to which no visible road leads. On the other side of the lake, which
is here narrow, the white houses of Malcesine cluster around the base
of an imposing castle. This stronghold of the Middle Ages, one of the
few in this neighborhood which Time has not been suffered to destroy,
was built by Charlemagne, and was formerly the boundary between Austria
and the Venetian territory; but it is chiefly interesting from an
adventure which here befell Goethe. He had sat down in the court-yard,
and was sketching one of the quaint old towers, when the crowd that
had gathered around him, taking him for a spy, fell on him, tore
his drawings to pieces and sent for the authorities to arrest him.
Fortunately, there was in the village a man who had worked in Frankfort
and knew the poet by sight, and through his influence Goethe was set
free.
[From Lake Garda the traveller proceeded to the more famous Lake
Como, passing localities where songful Catullus dwelt, and Virgil
and Dante loved to visit.]
On the map the Lake of Como looks like an inverted and somewhat
irregular =Y=, or, still more, like a child's first attempt to draw
a man, who without arms and with unequal legs is running off to the
left. Just at the moment his picture is taken he has one foot on Lecco
and the other on the town of Como. The hilly district between the two
southern branches of the lake is known as the Brianza, and is noted for
its bracing air, its fertile soil, and the coolness of its springs.
The Brianza ends at the middle of the lake in a dolomite promontory
several hundred feet high, on whose western slope lies the village of
Bellaggio. This point commands the finest views in every direction:
it is near the most interesting of those villas which are open to the
public, and it abounds in good hotels. To visit Bellaggio is therefore
the aim of every tourist who passes this way. My journey thither it is
best to pass over in silence, for I see nothing, and what I feel is
indescribable. I am shut up during a furious storm of wind and rain
in the cabin of a little steamer which is as nervous and uneasy as if
on the Atlantic. I am told, however, that in this part of the lake
the banks are lofty and steep, and frequently barren, and that there
are marble-quarries to be seen, and cascades and houses and villages
crowning the cliffs.
On arriving at Bellaggio, I take lodging in the Villa Serbelloni,
one of the many magnificent residences which poverty has induced the
Italian nobles to put into the hands of hotel-keepers. The house
stands high up on the very end of the promontory, and adjoining it is
an extensive park, on which the ruins of a robber's castle look down.
The panorama which on a fine day spreads itself out before one who
walks in these grounds is of singular beauty. The northern arm of the
lake, wider and more regular than the others, opens up a long vista
of headlands and bays and red-roofed villages as far as where Domaso
peeps out from a grove of giant elms. Beyond, the view is bounded by
the snow-covered Alps. Close at hand, near Varenna, the Fiume di Latte,
a milk-white waterfall, leaps down from a height of a thousand feet.
Towards Lecco huge walls of barren rock arise and wrap everything
near them in sombre shadows. Towards Como the tranquil water is shut
in by hills and low mountains, whose flowing lines blend gracefully
together. Some of these slopes are dark with pines, some are gray
with the olive, some are garlanded with vines which hang from tree to
tree, while others are clothed in a rich green foliage, amid which
glistens the golden fruit of the orange and the lemon. The banks are
lined with bright gardens and noble parks and villas, whose lawns run
down to the water's edge and are adorned with fountains, statues,
masses of brilliant flowers and clumps of tall trees. Above is a sky
of Italian blue, and below is a crystal mirror in which every charm of
the landscape is repeated. The impression made by all this loveliness
is increased by the air of happiness that pervades the spot. It is the
haunt of the rich, the gay, the newly-married: music and song, laughter
and mirthful talk, are the most familiar sounds. The smile of Nature
seems here to warm men's hearts and drive away the cares they have
brought with them.
It is on this site that Pliny the Younger is believed to have had the
villa which he called Cothurnus or "Tragedy." The present building
is several centuries old. Tradition relates that a certain countess,
one of its first occupants, had a habit of throwing her lovers down
the cliff when she was tired of them. Making this delightful abode
my head-quarters, I spend a week, partly in agreeable sight-seeing
and partly in still more agreeable idleness. I visit villas, towers,
fossil-beds, and waterfalls,--in short, everything interesting and
accessible,--now going on foot, now borne from point to point in one of
the sharp-prowed row-boats which are in use here, and now taking the
steamer up to Colico or down to Como and back....
Across the lake from here is the Villa Carlotta, called after its
former owner, the princess Charlotte of Prussia. Stepping out of his
boat, the visitor ascends the marble stairs which lead up from the
shore. After a few steps across the garden he reaches the villa, passes
through a porch fragrant with jasmine, and is at once ushered into a
small room where are some of the finest works of modern sculpture.
Canova's Mars and Venus and Palamedes are here, and they are most
admirable, but they are surpassed in charm by the famous group in
which Psyche is reclining and Cupid bending fondly over her. The
best piece of the collection is the frieze that runs round the room.
It is from the chisel of Thorwaldsen, and represents Alexander the
Great's triumphal entry into Babylon. Full of the beauty of youth,
the conqueror advances in his chariot; Victory comes to meet him;
vanquished nations bring presents; while behind him follow his brave
Greeks on horse and on foot, dragging along with them the prisoners and
the booty. The subject was suggested by Napoleon, who intended the work
for the Quirinal. It is in high relief, and in general effect resembles
strongly the frieze with which Phidias encircled the Parthenon. It is a
pity that these masterpieces are shown first, for after seeing them one
does not fully enjoy the statues and paintings in the other rooms.
Two hours may be delightfully spent in making the journey by steamboat
from Bellaggio to Como. Here the lake is so narrow and winding that
it seems to be a river. At every moment bold mountain-spurs project
into the water appearing to bar all passage, and one's curiosity is
continually excited to find the outlet. The views shift and change with
surprising quickness, for the boat stops at a dozen little towns on the
way, and for this purpose keeps crossing and recrossing from shore to
shore.
[Passing next to Lake Maggiore, the traveller takes a row-boat
down the latter in preference to waiting for the steamer.]
The four islands that we have passed on the way are known as the
Borromean Islands, because they belong for the most part to the rich
and powerful Borromeo family. The rare beauty of one of them makes it
the wonder of the lake. It was towards the middle of the seventeenth
century that Count Vitaliano Borromeo, finding himself the possessor of
almost the whole of this island, which was then a barren rock, resolved
to make it his residence, and to surround himself with gardens that
should rival those of Armida. For more than twenty years architects,
gardeners, sculptors, and painters labored to give material form to
the count's fancies. A spacious palace was erected on one end of the
island; on the other ten lofty terraces rose one above the other,
like the hanging-gardens of Babylon. The rock was covered with good
soil, and the choicest trees and shrubs were brought from every land.
Only evergreens, however, were admitted into this Eden, for the count
would have about him no sign of winter or death. In 1671 the work was
finished. The island was called Isabella, after the count's mother,--a
name which has since, by a happy corruption, become changed to Isola
Bella.
It is on a sunny afternoon that I direct my bark towards the "Beautiful
Island." I look on the landing-place with respect, for it is worn by
the footsteps of six generations of travellers. The interior of the
palace, which I visit first, is fitted up with princely magnificence
and is rich in art-treasures. Mementos of kings and queens who
accepted hospitality here are shown, and a bed in which Bonaparte once
slept. There is a chapel where a priest daily says mass; a throne-room,
as in the palaces of the Spanish grandees; and a gallery with numerous
paintings. A whole suite of rooms is given up to the works of Peter
Molyn, a Dutch artist, fitly nicknamed "Sir Tempest." This erratic man,
having killed his wife to marry another woman, was condemned to death.
He escaped from prison, however, found an asylum here, and in return
for the protection of the Borromeo of that day he adorned his walls
with more than fifty landscapes and pastoral scenes.
The garden betrays the epoch at which it was laid out. Prim parterres,
where masses of brilliant flowers bloom all the year round, are
enclosed by walks along which orange-trees and myrtles have been bent
and trimmed into whimsical patterns. There are dark and winding alleys
of cedars where at every turn some surprise is planned. Here is a
grotto made of shells,--there an obelisk, or a mosaic column, or a
horse of bronze, or a fountain of clear water in which the attendant
tritons and nymphs would doubtless disport were they not petrified
into marble. There is one lovely spot where, at the middle point of
a rotunda, a large statue of Hercules stands finely out against a
background of dark foliage. Other Olympians keep him company and calmly
eye the visitor from their painted niches. Not far from there is a
venerable laurel on which Bonaparte cut the word "Battaglia" a few days
before the battle of Marengo. The B is still plainly visible.
Pines and firs planted thickly along the northern side of the island
defend it from cold winds. In the sunny nooks of the terraces the
delicate lemon-tree bears abundant fruit and the oleander grows to a
size which it attains nowhere else in Europe. The tea-plant from China,
the banana from Africa, and the sugar-cane from Mississippi flourish
side by side; the camphor-tree distils its aromatic essence and the
magnolia loads the air with perfume. The cactus and the aloe border
walks over which the bamboo bends and throws its grateful shade. Turf
and flowerbeds carpet each terrace, and a tapestry of ivy and flowering
vines conceals the walls of the structure. From the summit a huge stone
unicorn looks down upon his master's splendid domain. He overlooks
also a corner of the island where his master's authority is not
acknowledged. The small patch of land on which the Dolphin Hotel stands
has for many centuries descended from father to son in a plebeian
family, nor have the Borromeos ever been able to buy it. They have to
endure the inn, therefore, as Frederick endured the mill at Sans-Souci
and Napoleon the house he could not buy at Paris.
At last the moment comes when I must quit Stresa, not, however, before
I have visited the remaining islands and other points of interest. The
steamer puts off, and soon separates me from the landscape that has
been my delight for three days,--the blue bay with its verdant banks,
the softly-shaded hills which enclose it, the snow-covered chain of
the Simplon in the background. As we approach the southern end of the
lake a colossal bronze statue of San Carlo Borromeo on the summit of a
hill near Arona comes into sight. From head to foot the saint measures
little less than eighty feet, and the pedestal on which he stands adds
to his height half as much more. His face is turned towards Arona, his
native town, and one hand is extended to bless it. With my glass I
descry a party of liliputian tourists engaged in examining this great
Gulliver. Most of them are satisfied when they have reached the top of
the pedestal and have ranged themselves in a row on one foot of the
statue. Others, more daring, climb up by a ladder to the saint's knee,
where they disappear through an aperture in the skirt of his robe.
From this point the ascent continues inside of the statue, by means of
iron bars, to the head, in which four persons can conveniently remain
at once.
At Arona the railway-station and the wharf are near each other, and in
a few minutes after I have landed an express-train starts and bears
me away from the region of the Italian lakes. When we have passed the
last houses of Arona and gained the open plain, the statue of the great
Borromeo with his outstretched arm comes again for a few moments into
view. Perhaps the uncertain light of evening and the jolting of the
train deceive me, but I fancy that the good old saint is waving his
hand in the familiar Italian way, as much as to say, "A rivederci!"
A DAY IN ROME.
BAYARD TAYLOR.
[The things worth seeing in the Eternal City are so many, and
crowd so closely upon each other, that the lover of the antique
finds himself almost overwhelmed by the rapid succession of
striking objects and historic ruins. It would seem that little
could be seen in a day's walk among these marvels of the past,
yet Taylor's observing eyes managed to take in a long series of
interesting objects, his graphic account of which is given below.]
One day's walk through Rome,--how shall I describe it? The Capitol, the
Forum, St. Peter's, the Coliseum,--what few hours' ramble ever took in
places so hallowed by poetry, history, and art? It was a golden leaf
in my calendar of life. In thinking over it now, and drawing out the
threads of recollection from the varied woof of thought I have woven
to-day, I almost wonder how I dared so much at once; but within reach
of them all, how was it possible to wait? Let me give a sketch of our
day's ramble.
Hearing that it was better to visit the ruins by evening or moonlight
(alas! there is no moon now) we started out to hunt St. Peter's. Going
in the direction of the Corso, we passed the ruined front of the
magnificent Temple of Antoninus, now used as the Papal Custom-House. We
turned to the right on entering the Corso, expecting to have a view of
the city from the hill at its southern end. It is a magnificent street,
lined with palaces and splendid edifices of every kind, and always
filled with crowds of carriages and people. On leaving it, however, we
became bewildered among the narrow streets, passed through a market of
vegetables, crowded with beggars and contadini, threaded many by-ways
between dark old buildings, saw one or two antique fountains and many
modern churches, and finally arrived at a hill.
We ascended many steps, and then descending a little towards the other
side, saw suddenly below us the _Roman Forum_! I knew it at once; and
those three Corinthian columns that stood near us, what could they
be but the remains of the temple of Jupiter Stator? We stood on the
Capitoline Hill; at the foot was the Arch of Septimius Severus, brown
with age and shattered; near it stood the majestic front of the Temple
of Fortune, its pillars of polished granite glistening in the sun as if
they had been erected yesterday, while on the left the rank grass was
waving from the arches and mighty walls of the palace of the Cæsars! In
front ruin upon ruin lined the way for half a mile, where the Coliseum
towered grandly through the blue morning mist, at the base of the
Esquiline Hill!
[Illustration: ARCH OF TITUS, ROME]
Good heavens, what a scene! Grandeur such as the world never saw once
rose through that blue atmosphere; splendor inconceivable, the spoils
of a world, the triumphs of a thousand armies had passed over that
earth; minds which for ages moved the ancient world had thought there,
and words of power and glory from the lips of immortal men had been
syllabled on that hallowed air. To call back all this on the very spot,
while the wreck of what once was rose mouldering and desolate around,
aroused a sublimity of thought and feeling too powerful for words.
Returning at hazard through the streets, we came suddenly upon the
Column of Trajan, standing in an excavated square below the level of
the city, amid a number of broken granite columns, which formed part
of the Forum dedicated to him by Rome after the conquest of Dacia.
The column is one hundred and thirty-two feet high, and entirely
covered with bas reliefs representing his victories, winding about it
in a spiral line to the top. The number of figures is computed at two
thousand five hundred, and they were of such excellence that Raphael
used many of them for his models. They are now much defaced, and the
column is surmounted by a statue of some saint. The inscription on
the pedestal has been erased, and the name of Sixtus V. substituted.
Nothing can exceed the ridiculous vanity of the old popes in thus
mutilating the finest monuments of ancient art. You cannot look upon
any relic of antiquity in Rome but your eyes are assailed by the words
"PONTIFEX MAXIMUS," in staring modern letters. Even the magnificent
bronzes of the Pantheon were stripped to make the baldachin under the
dome of St. Peter's.
Finding our way back again, we took a fresh start, happily in the right
direction, and after walking some time, came out on the Tiber, at the
Bridge of St. Angelo. The river rolled below in his muddy glory, and in
front, on the opposite bank, stood "the pile which Hadrian reared on
high," _now_ the Castle of St. Angelo. Knowing that St. Peter's was
to be seen from this bridge. I looked about in search of it. There was
only one dome in sight, large and of beautiful proportions. I said at
once, "Surely that cannot be St. Peter's!" On looking again, however, I
saw the top of a massive range of building near it, which corresponded
so nearly with the pictures of the Vatican, that I was unwillingly
forced to believe the mighty dome was really before me. I recognized
it as one of those we saw from the Capitol, but it appeared so much
smaller when viewed from a greater distance that I was quite deceived.
On considering that we were still three-fourths of a mile from it,
and that we could see its minutest parts distinctly, the illusion was
explained.
Going directly down the _Borgo Vecchio_ towards it, it seemed a long
time before we arrived at the square of St. Peter's; when at length
we stood in front, with the majestic colonnade sweeping around, the
fountains on each side sending up their showers of silvery spray,
the mighty obelisk of Egyptian granite piercing the sky, and beyond,
the great front and dome of the Cathedral, I confessed my unmingled
admiration. It recalled to my mind the grandeur of ancient Rome, and
mighty as her edifices must have been, I doubt if there were many views
more overpowering than this. The facade of St. Peter's seemed close to
us, but it was a third of a mile distant, and the people ascending the
steps dwindled to pigmies.
I passed the obelisk, went up the long ascent, crossed the portico,
pushed aside the heavy leathern curtain at the entrance, and stood in
the great nave. I need not describe my feelings at the sight, but I
will tell the dimensions, and you may then fancy what they were. Before
me was a marble plain six hundred feet long, and under the cross four
hundred and seventeen feet wide! One hundred and fifty feet above
sprang a glorious arch, dazzling with inlaid gold, and in the centre
of the cross there were four hundred feet of air between me and the top
of the dome! The sunbeam stealing through the lofty window at one end
of the transept made a bar of light on the blue air, hazy with incense,
one-tenth of a mile long before it fell on the mosaics and gilded
shrines of the other extremity. The grand cupola alone, including
lantern and cross, is two hundred and eighty-five feet high, or sixty
feet higher than the Bunker Hill Monument, and the four immense pillars
on which it rests are each one hundred and thirty-seven feet in
circumference. It seems as if human art had outdone itself in producing
this temple,--the grandest which the world ever erected for the worship
of the Living God! The awe felt in looking up at the giant arch of
marble and gold did not humble me; on the contrary, I felt exalted,
ennobled,--beings in the form I wore planned the glorious edifice, and
it seemed that in godlike power and perseverance they were indeed but
a "little lower than the angels." I felt that, if fallen, my race was
still mighty and immortal.
The Vatican is only open twice a week, on days which are not _festas_;
most fortunately, to-day happened to be one of these, and we took a
_run_ through its endless halls. The extent and magnificence of the
gallery of sculpture is perfectly amazing. The halls, which are filled
to overflowing with the finest works of ancient art, would, if placed
side by side, make a row more than two miles in length! You enter
at once into a hall of marble, with a magnificent arched ceiling, a
third of a mile long; the sides are covered for a great distance with
inscriptions of every kind, divided into compartments according to the
era of the empire to which they refer. One which I examined appeared to
be a kind of index of the roads in Italy, with the towns on them; and
we could decipher on that time-worn block the very route I had followed
from Florence hither.
Then came the statues, and here I am bewildered how to describe them.
Hundreds upon hundreds of figures,--statues of citizens, generals,
emperors, and gods; fauns, satyrs, and nymphs, born of the loftiest
dreams of grace; fauns on whose faces shone the very soul of humor, and
heroes and divinities with an air of majesty worthy the "land of lost
gods and godlike men!"
I am lost in astonishment at the perfection of art attained by the
Greeks and Romans. There is scarcely a fourth of the beauty that has
ever met my eye which is not to be found in this gallery. I should
almost despair of such another blaze of glory on the world were it not
for my devout belief that what has been done may be done again, and
had I not faith that the dawn in which we live will bring another day
equally glorious. And why should not America with the experience and
added wisdom which three thousand years have slowly yielded to the old
world, joined to the giant energy of her youth and freedom, re-bestow
on the world the divine creations of art? Let Powers answer!
But let us step on to the hemicycle of the Belvedere, and view some
works greater than any we have yet seen or even imagined. The adjoining
gallery is filled with masterpieces of sculpture, but we will keep our
eyes unwearied and merely glance along the rows. At length we reach a
circular court with a fountain flinging up its waters in the centre.
Before us is an open cabinet; there is a beautiful manly form within,
but you would not for an instant take it for the Apollo. By the Gorgon
head it holds aloft we recognize Canova's Perseus,--he has copied the
form and attitude of the Apollo, but he could not breathe into it the
same warming fire. It seemed to me particularly lifeless, and I greatly
preferred his Boxers, who stand on either side of it. One, who has
drawn back in the attitude of striking, looks as if he could fell an ox
with a single blow of his powerful arm. The other is a more lithe and
agile figure, and there is a quick fire in his countenance which might
overbalance the massive strength of his opponent.
Another cabinet,--this is the far-famed Antinous. A countenance of
perfect Grecian beauty, with a form such as we would imagine for one of
Homer's heroes. His features are in repose, and there is something in
their calm, settled expression strikingly like life.