_ITALY._
The pleasure of having my brother as an inmate was scarcely dimmed by
this disappointment, and he remained with us until the autumn of 1850, a
white nine months in my life. Your grandfather wrote of him a year later,
when he had engaged himself to be married: “I cannot exactly fancy George
a married man, seeing that to the latest period his ways in this house
have been precisely the same as when he was a Rugby boy—as few wants, and
as little assumption, though I have exhorted him to swagger and order a
little.” And, as it was at Donnington, so it had been in our diminutive
town-house; indeed, I doubt whether any one of you, or any public
school boy, would give so little trouble. He read hard, starting with
me every morning directly after breakfast; went into no society, except
that of a few old friends, and allured me away occasionally on summer
afternoons, from law, and the reform of trade, to a game of cricket with
the Hampstead club, of which he had become a member, or in the Harrow
playing-fields, where he was always more than welcome.
After the long vacation of 1850 he had intended to begin practice in
Doctors’ Commons, but was delayed by an accident. He was struck in the
eye by a spent shot, in cover shooting, and, though the accident proved
not to be a serious one, he was ordered to rest his eyes entirely, and
accordingly settled to spend the winter in Italy. The vexation of such a
check at the opening of his professional career, was almost compensated,
I think, by the delight which this tour gave him. He had never been
abroad at this time, except for a few days in France, and his education
and natural tastes peculiarly fitted him for enjoying Italy thoroughly,
for he was passionately fond of art, as well as a fine classical scholar,
having never dropped his Latin and Greek, as most of us are so apt to do
the moment we have taken our degrees.
He lingered a little in France, on his way south, chiefly to accustom his
ear and tongue to the language, and he writes:—
“MARSEILLES, _December 6th, 1850_.
“I have not made much progress in French; everyone speaks
English except the _ouvriers_. I address a waiter in a splendid
sentence, which I expect will strike him with awe, and impress
him with my knowledge of the French language, and he takes me
down by answering in English; as much as to say, ‘For goodness’
sake speak your own language, and I shall understand you
better.’ In such a state of things, one can only listen to the
conversation of Frenchmen with one another, and try to imitate
their accent. In spite of beard and mustachios, it is _Voilà
les Anglais_ wherever we go. The only person who passes for a
Frenchman is one of our American fellow-travellers, who has
grown a most venerable beard; but, as he pronounces French
just as if it were English, and calls Dijon ‘_Dee John_,’ he
is afraid to open his mouth for fear of being convicted as an
impostor immediately. I think an Englishman’s walk betrays him;
I think there is an unconscious swagger about it, which savours
strongly of ‘ros-bif,’ and which the French detect in a moment.
However, they are most polite and obliging, and I think they
would be glad to do you any service.”
In Italy, he went from city to city, revelling in picture galleries
and studios, as his eyes regained strength; taking lessons in Italian,
visiting spots of historical interest, and sympathising with, and
appreciating, the Italians, while wondering at their patience under the
yoke of their Governments. It was the same winter which Mr. Gladstone
spent in Italy, and signalized by his pamphlet on the political prisoners
at Naples. Fortunately for my brother, he found Mr. Senior and his family
at Naples, and again at Rome, and through their kindness, and that of
Lady Malcolm, saw as much of Italian society as he cared for. A few
selections from his letters will show you how he spent his time, and the
impressions which his Italian travel left on his mind:—
“NAPLES, _January 7, 1851_.
“There is a party of street-singers, and a Punch, outside under
my window, who distract me horribly. They have an eternal tune
here, which every ragged boy sings; it is called, I believe,
‘_Io ti voglio_,’ and is rather pretty, but you may have
too much of a good thing. The beggars are most amusing, and
certainly work very hard in their vocation. There is an old
woman who lies on the ground in a fit all day long; another
elderly female stands by her in a despairing attitude, to
draw attention to her protracted sufferings, and receive the
contributions of the credulously benevolent. But the old lady
is nothing to a boy, who lies on the ground and bellows like
a bull positively for three or four hours together; I quite
admire the energy with which he follows his profession. From
the number of crippled and deformed persons one sees, I am
inclined to believe that the Neapolitans purposely mutilate
themselves in order to succeed better in their favourite
calling. They will do anything sooner than work usefully.
Punch and the singers have gone, and I am at peace. All that I
see of continental countries makes me more glad that I am an
Englishman. None of them seem secure. The poor Pope is kept
at Rome by the French; and here they say the King is very
unpopular, except with the lowest class. This consciousness of
insecurity makes them very suspicious and harsh. Two or three
days ago an Italian, the legal adviser to our Embassy, was
popped into prison on suspicion of correspondence with Mazzini.
Fancy Queen Victoria putting an Englishman into Newgate on her
own authority for receiving a letter from a Chartist. I suppose
they are obliged to be harsh to prevent revolutions; thank
Heaven, England is free and loyal.”
“NAPLES, _January 13, 1851_.
“I have discovered a cousin on board the English war steamer;
he is one of the midshipmen, and on Thursday I took a boat
to pay him a visit. I was obliged to obtain permission from
the police to go on board. There are a quantity of miserable
refugees lying concealed in Naples, watching their opportunity
to get on board the English ship, where they are safe under the
protection of our flag. Four are on board already, but there
are two police-boats constantly on the look-out near our ship,
to prevent more from coming. Is it not a miserable state of
things?”
“ROME, _January 1851_.
“MY DEAREST MOTHER,
“.... Tell my father that I have been very extravagant. I have
bought a copy in marble of the Psyche in the Museum at Naples;
a very clever artist is executing it for me, and it will be
finished about the middle of April. Mr. Senior is also having
a copy taken. I do not know if my father knows the statue.
It is attributed to Praxiteles. Nothing has pleased me so
much, except perhaps the Dying Gladiator; and as it is very
simple, the cost of the copy is comparatively trifling. It will
look very well against the dark oak of your drawing-room at
Donnington, and I hope you will approve of my taste.”
“ROME, _January 28, 1851_.
“We saw two things yesterday which will interest you: the
catacombs in which the early Christian martyrs were buried,
and in which the Christians met during the persecutions to
worship God. They are immense subterranean passages, extending,
they say, twenty miles; but you can only see a part, as they
are closed, for fear of affording shelter to thieves. The
other thing was, a little church about two miles from Rome,
on the Appian Road, to which a beautiful legend is attached.
It is said that St. Peter, during the persecution in which
he suffered martyrdom, lost heart, and fled from Rome by the
Appian Road; he had arrived at the spot where the church now
stands, when our Lord appeared to him, going towards Rome. The
Apostle exclaimed in astonishment, ‘Lord, whither goest thou?’
The answer was, ‘I go to Rome to be crucified again.’ Whereupon
Peter turned back, and re-entered the city, and suffered the
death which had been predicted for him. There is no reason why
this should not be true, but, true or not, it is a beautiful
story, and I was much interested by it. They show a stone with
the impression of our Lord’s feet upon it, which is kept as a
relic.”
“_February 10, 1851._—I think that my Italian progresses
favourably. My master tells me that I _pronounce_ it better
than any other of his pupils; and as he is very strict, and
finds fault with everything else, I suppose I must believe that
he speaks the truth.”
“_February 18, 1851._—You will be glad to hear that I have
returned to Rome from my walking tour without having been
robbed, or murdered; but, indeed, I must repeat, that the good
gentleman your informant must have been dreaming. We received
nothing but kindness and civility, and I believe that _you_
might walk along the same mountain paths with equal safety. As
for us, we looked much too rough a lot to tempt robbers, being
rather like banditti ourselves. One of my companions wore a
venerable beard, and I am afraid we both looked picturesque
ruffians. Our other companion looked tame, and carried an
umbrella. We used to take a cup of coffee and a roll soon
after sunrise, then walk to some romantic village about ten
miles off, and there breakfast. Our breakfast consisted of an
omelette, a _frittata_ as they call it here, which we cooked
ourselves. We used to rush into an _osteria di cucina_ in a
state of ravenous hunger. ——, my friend with the beard, who
is a very good cook, seizes the frying-pan, I beat up the
eggs, and S—— is degraded into scullion, to cut up some ham
and an onion!! I believe the people think us mad. They could
not conceive why we liked to cook our own breakfast, and walk
when we might have ridden. After breakfast, it was so hot that
we used to select a convenient spot on the hill-side, and
lie down for an hour, and then continue our walk till about
sunset, when we reached our resting-place for the night. In
this way we saw some of the most beautiful country you can
imagine. Every little exertion we made in climbing a rock was
amply rewarded by something most strange and picturesque. The
towns are particularly striking, some of them being built on
the very top of mountains nearly 3,000 feet high, and reached
with difficulty, by a narrow winding path. I am convinced
that a walking tour is the only plan of really seeing Italian
scenery. I made some sketches, but am sorry to say that,
coming into Rome on Saturday night, my pocket was picked of
my sketch-book (a very useless prize to anyone but the owner,
and perhaps you), so I lost them all. I am excessively vexed,
for I wanted to show you the sort of places where we took our
mid-day’s rest. Tivoli was our last stage, and perhaps the
most interesting,—there is such a splendid waterfall there.
Even if I do not see Turin, I shall be quite satisfied with my
recollections of it.”
After this he hastened home, meeting with no more serious adventure than
the one recorded in a letter to the same correspondent, as follows:—
“I travelled from Chambery to Lyons all alone in a _coupée_
with an Italian lady! Horrid situation! and what made it worse
was, that the poor thing was very tired this morning, and fell
fast asleep, and whilst in a state of oblivion, dropped her
head comfortably on to my arm. After revolving in my mind this
alarming state of things, I thought it would be best to feign
to be asleep myself; and accordingly, when we jolted over a
gutter, and she awoke with a start, she found me with my eyes
shut, and snoring. I hope I acted it well, but could hardly
help laughing. I shortly afterwards rubbed my eyes and awoke,
and she gave me a roll and some chocolate, for which I was very
thankful; so I suppose she approved of my conduct.”
He returned entirely restored to health, and so good an Italian scholar,
that he was able to write fluently in the language, and to dedicate the
little objects of art, which he brought home as presents, in appropriate
verse.
One of these was an inkstand in the shape of an owl, now very common,
which he presented to Lady Salusbury, a kinswoman of your grandfather,
to whose adopted daughter he had lately engaged himself, with this
inscription:—
“‘La stolidezza copresi talvolta di sembiante
Savio; siccome per dar ricovero all’ inchi ostro
Si fodera con piombo la civelta di bronzo
Immago dell’ uccello di sapienza.’
“Ecco la finta pompa dell’ uccello!
Il quale, sotto ’l grave e savio viso
Avendo pur di piombo il cervello
Fra i tutti poi commuove il forte riso—
“Così si trova dal sembiante bello
Talvolta lo bel spirito diviso,
Si trova con la roba da Dottore
Di piombo pur la testa, ed anch’ il cuore.”
To the young lady herself he wrote on his return: “I have continued
writing a journal, and you will be astonished to hear that your name
is not once mentioned in it. It is, however, written in invisible ink
across every page. It may be absurd, but I consider my feelings towards
you so sacred, that I should not like to parade them even to my nearest
relations.”