SCENERY OF LAKE GARDA--PESCHIERA--VERONA.
Lake Garda--Memories of Trent--The Council of Trent fixed the
Destiny as well as Creed of Rome--Questions for Infallibility--Why
should Infallibility have to grope its Way?--Why does it reveal
Truth piecemeal?--Why does it need Assessors?--The Immaculate
Conception--Town of Desenzano--Magnificent Bullocks--Land of
Virgil--Grandeur of Lake Garda--The Iron Peschiera--The Cypress
Tree--Verona--Imposing Appearance of its Exterior--Richness and
Beauty of surrounding Plains--Palmerston.
When the morning broke we were skirting the base of the Tyrolese Alps. I
could see masses of snow on some of the summits, from which a piercingly
cold air came rushing down upon the plains. In a little the sun rose;
and thankful we were for his warmth. Day was again abroad on the waters
and the hills; and soon we forgot the night, with all its untoward
occurrences. The face of the country was uneven; and we kept alternately
winding and climbing among the spurs of the Alps. At length the
magnificent expanse of Lake Garda, the Benacus of the ancients, opened
before us. In breadth it was like an arm of the sea. There were one or
two tall-masted ships on its waters; there were fine mountains on its
northern shore; and on the east the conspicuous form of Monte Baldo
leaned over it, as if looking at its own shadow in the lake. With the
Lago di Garda came the memories of Trent; for at the distance of twenty
miles or so from its northern shore is "the little town among the
mountains," where the famous Council assembled, in which so many things
were voted to be true which had been open questions till then, but to
doubt which now were certain and eternal anathema.
The Reformation addressed to Rome the last call to reconsider her
position, and change her course while yet it was possible. It said to
her, in effect, Repent now: to-morrow it will be too late. Rome gave her
reply when she summoned the Council of Trent. That Council crystallized,
so to speak, the various doubtful opinions and dogmas which had been
floating about in solution, and fixed the creed of Rome. It did
more,--it fixed her doom. Amid these mountains she issued the fiat of
her fate. When she published the proceedings of Trent to the world, she
said, "Here I stand; I cannot do otherwise; so help me----." To whom did
she make her appeal? To the Emperor in the first place, when she prayed
for the vengeance of the civil sword; and to the Prince of Darkness in
the second, when she invoked damnation on all her opponents. Then her
course was irrevocably fixed. She dare not now look behind her: to
change a single iota were annihilation. She must go forward, amid
accumulating errors, and absurdities, and blasphemies: amid opposing
arts and sciences, and knowledge, she must go steadily onward,--onward
to the precipice!
It is interesting to mark, as we can in history, first, the feeble
germinations of a papal dogma; next, its waxing growth; and at last,
after the lapse of centuries, its full development and maturity. It is
easy to conceive how a mere human science should advance only by slow
and gradual stages,--astronomy, for instance, or geology, or even the
more practical science of mechanics. Their authors have no infallible
gift of discerning truth from error. They must observe nature; they must
compare facts; they must deduce conclusions; they must correct previous
errors; and this is both a slow and a laborious process. But
Infallibility is saved all this labour. It knows at once, and from the
beginning, all that is true, and all that is erroneous. It does so, or
it is not Infallibility. Why, then, was it not till the sixteenth
century that Infallibility gave anything like a fixed and complete creed
to the Church? Why did it permit so many men, in all preceding ages, to
live in ignorance of so many things in which it could so easily have
enlightened them? Why did it permit so many questions to be debated,
which it could so easily have settled? Why did it not give that creed to
the Church in the first century which it kept back till the sixteenth?
Why does it deal out truth piecemeal,--one dogma in this century,
another in the next, and so on? Why does it not tell us all at once? And
why, even to this hour, has it not told us all, but reserved some very
important questions for future decision, or revelation rather?
If it is replied that the Pope must first collect the suffrages of the
Catholic bishops, this only lands us in deeper perplexities. Why should
the Pope need assessors and advisers? Can Infallibility not walk alone,
that it uses crutches? Can an infallible man not know truth from error
till first he has collected the votes of fallible bishops? Why should
Infallibility seek help, which it cannot in the nature of things need?
If it is further replied, that this Infallibility is lodged betwixt the
Pope and the Council, we are only confronted with greater difficulties.
Is it when the decree has been voted by the Council that it becomes
infallible? Then the Infallibility resides in the Council. Or is it
when it is confirmed by the Pope that it becomes infallible? In that
case the Infallibility is in the Pope. Or is it, as others maintain,
only when the decree has been accepted by the Church that it is
infallible, and does the Pope not know whether he ought to believe his
own decree till he has heard the judgment of the Church? We had thought
that Infallibility was one and indivisible; but it seems it may be
parted in twain; nay, more, it may be broken down into an indefinite
number of parts; and though no one of these parts taken separately is
Infallibility, yet taken together they constitute Infallibility. In
other words, the union of a number of finite quantities can make an
infinite. Sound philosophy, truly!
If we go back, then, as the Ultramontanist will, to the dogma that the
seat of Infallibility is the chair of Peter, the question returns, why
cannot, or will not, the Pope determine in one age what he is able and
willing to determine in another? The dogma of the Immaculate Conception
of the Virgin, for instance, if it is a truth now, was a truth in the
first age, when it was not even dreamed of; it was a truth in the
twelfth century, when it _was_ dreamed of; it was a truth in the
seventeenth century, when it gave rise to so many scandalous divisions
and conflicts; and yet it was not till December 1854 that Infallibility
pronounced it to be a truth, and so momentous a truth, that no one can
be saved who doubts it. Will any Romanist kindly explain this to us? We
can accept no excuses about the variety of opinion in the Church, or
about the darkness of the age. No haze, no clouds, can dim an infallible
eye. Infallibility should see in the dark as well as in the daylight;
and an infallible teacher is bound to reveal all, as well as to know
all.
And how happens it, too, that the Pope is infallible in only one
science,--even the theological? In astronomy he has made some terrible
blunders. In geography he has taken the earth to be a plain. In
politics, in trade, and in all ordinary matters, he is daily falling
into mistakes. He cannot tell how the wind may blow to-morrow. He cannot
tell whether the dish before him may not have poison in it. And yet the
man who is daily and hourly falling into mistakes on the most common
subjects has only to pronounce dogmatically, and he pronounces
infallibly. He has but to grasp the pen, with a hand, it may be, like
Borgia's, fresh from the poisoned chalice or the stiletto, and
straightway he indites lines as holy and pure as ever flowed from the
pen of a Paul or a John!
The road now led down upon the lake, which lay gleaming like a sheet of
silver beneath the morning sun. We entered the poor, faded, straggling
town of Desenzano, where the usual motley assemblage of commissionaires,
albergo-masters, dwarfs, beggars, and idlers of all kinds, waited to
receive us. The poor old town crept close in to the strand, as if a
draught of the crystal waters would make it young again. It reminded me
of the company of halt, blind, and impotent folk which lay at the pool
of Bethesda. So lay paralytic Desenzano by the shores of the Lake Garda.
Alas! sunshine and storm pass across the scene, clothing the waters and
the hills with alternate beauty and grandeur; but all changes come alike
to the poor, tradeless, bookless, spiritless town. Whether summer comes
in its beauty or winter in its storms, Desenzano is old, withered, dying
Desenzano still. I hurried to an albergo, swallowed a cup of coffee, and
rejoined the _diligence_.
Our course lay along the southern shore of the lake, over a fine rolling
country, richly covered with vineyards, and where the rich red soil was
being ploughed with bullocks. Such bullocks I had never before seen. The
stateliest of their kind which graze the meadows of England and
Scotland are but as grasshoppers in comparison. Truly, I saw before me
the Anakims of the cattle tribe. To them the yoke was no burden. As they
marched on with vast outspread horns, they could have dragged a hundred
ploughs after them. They were not unworthy of Virgil's verse. And it
gave additional charms to the region to think that Mantua, the poet's
birthplace, lay not a long way to the south, and that, doubtless, the
author of the Bucolics often visited in his youth this very spot, and
walked by the margin of these waters, and marked the light and shade on
these noble hills; or, turning to the rich agricultural country on the
right, had seen exactly such bullocks as those I now saw, drawing
exactly such ploughs, and making exactly such furrows in the red earth;
and, spreading the beauty of his own mind over the picture, he had gone
and imprinted it eternally on his page. The true poet is a real
clairvoyant. He may not give you the shape, or colour, or size of
objects; he may not tell how tall the mountains, or how long the
hedge-rows, or how broad the fields; but by some wonderful art he can
convey to your mind what is present to his own. On this principle it
was, perhaps, that the landscape, with all its scenery, was familiar to
me. I had seen it long years before. These were the very fields, the
very bullocks, the very ploughs, the very swains, my imagination had
painted in my schoolboy days, when I sat with the page of the great
pastoral poet of Italy open before me,--too frequently, alas! only open.
On these shores, too, had dwelt the poet Catullus; and a doubtful ruin
which the traveller sees on the point of the long sharp promontory of
Sermio, which runs up into the lake from the south, still bears the name
of Catullus' Villa. If these are the ruins of Catullus' house, which is
very questionable, he must have lived in a style of magnificence which
has fallen to the lot of but few poets.
The complexion of a day or of a lifetime may hang upon the commonest
occurrence. A shoe here dropped from the foot of one of the horses; and
the postilion, diving into the recesses of the _diligence_, and drawing
forth a box with the requisite tools, began forthwith, on the highway,
the process of shoeing. I stepped out, and walked on before, thankful
for the incident, which had given me the opportunity of a saunter along
the road. You can _see_ nature from the windows of your carriage, but
you can _converse_ with her only by a quiet stroll amidst her scenes. On
the right were the great plains which the Po waters, finely mottled with
meadow and corn-field, besprint with chestnut trees, mulberries, and
laurels, and fringed, close by the highway, with rolling heights, on
which grew the vine. On the left was the far expanding lake, with its
bays and creeks, and the shadows of its stately hills mirrored on its
surface. It looked as if some invisible performer was busy shifting the
scenes for the traveller's delight, and spreading a different prospect
before his eye at every few yards. New bays were continually opening,
and new peaks rising on the horizon. "It was so rough with tempests when
we passed by it," says Addison, "that it brought into my mind Virgil's
description of it."
"Here, vexed by winter storms, _Benacus_ raves,
Confused with working sands and rolling waves;
Rough and tumultuous, like a sea it lies;
So loud the tempest roars, so high the billows rise."
I saw it in more peaceful mood. Cool and healthful breezes were blowing
from the Tyrol; and the salubrious character of the region was amply
attested by the robust forms of the inhabitants. I have seldom seen a
finer race of men and women than the peasants adjoining the Lake Garda.
They were all of goodly stature, and singularly graceful and noble in
their gait.
In a few hours we approached the strong fortress of Peschiera. We passed
through several concentric lines of fortifications, walls, moats,
drawbridges, and sloping earthen embankments, in which cart-loads of
balls, impelled with all the force which powder can give, would sink and
be lost. In the very heart of these grim ramparts, like a Swiss hamlet
amid its mountain ranges, or a jewel in its iron-bound casket, lay the
little town of Peschiera, sleeping quietly beside the blue and
full-flooded Mincio, Virgil's own river:--
"Where the slow Mincius through the valley strays;
Where cooling streams invite the flocks to drink,
And reeds defend the winding water's brink."
It issues from the lake, and, flowing underneath the ramparts, freshens
a spot which otherwise wears sufficiently the grim iron-visaged features
of war. Nothing can surpass the grandeur of Lake Garda, which here
almost touches the walls of the fortress. It lies outspread like the
sea, and runs far up to where the snow-clad summits of the Tyrol prop
the northern horizon.
Leaving behind us the iron Peschiera and the blue Garda, we held on our
way over an open, breezy country, where the stony and broken scenery of
the mountains began to mingle with the rich cultivation of the plains.
It reminded me of the line where the lowlands of Perthshire join its
highlands. Here the cypress tree met me for the first time. The familiar
form of the poplar,--now too familiar to give pleasure,--disappeared,
and in its room came the less stately but more graceful and beautiful
form of the cypress. The cypress is silence personified. It stands wrapt
in its own thoughts. One can hardly see it without asking, "What ails
thee? Is it for the past you mourn?" Yet, pensive as it looks, its
unconscious grace fills the landscape with beauty.
Verona, gilded by the beams of Shakspeare's mighty genius, and by the
yet purer glory of the martyrs of the Reformation, was in sight miles
before we reached it. It reposes on the long gentle slope of a low hill,
with plenty of air and sunlight. The rich plains at its feet, which
stretch away to the south, look up to the old town with evident
affection and pride, and strive to cheer it by pouring wheat, and wine,
and fruits into its markets. Its appearance at a distance is imposing,
from its numerous towers, and the long sweep of its forked battlements,
which seem to encircle the whole acclivity on which the town stands,
leaving as much empty space within their lines as might contain
half-a-dozen Veronas. Its environs are enchanting. Behind it, and partly
encircling it on the east, are an innumerable array of low hills, of the
true Italian shape and colour. These were all a-gleam with white villas;
and as they sparkled in the sunlight, relieved against the deep azure of
the mountains, they showed like white sails on the blue sea, or stars in
the dark sky. At its gates we were met, of course, by the Austrian
gendarmerie. To have the affair of the passport finished and over as
quickly as possible, I unfolded the sheet, and carelessly hung it over
the window of the carriage. The corner of the paper, which bore, in
tall, bold characters, the name of her Majesty's Foreign Secretary,
caught the eye of a passenger. "PALMERSTON!" "PALMERSTON!" he shouted
aloud. Instantly there was a general rush at the document; and fearing
that it should be torn in pieces, which would have been an awkward
affair for me, seeing without it it would be impossible to get forward,
and nearly as impossible to get back, I surrendered it to the first
speaker, that it might be passed round, and all might gratify their
curiosity or idolatry with the sight of a name which abroad is but a
synonym for "England." After making the tour of the _diligence_, the
passport was handed out to the gendarme, who, feeling no such intense
desire as did the passengers to see the famous characters, had waited
good-naturedly all the while. The man surveyed with grim complacency a
name which was then in no pleasant odour with the statesmen and
functionaries of Austria. In return he gave me a paper containing
"permission to sojourn for a few hours in Verona," with its co-relative
"permission to depart." I felt proud of my country, which could as
effectually protect me at the gates of Verona as on the shores of the
Forth.