_September_ 7_th_.—Immediately after breakfast, we went to St. Justina’s,
a noble temple, designed by Palladio, and worthy of his reputation. The
dimensions are vast, and the equal distribution of light and ornament
truly admirable. Upon my first entrance, the long perspective of domes
above, and chequered marble below, struck me with surprise and pleasure.
I roved about the spacious aisles for several minutes, then sat down
under the grand cupola, and admired the beautiful symmetry of the
building.
Both extremities of the cross aisles are terminated by altar and tombs of
very remote antiquity, adorned with uncouth sculptures of the
Evangelists, supported by wreathed columns of alabaster, round which, to
my no small astonishment, four or five gawky fellows were waddling on
their knees, persuaded, it seems, that this strange devotion would cure
the rheumatism, or any other aches with which they were afflicted. You
can have no conception of the ridiculous attitudes into which they threw
themselves; nor the difficulty with which they squeezed along, between
the middle column of the tomb and those which surrounded it. No criminal
in the pillory ever exhibited a more rueful appearance, no swine ever
scrubbed itself more fervently than these infatuated lubbers.
I left them hard at work, taking more exercise than had been their lot
for many a day; and, mounting into the organ gallery, listened to
Turini’s {182} music with infinite satisfaction. The loud harmonious
tones of the instrument filled the whole edifice; and, being repeated by
the echoes of its lofty domes and arches, produced a wonderful effect.
Turini, aware of this circumstance, adapts his compositions with great
intelligence to the place, and makes his slave, the organ, send forth the
most affecting, long-protracted sounds, which languish in the air, and
are some time a-dying. Nothing can be more original than his style.
Deprived of sight by an unhappy accident, in the flower of his days, he
gave up his entire soul to music, and scarcely exists but through its
medium.
When we came out of St. Justina’s, the azure of the sky and the softness
of the air inclined us to think of some excursion. Where could I wish to
go, but to the place in which I had been so delighted? Besides, it was
proper to make the C. another visit, and proper to see the Pisani palace,
which happily I had before neglected. All these proprieties considered,
M. de R. accompanied me to Fiesso.
The sun was just sunk when we arrived; the whole ether in a glow, and the
fragrance of the arched citron alleys delightful. Beneath them I walked
in the cool, till the Galuzzi began once more her enchanting melody. She
sung till the moon tempted the fascinating G—a and myself to stray on the
banks of the Brenta. A profound calm reigned upon the woods and the
waters, and moonlight added serenity to a scene naturally peaceful. We
listened to the faint murmurs of the leaves, and the distant rural
noises, observing the gleams that quivered on the river, and discovered a
mutual delight in contemplating the same objects.
We supped late: before the Galuzzi had repeated the airs which had most
affected me, morning began to dawn.
_September_ 8_th_.—It was evening, and I was still asleep; not in a
tranquil slumber, but at the mercy of fantastic visions. The want of
sound repose had thrown me into a feverish impatient mood, that was alone
to be subdued by harmony. Scarcely had I snatched some slight
refreshment, before I flew to the great organ at St. Justina’s, but
tried, this time, to compose myself in vain. M. de R., finding my
endeavours unsuccessful, proposed, by way of diverting my attention, that
we should set out immediately for one of the Euganean hills about five or
seven miles from Padua, at the foot of which some antique baths had very
lately been discovered. I consented, without hesitation, little
concerned whither I went, or what happened to me, provided the scene was
often shifted. The lanes and enclosures we passed on our road to the
hills, appeared in all the gaiety that verdure, flowers, and sunshine
could give them. But my pleasures were overcast, and I beheld every
object, however cheerful, through a dusky medium. Deeply engaged in
conversation, distance made no impression; and we beheld the meadows,
over which the ruins are scattered, lie before us, when we still imagined
ourselves several miles away. Had I but enjoyed my former serenity, how
agreeably would such a landscape have affected my imagination! How
lightly should I not have run over the herbage, and viewed the irregular
shrubby hills, diversified with clumps of cypress, verdant spots, and
pastoral cottages, such as Zuccarelli loved to paint! No scene could be
more smiling than this which here presented itself, or answer, in a
fuller degree, the ideas I had formed of Italy.
Leaving our carriage at the entrance of the mead, we traversed its
flowery surface, and shortly perceived among the grass an oblong basin,
incrusted with pure white marble. Most of the slabs are large and
perfect, apparently brought from Greece, and still retaining their
polished smoothness. The pipes to convey the waters are still
discernible; in short, the whole ground-plan may be easily traced.
Nothing more remains: the pillars and arcades are fallen, and one or two
pedestals alone vouch for their former existence. Near the principal
bath, we remarked the platforms of several circular apartments, paved
with mosaic, in a neat simple taste, far from inelegant. Weeds have not
yet sprung up amongst the crevices; and the universal freshness of the
ruin shows that it has not been long exposed.
Theodoric is the prince to whom these structures are attributed; and
Cassiodorus, the prime chronicler of the country, is quoted to maintain
the supposition. My spirit was too much engaged to make any learned
parade, or to dispute upon a subject, which I abandon, with all its
glories, to calmer and less impatient minds.
Having taken a cursory view of the ruins in the mead, we ascended the
hill which borders upon it, and surveyed a prospect of the same nature,
though in a more lovely and expanded style, than that which I beheld from
Mosolente. Padua crowns the landscape, with its towers and cupolas
rising from a continued grove; and, from the drawings I have seen, I
should conjecture that Damascus presents somewhat of a similar
appearance.
Taking our eyes off this extensive prospect, we turned them to the
fragments beneath our feet. The walls appear plainly composed of the
_opus reticulatum_ so universal in the environs of Naples. A sort of
terrace, with the bases of columns circling the mount, leads me to
imagine here were formerly arcades and porticos, for enjoying the view;
for on the summit I could trace no vestiges of any considerable
structure, and am therefore inclined to conclude, that nothing more than
a colonnade surrounded the hill, leading perhaps to some slight fane, or
pavilion, for the recreation of the bathers below.
A profusion of aromatic flowers covered the slopes, and exhaled
additional perfumes, as the sun declined, and the still hour approached,
which was wont to spread over my mind a divine composure, and to restore
the tranquillity I might have lost in the day. But now it diffused in
vain its reviving coolness, and I remained, if possible, more sad and
restless than before.
To produce such a revolution, divine how I must have been fascinated! and
be not surprised at my repeating all the way that pathetic sonnet of
Petrarch:
“O giorno, o ora, o ultimo momento,
O stelle congiurate a ’mpoverirme!
O fido sguardo, or che volei tu dirme,
Partend’ io, per non esser mai contento?”
_September_ 9_th_.—You may imagine how I felt when the hour of leaving
Padua drew near. It happened to be a high festival, and mass celebrated
at the grand church of St. Anthony, with more than ordinary splendour.
The music drawing us thither, we found every chapel twinkling with
lights, and the choir filled with a vapour of incense. Through its
medium several cloth of gold figures discovered themselves, ministering
before the altar, and acting their parts with a sacred pomposity,
wonderfully imposing. I attended very little to their functions, but the
plaintive tones of the voices and instruments, so consonant with my own
feelings, melted me into tears, and gave me, no doubt, the exterior of
exalted piety. Guadazni sang amongst the other musicians, but seemed to
be sinking apace into devotion and obscurity. The ceremony ended, I took
leave of M. de R. with sincere regret, and was driven away to Vicenza.
Of my journey I scarce know any more than that the evening was cold and
rainy, that I shivered and was miserable.
_September_ 10_th_.—The morning being overcast, I went, full of the
spirit of Æschylus, to the Olympic Theatre, and vented my evil temper in
reciting some of the most tremendous verses of his furies. The august
front of the scene, and its three grand streets of fanes and palaces,
inspired me with the loftiest sentiments of the Grecian drama; but the
dubious light admitted through windows, scarce visible between the rows
of statues which crown the entablature, sunk me into fits of gloom and
sadness. I mused a long while in the darkest and most retired recess of
the edifice, fancying I had penetrated into a real and perfect monument
of antiquity, which till this moment had remained undiscovered. It is
impossible to conceive a structure more truly classical, or to point out
a single ornament which has not the best antique authority. I am not in
the least surprised that the citizens of Vicenza enthusiastically gave in
to Palladio’s plan, and sacrificed large sums to erect so beautiful a
model. When finished, they procured, at a vast expense, the
representation of a Grecian tragedy, with its chorus and majestic
decorations. You can enter into the rapture of an artist, who sees his
fondest vision realized; and can easily conceive how it was, that
Palladio esteemed this compliment the most flattering reward. After I
had given scope to the fancies which the scene suggested, we set out for
Verona.
The situation is striking and picturesque. A long line of battlement
walls, flanked by venerable towers, mounts the hill in a grand irregular
sweep, and incloses many a woody garden and grove of slender cypress.
Beyond rises an awful assembly of mountains; opposite to which a fertile
plain presents itself, decked with all the variety of meads and thickets,
olive-grounds and vineyards.
Amongst these our road kept winding till we entered the city gate, and
passed (the post knows how many streets and alleys in the way!) to the
inn, a lofty, handsome-looking building; but so full that we were obliged
to take up with an apartment on its very summit, open to all the winds,
like the magic chamber Apuleius mentions, and commanding the roofs of
half Verona. Here and there a pine shot up amongst them, and the shady
hills, terminating the perspective with their walls and turrets, formed a
romantic scene.
Placing our table in a balcony, to enjoy the prospect with greater
freedom, we feasted upon fish from the Lago di Garda, and the delicious
fruits of the country,—grapes worthy of Canaan, and peaches such as Eden
itself might have gloried in producing. Thus did I remain, solacing
myself, breathing the cool air, and remarking the evening tints of the
mountains. Neither the paintings of Count this, nor the antiquities of
the Marquis t’other, could tempt me from my aërial situation; I refused
hunting out the famous Paolos scattered over the town, and sat like the
owl in the Georgics,
“Solis et occasom servans de culmine summo.”
Twilight drawing on, I left my haunt, and stealing downstairs, inquired
for a guide to conduct me to the amphitheatre, perhaps the most entire
monument of Roman days. The people of the house, instead of bringing me
a quiet peasant, officiously delivered me up to a professed antiquary,
one of those diligent plausible young men, to whom, God help me! I have
so capital an aversion. This sweet spark displayed all his little
erudition, and flourished away upon cloacas and vomitoriums with eternal
fluency. He was very profound in the doctrine of conduits, and knew to
admiration how the filthiness of all the amphitheatre was disposed of;
but perceiving my inattention, and having just grace enough to remark
that I chose one side of the street when he preferred the other, and
sometimes trotted through despair in the kennel, he made me a pretty bow,
I threw him half-a-crown, and seeing the ruins before me, traversed a
gloomy arcade and emerged alone into the arena. A smooth turf covers its
surface, from which a spacious row of gradines rises to a majestic
elevation. Four arches, with their simple Doric ornament, alone remain
of the grand circle which once lifted itself above the highest seats of
the amphitheatre; and, had it not been for Gothic violence, this part of
the structure would have equally resisted the ravages of time. Nothing
can be more exact than the preservation of the gradines; not a block has
sunk from its place, and whatever trifling injuries they may have
received have been carefully repaired. The two chief entrances are
rebuilt with solidity and closed by portals, no passage being permitted
through the theatre except at public shows and representations, sometimes
still given in the arena.
When I paced slowly across it, silence reigned undisturbed amongst the
awful ruins, and nothing moved, save the weeds and grasses which skirt
the walls and tremble with the faintest breeze.
[Picture: Verona and Venice—the Ducal Palace]
I liked the idea of being thus shut in on every side by endless gradines,
abandoned to a stillness and solitude I was so peculiarly disposed to
taste. Throwing myself upon the grass in the middle of the arena, I
enjoyed the freedom of my situation; and pursued the last tracks of
light, as they faded behind the solitary arches, which rose above the
rest. Red and fatal were the tints of the western sky; the wind blew
chill and hollow, and something more than common seemed to issue from the
withering herbage on the walls. I started up, fled through a dark
arcade, where water falls drop by drop, and arrived, panting, in the
great square before the ruins. Directing my steps across it, I reached
an ancient castle, once inhabited by the Scaligeri, sovereigns of Verona.
Hard by appeared the ruins of a triumphal arch, which most antiquarians
ascribe to Vitruvius, enriched with delicate scrolls and flowery
ornaments. I could have passed half-an-hour very agreeably in copying
these elegant sculptures; but night covering them with her shades, I
returned home to the Corso; where the outlines of several palaces,
designed by Michel San Michele, attracted my attention. But it was too
dusky to examine their details.
_September_ 11_th_.—Traversing once more the grand piazza, and casting a
last glance upon the amphitheatre, we passed under a lofty arch which
terminates the perspective, and left Verona by a wide, irregular,
picturesque street, commanding, whenever you look back, a striking scene
of towers, cypress, and mountains.
The country, between this beautiful town and Mantua, presents one
continued grove of dwarfish mulberries, among which start up innumerable
barren hills. Now and then a knot of poplars diversify their craggy
summits, and sometimes a miserable shed. Mantua itself rises out of a
morass formed by the Mincio, whose course, in most places, is so choked
up with reeds as to be scarcely discernible. It requires a creative
imagination to discover any charms in such a prospect, and a strong
prepossession not to be disgusted with the scene where Virgil was born.
For my own part, I approached this neighbourhood with proper deference,
and began to feel the God, but finding no tufted tree on which I could
suspend my lyre, or verdant bank which invited to repose, I abandoned
poetry and entered the city in despair.
The beating of drums, and sight of German whiskers, finished what
croaking frogs and stagnant ditches had begun. Every classic idea being
scared by such sounds and such objects, I dined in dudgeon, and refused
stirring out till late in the evening.
A few paces from the town stand the remains of the palace where the
Gonzagas formerly resided. This I could not resist looking at, and was
amply rewarded. Several of the apartments, adorned by the bold pencil of
Julio Romano, merit the most exact attention; and the grotesques, with
which the stucco ceilings are covered, equal the celebrated loggios of
the Vatican. I don’t recollect ever having seen these elegant designs
engraven, and believe it would be perfectly worth the pains of some
capital artist to copy them. Being in fresco upon damp neglected walls,
each year diminishes their number, and every winter moulders some
beautiful figure away.
The subjects, mostly from antique fables, are treated with all the purity
and gracefulness of Raphael. Amongst others the story of Polypheme is
very conspicuous. Acis appears, reclined with his beloved Galatea, on
the shore of the ocean, whilst their gigantic enemy, seated above on the
brow of Ætna, seems by the paleness and horrors of his countenance to
meditate some terrible revenge.
When it was too late to examine the paintings any longer, I walked into a
sort of court, or rather garden, which had been decorated with fountains
and antique statues. Their fragments still remain amongst weeds and beds
of flowers, for every corner of the place is smothered with vegetation.
Here nettles grow thick and rampant: there, tuberoses and jessamine cling
around mounds of ruins, which during the elegant reign of the Gonzagas
led to grottos and subterranean apartments, concealed from vulgar eyes,
and sacred to the most refined enjoyments. I gathered a tuberose that
sprang from a shell of white marble, once trickling with water, now half
filled with mould, and carrying it home, shut myself up for the rest of
the night, inhaled its perfume, and fell a-dreaming.
_September_ 12_th_.—A shower having fallen, the air was refreshed, and
the drops still glittered upon the vines, through which our road
conducted us. Three or four miles from Mantua the scene changed to
extensive grounds of rice, and meads of the tenderest verdure watered by
springs, whose frequent meanders gave to the whole prospect the
appearance of a vast green carpet shot with silver. Further on we
crossed the Po, and passing Guastalla, entered a woody country full of
inclosures and villages; herds feeding in the meadows, and poultry
parading before every wicket.
The peasants were busied in winnowing their corn; or, mounted upon the
elms and poplars, gathering the rich clusters from the vines that hang
streaming in braids from one branch to another. I was surprised to find
myself already in the midst of the vintage, and to see every road crowded
with carts and baskets bringing it along; you cannot imagine a pleasanter
scene.
Round Reggio it grew still more lively, and on the other side of that
agreeable little city, I remarked many a cottage that Tityrus might have
inhabited, with its garden and willow hedge in flower, swarming with
bees. Our road, the smoothest conceivable, led us, perhaps too rapidly,
by so cheerful a landscape. I caught glimpses of fields and copses as we
fled along, that could have afforded me amusement for hours, and orchards
on gentle acclivities, beneath which I could have walked till evening.
The trees literally bent under their loads of fruit, and innumerable
ruddy apples lay scattered upon the ground—
“Strata jacent passim sus quæque sub arbore poma.”
Beyond these rich masses of foliage, to which the sun lent additional
splendour, at the utmost extremity of the pastures, rose the irregular
ridge of the Apennines, whose deep blue presented a striking contrast to
the glowing colours of the foreground. I fixed my eyes on the chain of
distant mountains, and indulged, as usual, my conjectures of what was
going forward on their summits; of those who tended goats on the edge of
the precipice; traversed, at this moment, the dark thickets of pines, and
passed their lives in yonder sheds, contented and unknown. Such were the
dreams that filled my fancy, and kept it incessantly employed till it was
dusk, and the moon began to show herself; the same moon which, but a few
days ago, had seen me so happy at Fiesso. Her soft light reposed upon
the meads, that had been newly mown, and the shadows of tall poplars were
cast aslant them. I left my carriage, and running into the dim haze,
abandoned myself to the recollection it inspired. During an hour, I kept
continually flying forwards; bounding from enclosure to enclosure like a
hunted antelope, and forgetting where I was or whither I was going. One
sole idea filled my mind, and led me on with such heedless rapidity, that
I stumbled over stones and bushes, and entangled myself on every wreath
of vines which opposed my progress. At length, having wandered where
chance or the wildness of my fancy led, till the lateness of the evening
alarmed me, I regained the chaise as fast as I could, and arrived between
ten and eleven at the place of my destination.
_September_ 13_th_.—Having but a moment or two at liberty, I hurried
early in the morning to the palace, and entered an elegant Ionic court,
with arcades of the whitest stone, through which I caught peeps of a
clear blue sky and groves of cypresses. Some few good paintings still
adorn the apartments, but the best part of the collection has been
disposed of, for a hundred thousand sequins, amongst which was that
inestimable picture, the Notte of Corregio. An excellent copy remained
and convinced me the original was not undeservedly celebrated. None but
the pencil of Corregio ever designed such graceful angels, nor imagined
such a pearly dawn to cast around them. Ten thousand times, I dare say,
has the subject of the Nativity been treated, and as many painters have
failed in rendering it so pleasing. The break of day, the first smiles
of the celestial infant, and the truth, the simplicity of every
countenance, cannot be too warmly admired. In the other rooms, no
picture gave me more pleasure than Jacob’s Vision by Domenico Feti. I
gazed several minutes at the grand confusion of clouds and seraphim
descending around the patriarch, and wished for a similar dream.
Having spent the little time I had remaining in contemplating this
object, I hastened from the palace and left Modena.
[Picture: Bologna]
We traversed a champagne country in our way to Bologna, whose richness
and fertility increased in proportion as we drew near that celebrated
mart of lap-dogs and sausages. A chain of hills commands the city,
variegated with green inclosures and villas innumerable, almost every one
of which has its grove of chestnuts and cypresses. On the highest
acclivity of this range appears the magnificent convent of Madonna del
Monte, embosomed in wood, and joined to the town by a corridor a league
in length. This vast portico, ascending the steeps and winding amongst
the thickets, sometimes concealed and sometimes visible, produces an
effect wonderfully grand and singular. I longed to have mounted the
height by so extraordinary a passage; and hope on some future day to be
better acquainted with Saint Maria del Monte.
At present I thought of little else, to say truth, but what I had seen at
Fiesso; and what I was to hear at Lucca. The anxiety inspired by the
one, and impatience by the other, rendered me shamefully insensible to
the merits of Bologna (where I passed near two hours), and of which I can
add nothing but that it is very much out of humour, an earthquake and
Cardinal Buoncompagni having disarranged both land and people. For
half-a-year the ground continued trembling; and for these last months,
the legate and senators have grumbled and scratched incessantly; so that,
between natural and political commotions, the Bolognese must have passed
an agreeable summer.
Such a report of the situation of things, you may suppose, was not likely
to retard my journey. I put off delivering my letters to another
opportunity; ran up a tall slender tower as high as the Campanile di San
Marco, by way of exercise; and proceeded immediately after dinner towards
the mountains. We were soon in the midst of crags and stony channels,
that stream with ten thousand rills in the winter season, but during the
summer months reflect every sunbeam, and harbour half the scorpions in
the country.
For many a toilsome league our prospect consisted of nothing but dreary
hillocks and intervening wastes, more barren and mournful than those to
which Mary Magdalene retired. Sometimes a crucifix or chapel peeped out
of the parched fern and grasses, with which these desolate fields are
clothed; and now and then we met a goggle-eyed pilgrim trudging along,
and staring about him as if he waited only for night and opportunity to
have additional reasons for hurrying to Jerusalem.
During three or four hours that we continued ascending, the scene
increased in sterility and desolation; but, at the end of our second
post, the landscape began to alter for the better: little green valleys
at the base of tremendous steeps, discovered themselves, scattered over
with oaks, and freshened with running waters, which the nakedness of the
impending rocks set off to advantage. The sides of the cliffs in general
consist of rude misshapen masses; but their summits are smooth and
verdant, and continually browsed by herds of white goats, which were
gambolling on the edge of the precipices as we passed beneath.
I joined one of these frisking assemblies, whose shadows were stretched
by the setting sun along the level herbage. There I sat a few minutes
whilst they shook their beards at me, and tried to scare me with all
their horns; but I was not to be frightened, and would offer up my
adorations to departing day, in spite of their caperings. Being tired
with skipping and butting at me in vain, the whole herd trotted away, and
I after them. They led me a dance from crag to crag and from thicket to
thicket.
It was growing dusky apace, and wreaths of smoke began to ascend from the
mysterious depths of the valleys. I was ignorant what monster inhabited
such retirements, so gave over my pursuit, lest some Polypheme or other
might make me repent it. I looked around, the carriage was out of sight;
but hearing the neighing of horses at a distance, I soon came up with
them, and mounted another rapid ascent, whence an extensive tract of
cliff and forest land was discernible.
The rocks here formed a spacious terrace; along which I continued
surveying the distant groves, and marking the solemn approach of night.
The sky was hung with storms, and a pale moon seemed to advance with
difficulty amongst broken and tempestuous clouds. It was an hour to reap
plants with brazen sickles, and to meditate upon revenge.
A chill wind blew from the highest peak of the Apennines, inspiring evil,
and making a dismal rustle amongst the woods of chestnut that hung on the
mountain’s side, through which we were forced to pass. I never heard
such fatal murmurs; nor felt myself so gloomily. I walked out of the
sound of the carriage, where the glimmering moonlight prevailed, and
began interpreting the language of the leaves, not greatly to my own
advantage or that of any being in the universe. I was no prophet of
good, but full of melancholy bodings, and something that bordered upon
despair. Had I but commanded an oracle, as ancient visionaries were
wont, I should have thrown whole nations into dismay.
How long I continued in this strange temper I cannot pretend to say, but
believe it was midnight before we emerged from the oracular forest, and
saw faintly before us the huts of Lognone, where we were to sleep. This
blessed hamlet is suspended on the brow of a bleak mountain, and every
gust that stirs shakes the whole village to its foundations. At our
approach two hags stalked forth with lanterns and invited us with a grin,
which I shall always remember, to a dish of mustard and crow’s gizzards,
a dish I was more than half afraid of tasting, lest it should change me
to some bird of darkness, condemned to mope eternally on the black
rafters of the cottage.
After repeated supplications we procured a few eggs, and some faggots to
make a fire. Its blaze gave me courage to hear the hollow blasts that
whistled in the crevices; and pitching my bed in a warm corner, I soon
fell asleep, and forgot all my cares and inquietudes.
_September_ 14_th_.—The sun had not been long above the horizon, before
we set forward upon a craggy pavement hewn out of the rough bosom of the
cliffs and precipices. Scarce a tree was visible, and the few that
presented themselves began already to shed their leaves. The raw nipping
air of this desert with difficulty spares a blade of vegetation; and in
the whole range of these extensive eminences I could not discover a
single corn-field or pasture. Inhabitants, you may guess, there were
none. I would defy even a Scotch highlander to find means of subsistence
in so rude a soil.
Towards midday, we had surmounted the dreariest part of our journey, and
began to perceive a milder landscape. The climate improved as well as
the prospect, and after a continual descent of several hours, we saw
groves and villages in the dips of the hills, and met a string of mules
and horses laden with fruit. I purchased some figs and peaches from this
little caravan, and spreading my repast upon a bank, baked in the
sunshine, and gathered large spikes of lavender in full bloom.
Continuing our route, we bid adieu to the realms of poverty and
barrenness, and entered a cultivated vale sheltered by woody acclivities.
Among these we wound along, the peasants singing upon the hill, and
driving their cattle to springs by the road’s side; near one of which we
dined in a patriarchal manner, and afterwards pursued our course through
a grove of taper cypresses, waving with the cool gales of the evening.
The heights were suffused with a ruddy glow, proceeding from the light
pink clouds which floated on the horizon. No others were to be seen.
All nature seemed in a happy tranquil state; the herds penned in their
folds, and every rustic going to repose. I shared the general calm for
the first time this many a tedious hour; and traversed the dales in
peace, abandoned to flattering hopes and gay illusions. The full moon
shone propitiously upon me as I ascended a hill, and discovered Florence
at a distance, surrounded with gardens and terraces, rising one above
another. The serene moonlight on the pale grey tints of the olive, gave
an Elysian, visionary appearance to the landscape. I never beheld so
mild a sky, nor such soft gleams: the mountains were veiled in azure
mists, which concealed their rugged summits; and the plains in vapours,
that smoothed their irregularities, and diffused a faint aërial hue, to
which no description can render justice. I could have contemplated such
scenery for hours, and was sorry when I found myself shut up from it by
the gates of Florence. We passed several lofty palaces of the true
Tuscan order, with rustic arcades and stout columns, whose solidity and
magnificence were not diminished by the shades of midnight. Whilst these
grand masses lay dark and solemn, the smooth flagstone, with which every
street is paved, received a chequered gleam, and the Arno, the brightest
radiance. Though tired with my jumble over the Apennines, I could not
resist the temptation of walking upon the banks of so celebrated a river,
and crossing its bridges, which still echoed with music and conversation.
Having gratified the first impulse of curiosity, I returned to Vaninis,
and slept as well as my impatience would allow, till it was time next
morning (September 15th), to visit the gallery, and worship the Venus de
Medicis. I felt, upon entering this world of taste and elegance, as if I
could have taken up my abode in it for ever; but confused with the
multitude of objects, I knew not where to turn myself, and ran childishly
by the ample ranks of sculptures, like a butterfly in a parterre, that
skims before it fixes, over ten thousand flowers.
Having taken my course down one side of the gallery, I turned the angle
and discovered another long perspective, equally stored with prodigies of
bronze and marble; paintings on the walls, on the ceilings, in short,
everywhere. A minute brought me, vast as it was, to the extremity of
this range; then, flying down a third, adorned in the same delightful
manner, I paused under the bust of Jupiter Olympius; and began to reflect
a little more maturely upon the company in which I found myself.
Opposite, appeared the majestic features of Minerva, breathing divinity;
and Cybele, the mother of the gods.
I bowed low to these awful powers, but seeing a black figure just by,
whose attitude seemed to announce the deity of sleep, I made immediately
up to it. You know my fondness for this drowsy personage, and that it is
not the first time I have quitted the most splendid society for him. I
found him, at present, of touchstone, with the countenance of a towardly
brat, sleeping ill through indigestion. The artist had not conceived
such high ideas of the god as live in my bosom, or else he never would
have represented him with so little grace or dignity.
Displeased at finding my favourite subject profaned, I perceived the
lively transports of enthusiasm began in some degree to be dissipated,
and I felt myself calm enough to follow the herd of guides and spectators
from chamber to chamber and cabinet to cabinet, without falling into
errors of rapture and inspiration. We were led slowly and moderately
through the large rooms, containing the portraits of painters, good, bad,
and indifferent, from Raffaelle to Liotard; then into a museum of
bronzes, which would afford both amusement and instruction for years.
To one who can never behold an ancient lamp or tripod without the
associations of those who sacrificed on the one and meditated by the
other, imagine what pleasures such a repository must have communicated.
When I had alarmed, not satisfied, my curiosity by rapidly running over
this multitude of candelabra, urns, and sacred utensils, we entered a
small luminous apartment, surrounded with cases richly decorated, and
filled with the most exquisite models of workmanship in bronze and
various metals, classed in exact order. Here are crowds of diminutive
deities and tutelary lars, to whom the superstition of former days
attributed those midnight murmurs which were believed to presage the
misfortunes of a family. Amongst these now neglected images are
preserved a vast number of talismans, cabalistic amulets, and other
grotesque relics of ancient credulity.
In the centre of the room, I remarked a table, beautifully formed of
polished gems, and, hard by it, the statue of a genius with his familiar
serpent, and all his attributes; the guardian of the treasured
antiquities. From this chamber we were conducted into another, which
opens to that part of the gallery where the busts of Adrian and Antinous
are placed. Two pilasters, delicately carved in trophies and clusters of
ancient armour, stand on each side of the entrance; within are several
perfumed cabinets of miniatures, and a single column of Oriental
alabaster about ten feet in height,
“Lucido e terso, e bianco, più che latte.”
I put my guide’s patience to the proof, by remaining much longer than any
one else ever did, in admiring the pillar, and rummaging the drawers of
the cabinets. At last, the musk with which they are impregnated obliged
me to desist, and I moved on to a suite of saloons, with low arched
roofs, glittering with arabesque, in azure and gold. Several medallions
appear amongst the wreaths of foliage, tolerably well painted, with
representations of splendid feasts and tournaments for which Florence was
once so famous.
A vast collection of small pictures, most of them Flemish, covers the
walls of these apartments. But nothing struck me more than a Medusa’s
head by that surprising genius Leonardo da Vinci. It appears just
severed from the body, and cast on the damp pavement of a cavern: a
deadly paleness covers the countenance, and the mouth exhales a
pestilential vapour: the snakes, which fill almost the whole picture,
beginning to untwist their folds; one or two seemed already crept away,
and crawling up the rock in company with toads and other venomous
reptiles.
The colouring of these disgustful objects is faithful to a great degree;
the effect of light, prodigious; the whole so masterly that I could not
help entering into this description; though I fear to little purpose, as
words at best convey but a weak idea of objects addressed to the sight
alone.
Here are a great many Polemburgs: one in particular, the strangest I ever
beheld. Instead of those soft scenes of woods and waterfalls he is in
general so fond of representing, he has chosen for his subject Virgil
ushering Dante into the regions of eternal punishment, amidst the ruins
of flaming edifices that glare across the infernal waters. These
mournful towers harbour innumerable shapes, all busy in preying upon the
damned. One capital devil, in the form of an enormous lobster, seems
very strenuously employed in mumbling a miserable mortal, who sprawls,
though in vain, to escape from his claws. This performance, whimsical as
it is, retains all that softness of tint and delicacy of pencil for which
Polemburg is so renowned.
Had not the subject so palpably contradicted the execution as to become
remarkable, I should have passed it over, like a thousand more, and
brought you immediately to the Tribune. I dare say our sensations were
similar on entering this apartment. Need I say I was enchanted the
moment I set my feet within it, and saw full before me the Venus de
Medicis? The warm ivory hue of the original marble is a beauty no copy
has ever imitated, and the softness of the limbs exceeded the liveliest
idea I had formed to myself of their perfection.
Their symmetry every artist is acquainted with; but do you recollect a
faint ruddy cast in the hair, which admirably relieves the whiteness of
the forehead? This circumstance, though perhaps accidental, struck me as
peculiarly charming; it increased the illusion, and helped me to imagine
I beheld a breathing divinity.
When I had taken my eyes reluctantly from this beautiful object, I cast
them upon a Morpheus of white marble, which lies slumbering at the feet
of the goddess in the form of a graceful child. A dormant lion serves
him for a pillow: two ample wings, carved with the utmost delicacy, are
gathered under him; two others, budding from his temples, half concealed
by a flow of lovely ringlets. His languid hands scarce hold a bunch of
poppies: near him creeps a lizard, just yielding to his influence.
Nothing can be more just than the expression of sleep in the countenance
of the little divinity. His lion too seems perfectly lulled, and rests
his muzzle upon his fore-paws as quiet as a domestic mastiff. I
contemplated the god with infinite satisfaction, till I felt an agreeable
sleepiness steal over my senses, and should have liked very well to doze
away a few hours by his side. My ill-humour at seeing this deity so
grossly sculptured in the gallery, was dissipated by the gracefulness of
his appearance in the Tribune. I was now contented, for the artist, (to
whom the Lord give a fair seat in paradise!) had realized my ideas; and,
if I may venture my opinion, sculpture never arrived to higher
perfection, or, at the same time, kept more justly within its province.
Sleeping figures with me always produce the finest illusion. I easily
persuade myself that I behold the very personage, cast into the lethargic
state which is meant to be represented, and I can gaze whole hours upon
them with complacency. But when I see an archer in the very act of
discharging his arrow, a dancer with one foot in the air, or a gladiator
extending his fist to all eternity, I grow tired, and ask, When will they
perform what they are about? When will the bow twang? the foot come to
the ground? or the fist meet its adversary? Such wearisome attitudes I
can view with admiration, but never with pleasure. The wrestlers, for
example, in the same apartment, filled me with disgust: I cried out, For
heaven’s sake! give the throw, and have done. In taking my turn round
the enchanted circle, I discovered still, another Morpheus; stretched
carelessly on a mantle, with poppies in his hands; but no wings grow from
his temples, nor lion supports his head. A moth just issuing from his
chrysalis is the only being which seems to have felt his soporific
influence; whereas the other god I have mentioned may vaunt the glory of
subduing the most formidable of animals.
The morning was gone before I could snatch myself from the Tribune. In
my way home, I looked into the cathedral, an enormous fabric, inlaid with
the richest marbles, and covered with stars and chequered work, like an
old-fashioned cabinet. The architect seems to have turned his building
inside out; nothing in art being more ornamented than the exterior, and
few churches so simple within. The nave is vast and solemn, the dome
amazingly spacious, with the high altar in its centre, inclosed by a
circular arcade near two hundred feet in diameter. There is something
imposing in this decoration, as it suggests the idea of a sanctuary, into
which none but the holy ought to penetrate. However profane I might feel
myself, I took the liberty of entering, and sat myself down in a niche.
Not a ray of light reaches this sacred inclosure, but through the medium
of narrow windows, high in the dome and richly painted. A sort of yellow
tint predominates, which gives additional solemnity to the altar, and
paleness to the votary before it. I was sensible of the effect, and
obtained at least the colour of sanctity.
Having remained some time in this pious hue, I returned home and feasted
upon grapes and ortolans with great edification; then walked to one of
the bridges across the Arno, and surveyed the hills at a distance,
purpled by the declining sun. Its mild beams tempted me to the garden of
Boboli, which lies behind the Palazzo Pitti, stretched out on the side of
a mountain. I ascended terrace after terrace, robed by a thick underwood
of hay and myrtle, above which rise several nodding towers, and a long
sweep of venerable wall, almost entirely concealed by ivy. You would
have been enraptured with the broad masses of shade and dusky alleys that
opened as I advanced, with white statues of fauns and sylvans glimmering
amongst them; some of which pour water into sarcophagi of the purest
marble, covered with antique relievos. The capitals of columns and
ancient friezes are scattered about as seats.
On these I reposed myself, and looked up to the cypress groves spiring
above the thickets; then, plunging into their retirements, I followed a
winding path, which led me by a series of steep ascents to a green
platform overlooking the whole extent of wood, with Florence deep
beneath, and the tops of the hills which encircle it, jagged with pines;
here and there a convent, or villa, whitening in the sun. This scene
extends as far as the eye can reach.
Still ascending I attained the brow of the mountain, and had nothing but
the fortress of Belvedere, and two or three open porticos above me. On
this elevated situation, I found several walks of trellis-work, clothed
with luxuriant vines, that produce to my certain knowledge the most
delicious clusters. A colossal statue of Ceres, her hands extended in
the act of scattering fertility over the prospect, crowns the summit,
where I lingered to mark the landscape fade, and the bright skirts of the
western sun die gradually away.
Then descending alley after alley, and bank after bank, I came to the
orangery in front of the palace, disposed in a grand amphitheatre, with
marble niches relieved by dark foliage, out of which spring tall aërial
cypresses. This spot brought the scenery of an antique Roman garden full
into my mind. I expected every instant to be called to the table of
Lucullus hard by, in one of the porticoes, and to stretch myself on his
purple triclinias; but waiting in vain for a summons till the approach of
night, I returned delighted with a ramble that had led me so far into
antiquity.
_Friday_, _September_ 16_th_.—My impatience to hear Pacchierotti called
me up with the sun. I blessed a day which was to give me the greatest of
musical pleasures, and travelled gaily towards Lucca, along a fertile
plain, bounded by rocky hills, and scattered over with towns and
villages. We passed Pistoia in haste, and about three in the afternoon
entered the Lucchese territory, by a clean, paved road, which runs
through some of the pleasantest copses imaginable, bordered with a
variety of heaths and broom in blossom. Sometimes it conducted us down
slopes, overgrown with shrubby chestnuts and arbor vitæ; sometimes
between groves of cypresses and pines laden with cones: a red soil
peeping forth from the vegetation adds to the richness of the landscape,
which swells all the way into gentle acclivities: and at about seven or
eight miles from the city spreads into mountains, green to their very
summits, and diversified with gardens and palaces. A more pleasing
scenery can with difficulty be imagined: I was quite charmed with
beholding it, as I knew very well that the opera would keep me a long
while chained down in its neighbourhood.
Happy for me that the environs of Lucca were so beautiful; since I defy
almost any city to contain more ugliness within its walls. Narrow
streets and dismal alleys; wide gutters and cracked pavements; everybody
in black, like mourners for the gloom of their habitations, which,
however, are large and lofty enough of conscience; but having all grated
windows, they convey none but dark and dungeon-like ideas. My spirits
fell many degrees upon entering this sable capital; and when I found
Friday was meagre day, in every sense of the word, with its inhabitants,
and no opera to be performed, I grew terribly out of humour, and shut
myself up in a chamber of the inn, which, to complete my misfortune, was
crowded with human lumber. Instead of a delightful symphony, I heard
nothing for some time but the clatter of plates and the swearing of
waiters.
Amongst the number of my tormentors was a whole Genoese family of
distinction; very fat and sleek, and terribly addicted to the violin.
Hearing of my fondness for music, they speedily got together a few
scrapers, and began such an academia as drove me to one end of the room,
whilst they possessed the other. The hopes and heir of the family—a
coarse chubby dolt of about eighteen—played out of all time, and during
the interval of repose he gave his elbow, burst out into a torrent of
commonplace, which completed, you may imagine, my felicity.
Pacchierotti, whom they all worshipped in their heavy way, sat silent the
while in a corner; the second soprano warbled, not absolutely ill, at the
harpsichord; whilst the old lady, young lady, and attendant females, kept
ogling him with great perseverance. Those who could not get in, squinted
through the crevices of the door. Abbés and greyhounds were fidgeting
continually without. In short, I was so worried that, pleading headaches
and lassitudes, I escaped about ten o’clock, and shook myself when I got
safe to my apartment, like a spaniel just fresh from a dripping copse.