">288</a>, <a href=
"#pg290">290</a>, <a href="#pg304">304</a>, <a href=
"#pg319">319</a>, <a href="#pg337">337</a></li>

<li>Tintoretto, i. <a href="i.html#pg138">138</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg236">236</a>, <a href="i.html#pg262">262</a>-267, <a
href="i.html#pg269">269</a>, <a href="i.html#pg281">281</a>; ii.
<a href="ii.html#pg147">147</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg156">156</a>; iii. <a href="#pg158">158</a></li>

<li>Tinzenhorn, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg127">127</a></li>

<li>Tirano, i. <a href="i.html#pg049">49</a>-53, <a href=
"i.html#pg061">61</a>, <a href="i.html#pg062">62</a></li>

<li>Titian, i. <a href="i.html#pg337">337</a> _note_; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg076">76</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg083">83</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg130">130</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg153">153</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg154">154</a>; iii. <a href="#pg180">180</a>,
<a href="#pg247">247</a></li>

<li>Titus, iii. <a href="#pg190">190</a></li>

<li>Tivoli, i. <a href="i.html#pg087">87</a> _note_; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg032">32</a>; iii. <a href="#pg189">189</a>, <a href=
"#pg198">198</a>, <a href="#pg201">201</a>, <a href=
"#pg210">210</a></li>

<li>Todi, iii. <a href="#pg111">111</a></li>

<li>Tofana, i. <a href="i.html#pg268">268</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg283">283</a></li>

<li>Tolomei family, iii. <a href="#pg069">69</a></li>

<li>Tolomei, Cristoforo, iii. <a href="#pg070">70</a></li>

<li>Tolomei, Fulvia, iii. <a href="#pg070">70</a></li>

<li>Tolomei, Giovanni, iii. <a href="#pg008">8</a>, <a href=
"#pg070">70</a> (_see also_ Bernardo)</li>

<li>Tolomei, Nino, iii. <a href="#pg008">8</a>, <a href=
"#pg070">70</a></li>

<li>Tommaseo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg283">283</a></li>

<li>Tommaso di Nello, iii. <a href="#pg011">11</a></li>

<li>Torcello, i. <a href="i.html#pg171">171</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg172">172</a>, <a href="i.html#pg282">282</a>; ii. <a
href="ii.html#pg001">1</a></li>

<li>Torre dell' Annunziata, iii. <a href="#pg232">232</a></li>

<li>Torre del Greco, iii. <a href="#pg232">232</a></li>

<li>Torrensi family, the, iii. <a href="#pg119">119</a></li>

<li>Toscanella, iii. <a href="#pg109">109</a></li>

<li>Toschi, Paolo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg148">148</a>-150</li>

<li>Totila, iii. <a href="#pg081">81</a></li>

<li>Tourneur, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg267">267</a></li>

<li>Trajan, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg014">14</a>; iii. <a href=
"#pg188">188</a></li>

<li>Trani, iii. <a href="#pg311">311</a></li>

<li>Trapani, iii. <a href="#pg319">319</a></li>

<li>Trasimeno, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg050">50</a></li>

<li>Trastevere, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg096">96</a></li>

<li>Trebanio, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg019">19</a></li>

<li>Trelawny, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg144">144</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg146">146</a></li>

<li>Tremazzi, Ambrogio, i. <a href="i.html#pg327">327</a>
_note_</li>

<li>Trento, i. <a href="i.html#pg340">340</a></li>

<li>Trepievi, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg184">184</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg188">188</a></li>

<li>Trescorio, i. <a href="i.html#pg204">204</a></li>

<li>Tresenda, i. <a href="i.html#pg063">63</a></li>

<li>Trevi, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg035">35</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg039">39</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg046">46</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg097">97</a>; iii. <a href="#pg111">111</a></li>

<li>Treviglio, i. <a href="i.html#pg209">209</a></li>

<li>Treviso, iii. <a href="#pg006">6</a></li>

<li>Trezzo, i. <a href="i.html#pg194">194</a></li>

<li>Trinacria, iii. <a href="#pg290">290</a></li>

<li>Trinci family, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg038">38</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg041">41</a></li>

<li>Trinci, Corrado, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg040">40</a></li>

<li>Troina, iii. <a href="#pg302">302</a>, <a href=
"#pg303">303</a></li>

<li>Tuldo, Nicola, iii. <a href="#pg053">53</a>-55</li>

<li>Tunis, iii. <a href="#pg275">275</a></li>

<li>Turin, i. <a href="i.html#pg134">134</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg138">138</a>, <a href="i.html#pg348">348</a></li>

<li>Turner, J.M.W., iii. <a href="#pg138">138</a>, <a href=
"#pg364">364</a></li>

<li>Tuscany, i. <a href="i.html#pg187">187</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg045">45</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg169">169</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg234">234</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg244">244</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg276">276</a> foll.; iii. <a href=
"#pg041">41</a> foll., <a href="#pg068">68</a>, <a href=
"#pg104">104</a></li>

<li>Tuscany, Grand Duke of, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg099">99</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg170">170</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg256">256</a></li>

<li>Tyrol, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg089">89</a></li>

<li>Tyrrhenian sea, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg183">183</a></li>
</ul>

<ul class="IX">
<li>Ubaldo, S., ii. <a href="ii.html#pg054">54</a></li>

<li>Uberti, Fazio degli, iii. <a href="#pg010">10</a>, <a href=
"#pg016">16</a></li>

<li>Udine, i. <a href="i.html#pg351">351</a></li>

<li>Ugolini, Messer Baccio, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg362">362</a></li>

<li>Uguccione della Faggiuola, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg136">136</a>; iii. <a href="#pg004">4</a></li>

<li>Ulysses, iii. <a href="#pg288">288</a>, <a href=
"#pg320">320</a></li>

<li>Umbria, i. <a href="i.html#pg149">149</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg032">32</a>-59; iii. <a href="#pg068">68</a>, <a href=
"#pg119">119</a> _note_ 1</li>

<li>Urban II., iii. <a href="#pg304">304</a></li>

<li>Urban IV., ii. <a href="ii.html#pg177">177</a>; iii. <a href=
"#pg141">141</a>, <a href="#pg142">142</a></li>

<li>Urban V., i. <a href="i.html#pg070">70</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg078">78</a></li>

<li>Urbino, i. <a href="i.html#pg203">203</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg045">45</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg058">58</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg066">66</a>-69, <a href="ii.html#pg074">74</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg078">78</a>-87, <a href=
"ii.html#pg185">185</a></li>

<li>Urbino, Counts of, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg015">15</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg070">70</a></li>

<li>Urbino, Federigo, Duke of, i. <a href="i.html#pg203">203</a>,
<a href="i.html#pg207">207</a>, <a href="i.html#pg316">316</a>,
<a href="i.html#pg317">317</a>, <a href="i.html#pg326">326</a>;
ii. <a href="ii.html#pg048">48</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg066">66</a>-68, <a href="ii.html#pg070">70</a>-73,
<a href="ii.html#pg078">78</a>-81, <a href=
"ii.html#pg231">231</a></li>

<li>Urbino, Prince Federigo-Ubaldo of, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg077">77</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg078">78</a></li>

<li>Urbino, Francesco Maria della Rovere, Duke of, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg073">73</a>-76, <a href="ii.html#pg085">85</a></li>

<li>Urbino, Francesco Maria II., Duke of, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg076">76</a>-78, <a href="ii.html#pg086">86</a></li>

<li>Urbino, Guidobaldo, Duke of, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg073">73</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg074">74</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg079">79</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg080">80</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg083">83</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg084">84</a></li>

<li>Urbino, Guidobaldo II., Duke of, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg076">76</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg082">82</a></li>

<li>Urbino, Lorenzo de' Medici, Duke of, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg075">75</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg076">76</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg247">247</a></li>
</ul>

<ul class="IX">
<li>Valdarno, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg218">218</a></li>

<li>Valdelsa, iii. <a href="#pg069">69</a></li>

<li>Valentinian, iii. <a href="#pg191">191</a></li>

<li>Valentino, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg064">64</a></li>

<li>Valperga, Ardizzino, i. <a href="i.html#pg158">158</a></li>

<li>Valsassina, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg184">184</a></li>

<li>Valtelline, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg035">35</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg048">48</a>-51, <a href="i.html#pg053">53</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg058">58</a>, <a href="i.html#pg061">61</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg064">64</a>, <a href="i.html#pg180">180</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg184">184</a>, <a href="i.html#pg186">186</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg188">188</a>; ii. <a href="ii.html#pg168">168</a>;
iii. <a href="#pg094">94</a></li>

<li>Valturio, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg018">18</a></li>

<li>Varallo, i. <a href="i.html#pg019">19</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg136">136</a>, <a href="i.html#pg138">138</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg164">164</a></li>

<li>Varani, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg047">47</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg071">71</a></li>

<li>Varano, Giulia, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg076">76</a></li>

<li>Varano, Madonna Maria, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg085">85</a></li>

<li>Varano, Venanzio, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg085">85</a></li>

<li>Varchi, i. <a href="i.html#pg320">320</a>-322, <a href=
"i.html#pg325">325</a>, <a href="i.html#pg326">326</a>; iii. <a
href="#pg045">45</a> _note_</li>

<li>Varenna, i. <a href="i.html#pg173">173</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg186">186</a></li>

<li>Varese, i. <a href="i.html#pg144">144</a>;

<ul>
<li>Lake of, i. <a href="i.html#pg124">124</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg173">173</a>, <a href="i.html#pg174">174</a></li>
</ul>
</li>

<li>Vasari, Giorgio, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg026">26</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg028">28</a>; iii. <a href="#pg083">83</a>, <a href=
"#pg084">84</a>, <a href="#pg145">145</a></li>

<li>Vasco de Gama, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg237">237</a></li>

<li>Vasto, Marquis del, i. <a href="i.html#pg187">187</a></li>

<li>Vaucluse, i. <a href="i.html#pg072">72</a>-74</li>

<li>Velino, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg034">34</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg046">46</a></li>

<li>Venice, i. <a href="i.html#pg044">44</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg167">167</a>, <a href="i.html#pg171">171</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg200">200</a>, <a href="i.html#pg201">201</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg206">206</a>, <a href="i.html#pg254">254</a>-315; ii.
<a href="ii.html#pg001">1</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg002">2</a>
and _note_, <a href="ii.html#pg016">16</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg042">42</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg102">102</a>; iii.
<a href="#pg253">253</a>, <a href="#pg309">309</a>, <a href=
"#pg317">317</a> _note_, _et passim_</li>

<li>Ventimiglia, i. <a href="i.html#pg102">102</a></li>

<li>Vercelli, i. <a href="i.html#pg136">136</a>-142; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg173">173</a>; iii. <a href="#pg082">82</a></li>

<li>Vergerio, Pier Paolo, i. <a href="i.html#pg331">331</a></li>

<li>Verne, M. Jules, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg139">139</a></li>

<li>Vernet, Horace, i. <a href="i.html#pg071">71</a></li>

<li>Verocchio, i. <a href="i.html#pg193">193</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg207">207</a></li>

<li>Verona, i. <a href="i.html#pg212">212</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg168">168</a>; iii. <a href="#pg006">6</a>, <a href=
"#pg318">318</a></li>

<li>Verucchio, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg062">62</a></li>

<li>Vespasian, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg057">57</a></li>

<li>Vespasiano, Florentine bookseller, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg080">80</a></li>

<li>Vesuvius, iii. <a href="#pg230">230</a>, <a href=
"#pg232">232</a>, <a href="#pg234">234</a>, <a href=
"#pg235">235</a>, <a href="#pg239">239</a>, <a href=
"#pg242">242</a>, <a href="#pg245">245</a>, <a href=
"#pg276">276</a></li>

<li>Vettori, Paolo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg245">245</a></li>

<li>Via Mala, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg057">57</a></li>

<li>Viareggio, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg145">145</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg146">146</a></li>

<li>Vicenza, i. <a href="i.html#pg075">75</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg328">328</a>-330</li>

<li>Vico, i. <a href="i.html#pg109">109</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg112">112</a>, <a href="i.html#pg115">115</a></li>

<li>Vico Soprano, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg129">129</a></li>

<li>Victor, Aurelius, iii. <a href="#pg193">193</a>, <a href=
"#pg195">195</a></li>

<li>Vietri, iii. <a href="#pg250">250</a></li>

<li>Vignole, i. <a href="i.html#pg283">283</a></li>

<li>Villa, i. <a href="i.html#pg048">48</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg062">62</a></li>

<li>Villafranca, i. <a href="i.html#pg083">83</a></li>

<li>Villani, Giovanni, iii. <a href="#pg008">8</a></li>

<li>Villani, Matteo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg208">208</a>; iii. <a
href="#pg008">8</a>, <a href="#pg016">16</a></li>

<li>Villeneuve, i. <a href="i.html#pg070">70</a></li>

<li>Villon, iii. <a href="#pg001">1</a></li>

<li>Vinci, Leonardo da, i. <a href="i.html#pg139">139</a>, <a
href="i.html#pg148">148</a>, <a href="i.html#pg154">154</a>, <a
href="i.html#pg349">349</a>; ii. <a href="ii.html#pg019">19</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg021">21</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg027">27</a>,
<a href="ii.html#pg050">50</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg152">152</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg156">156</a>; iii.
<a href="#pg082">82</a>, <a href="#pg228">228</a>, <a href=
"#pg238">238</a></li>

<li>Vinta, M. Francesco, i. <a href="i.html#pg330">330</a></li>

<li>Vire, Val de, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg291">291</a></li>

<li>Virgil, i. <a href="i.html#pg246">246</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg006">6</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg063">63</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg285">285</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg304">304</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg338">338</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg343">343</a>;
iii. <a href="#pg075">75</a>, <a href="#pg144">144</a>, <a href=
"#pg155">155</a>, <a href="#pg162">162</a>, <a href=
"#pg172">172</a>, <a href="#pg180">180</a>, <a href=
"#pg181">181</a>, <a href="#pg186">186</a>, <a href=
"#pg215">215</a>, <a href="#pg268">268</a>, <a href=
"#pg309">309</a>, <a href="#pg320">320</a></li>

<li>Visconti family, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg146">146</a>, <a
href="i.html#pg181">181</a>, <a href="i.html#pg195">195</a>; ii.
<a href="ii.html#pg016">16</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg178">178</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg185">185</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg224">224</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg278">278</a>;
iii. <a href="#pg119">119</a>, <a href="#pg253">253</a></li>

<li>Visconti, Astore, i, <a href="i.html#pg181">181</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg182">182</a></li>

<li>Visconti, Bianca Maria, i. <a href="i.html#pg199">199</a></li>

<li>Visconti, Ermes, i. <a href="i.html#pg157">157</a></li>

<li>Visconti, Filippo Maria, i. <a href="i.html#pg195">195</a>, <a
href="i.html#pg197">197</a>-199; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg215">215</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg224">224</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg235">235</a></li>

<li>Visconti, Gian Galeazzo, i. <a href="i.html#pg149">149</a>, <a
href="i.html#pg152">152</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg213">213</a></li>

<li>Visconti, Gian Maria, ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg236">236</a></li>

<li>Vitelli, the, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg041">41</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg047">47</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg071">71</a></li>

<li>Vitelli, Alessandro, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg250">250</a></li>

<li>Vitelli, Giulia, iii. <a href="#pg132">132</a></li>

<li>Vitelli, Vitellozzo, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg047">47</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg048">48</a></li>

<li>Vitellius, iii. <a href="#pg164">164</a></li>

<li>Vittoli, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg114">114</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg115">115</a></li>

<li>Vivarini, i. <a href="i.html#pg269">269</a></li>

<li>Voltaire, iii. <a href="#pg161">161</a></li>

<li>Volterra, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg163">163</a>, <a href=
"ii.html#pg214">214</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg231">231</a>; iii.
<a href="#pg066">66</a>, <a href="#pg069">69</a>, <a href=
"#pg079">79</a>, <a href="#pg092">92</a>, <a href=
"#pg103">103</a></li>

<li>Volterra, Bebo da, i. <a href="i.html#pg328">328</a>-330, <a
href="i.html#pg333">333</a>-341</li>

<li>Volterrano, Andrea, i. <a href="i.html#pg336">336</a></li>

<li>Volturno, iii. <a href="#pg239">239</a></li>

<li>Volumnii, the, iii. <a href="#pg112">112</a></li>
</ul>

<ul class="IX">
<li>Walker, Frederick, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg129">129</a>; iii.
<a href="#pg076">76</a></li>

<li>Walter of Brienne. (_See_ Athens, Duke of)</li>

<li>Walter of the Mill, Archbishop of Palermo, iii. <a href=
"#pg306">306</a> _note_, <a href="#pg308">308</a></li>

<li>Webster, the dramatist, i. <a href="i.html#pg220">220</a>; ii.
<a href="ii.html#pg103">103</a>-126, <a href=
"ii.html#pg267">267</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg271">271</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg277">277</a></li>

<li>Weisshorn, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg054">54</a></li>

<li>Whitman, Walt, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg024">24</a>; iii. <a
href="#pg172">172</a></li>

<li>Wien, i. <a href="i.html#pg045">45</a></li>

<li>Wiesen, i. <a href="i.html#pg065">65</a>; ii. <a href=
"ii.html#pg127">127</a></li>

<li>William of Apulia, iii. <a href="#pg298">298</a>, <a href=
"#pg299">299</a>, <a href="#pg305">305</a></li>

<li>William the Bad and William the Good of Sicily, iii. <a href=
"#pg305">305</a>, <a href="#pg306">306</a>, <a href=
"#pg308">308</a>, <a href="#pg311">311</a></li>

<li>Winckelman, iii. <a href="#pg188">188</a></li>

<li>Wolfgang, i. <a href="i.html#pg030">30</a></li>

<li>Wolfswalk, the, i. <a href="i.html#pg031">31</a></li>

<li>Wordsworth, i. <a href="i.html#pg005">5</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg006">6</a>, <a href="i.html#pg010">10</a>, <a href=
"i.html#pg011">11</a>; ii. <a href="ii.html#pg262">262</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg263">263</a>, <a href="ii.html#pg273">273</a>;
iii. <a href="#pg172">172</a>, <a href="#pg173">173</a></li>

<li>Wyatt, Sir Thomas, ii. <a href="ii.html#pg261">261</a>, <a
href="ii.html#pg262">262</a></li>
</ul>

<ul class="IX">
<li>Xenophanes, iii. <a href="#pg171">171</a>, <a href=
"#pg173">173</a>, <a href="#pg353">353</a></li>

<li>Xiphilinus, iii. <a href="#pg192">192</a></li>
</ul>

<ul class="IX">
<li>Zafferana, iii. <a href="#pg282">282</a>, <a href=
"#pg283">283</a></li>

<li>Zante, iii. <a href="#pg363">363</a></li>

<li>Zeno, Carlo, i. <a href="i.html#pg260">260</a></li>

<li>Zeus Olympius, iii. <a href="#pg290">290</a></li>

<li>Zizers, i. <a href="i.html#pg065">65</a></li>
</ul>


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