great masses of tossing, seething storm-clouds, or veiled in depth after
depth of bluest mist. It seems as if he had wrenched the reality itself
from the out-door world, and flung it on the canvass. The gaze wanders
from one easel to another with long pauses at each. How I wish I could
do them the faintest justice with any words of mine. I can give the
subjects and the features, but those miracles of atmospheric effects
wrought apparently with as little effort by this artist’s brush as if by
enchantment--it is those that are unutterable, indescribable, and must
be seen by one’s own eyes. I consider myself most fortunate in having
secured two of his smaller canvasses “to be a possession forever.” The
larger is a Capri scene of coast and cliff; the white-crested waves are
rolling in gently, and breaking upon the former; the ruins of the palace
of Tiberius crown the latter. It is a picture of striking individuality
and specially characteristic of this foreign world. The other is a
subject of pathetic interest, which he calls “Shelley’s grave.” It
represents the coast near Spezzia, where the body of the poet was washed
ashore, found and interred for a time. A simple cross marks the grave. A
somber sky, the low coast, a little strip of beach, the grass and weeds
and sedgy growth peculiar to such a spot, with a rude cross, that is
all. But what a story it tells! So anxious am I that others may have an
opportunity to see and appreciate this home artist, I shall make a
special point with my old friends of the book-store of The Robert Clarke
Company, Cincinnati, of having these placed in their windows as soon as
they reach the United States. One so gifted in his profession, and of
such high worth in every phase of character as Mr. Benton, should have
most ample recognition from his fellow-countrymen.
L. G. C.
Rome, May 2, 1883.
[Illustration]
MAIORI.
Do not trouble to tell me: I know I have been delinquent. But then that
is not one of my “too many and too-tedious-to-make-mention of feelings.”
So the one time can be blinked at. Especially if you remember the
scripture injunction. If you are like me you never do unless you want
to.
Of course your letter came and I had my habitual “good intentions,” but
well, to be honest, I am sure I do not know what became of them. I only
realize that the days “shod with silver speech,” and muzzled with golden
speechlessness, have slipped away and given no warning, till I should be
afraid to try to count them. Let them go, and be magnanimous enough to
bear no malice. That comes so easy to me I can recommend it without any
tinges of that inward monitor yclept conscience. It would be the 13th
labor of Hercules to attempt to fill up this interval. My brain reels at
the mere mention. But I will just give you a mosaic of random tiles. You
will like it just as well. In any case you would feel called on to
groan critically and perhaps cry aloud: “The old flippancy! What a
butterfly she is.” You know I do not mind.
One of the party, the “lord of creation,” you may be sure, had the fever
at Rome, to his supreme disgust, not the Roman, but typhoid. He was sick
two months. This, of course, was a cloud. But he is a darling, and just
to get him well again was our supreme anxiety. As soon as he was well
enough to travel without risk, he was ordered here to escape Roman
lassitude and be “built up.” Last Monday we started, “coming by easy
stages.” Naples was our first resting-place. We remained till Saturday.
By that date the invalid through much eating and drinking shed even the
rôle of a convalescent, and “Richard is himself again,” was asserted in
every look and act. But we have come on here all the same. I wish you
could spend just one day if no more with us. Such a dream-place as it
is! Words can never picture it to you, but the cousins in chorus,
declared I must write and tell _you_ all about it. As if I could! Why
_you_? They did not say. I did not ask. I _suppose_ because they are
ready to hear another of your letters read. You see they have not such
a funny, audacious correspondent as you on their list.
But to this “castle in Spain,” this “Palace Beautiful,” this “stately
pleasure dome,” this “Dream Perch,” this “Hotel Torre di Mezzacapo,” on
the “blue Meditterranean’s” loveliest inlet, the Gulf of Salerno. Oh,
dear. How to put it into words! It is an ancient castle, built on and
out of, and into, a lofty cliff, hanging right over the water. I could
cast my lines into its clear depths and _angle_ to no end of capture, if
they were long enough. They would have to measure 90 meters (300 feet)
though to touch water. Who would help me land my whales? A Cornichean
road, the ideal highway of creation, winds past its base to Amalfi. I
hope you know Longfellow’s poem of that name. Sheer down the solid rock
drops to the wavelets’ foam-tipped caress. I can _hear_ them when I bend
over the parapet of my terrace so high above them in the air. From that
highway, superb-macadamized, the ascent to our doorway is a tortuous,
devious, steep climb. A little donkey-cart does it. Two at a time
inside, outside the driver alongside the poor beast and with a desperate
clutch of its loose hide to help it to keep its feet, and like poor Joe,
“keep moving on.” As I caught sight of that grip, a flash of memory
gave back a description read long ago, of an exceedingly high-bred
aristocratic, “black and tan terrier--its skin was at least two and
one-half sizes too large for it.” Poor little donkey! I can fancy him
braying his loudest that dying refrain of the woman,
“Glory! hallelujah! I am going where
There’s no more hard work to do.”
After he landed the four of us “safe and sound,” he dragged up with
equal faithfulness our four “Saratogas.” When I saw that, I cowered into
a corner and hid my eyes. How I hated that trunk of mine! I think that
particular donkey ought to be canonized and made a “constellation” in
one of the unoccupied places of honor in the sky. Up here we see “an
inclosed world of beauty.” The vague distance of the sea, where the eye
gets lost directly; the long, low promontory or cape, where Paestum lies
stranded in blue mist; mountains that lift themselves up so high they
win crowns of snow for their temerity; great, soaring, jagged, curiously
rent cliffs, many with their sheltered sides fashioned into terraces set
in fruitful lemon and orange groves; the indented coast, with many a
pretty bay and baylet and little stretches of exquisite beaches; and
countless villages in the tenderest tones of white, gray, drab, etc. It
is a wonderful scene, and so soporific I could fall asleep this very
instant. It is Sunday all the time. The town of Maiori lies far below us
on the northeast, with a population of six thousand, an exquisite bit of
harbor and lovely beach. I see pretty little craft, of many styles and
sizes, run up on the last. Now and then, out on the water, a microscopic
sail attached to a little black speck, or a lazily propelled row-boat,
breaks up “the death in life” of the scene. They tell me as a fact that
can be verified, of other _breaks_ of the following ilk, _if_ one
chooses to hang by the hour over the parapet of the different terraces
or esplanades: a rattle-trap of a wagon, with a team of three animals
abreast, mixed horses and donkeys, or oxen and cows, but each one close
kin to my poor “Raffaello” (that is our donkey’s name); a tourist
carriage or donkey cart; or a procession of “beasts of burden,” with
immense baskets, heaping full, or casks of wine and water, or some
miscellaneous burden, borne on top of their heads, and heavy enough to
bend them half-double at least--in the shape of _women_. Oftentimes men
walk beside, but never seem to share those burdens.
Maiori lies at the mouth of a gorge, the Val Tramonti. This runs (I
don’t know how far) back through a volcanic district. There is an
ascending drive that is singularly unique and interesting. On both
sides, a jumble of rent mountains; upheavals of beautiful knolls, that
would themselves be mountains elsewhere, in the center of vast basins
and deep valleys. Capping many of the highest peaks are lone,
picturesque, gray old churches, with tall, square towers. The sides of
the mountains are laid out in terraces, covered with lemon groves or
orchards. Continuous chains of quaint old towns nestle in the depths or
perch at different altitudes, so varied in their styles of architecture,
combination of colors, and situations framed in such a novel ensemble,
one is kept in a glow all the way. All this region abounds with such
drives.
Verily, if this modicum of a world is so full of wonders, it is crushing
to try to grasp the stupendous creation of which it is so small a
fraction.
We shall stay here, exploring, perhaps a fortnight; and then to “fresh
fields.”
There is talk of Sicily and Africa, if it continues cool enough.
And to make last week one to “set apart,” my “good brother,” Mr. W----,
reached me with one of his letters. There are a sacred few who keep us
at our best. The angel--not the demon--in us answers to their summons.
Just to be with them seems to banish whatsoever is unworthy. Heaven--the
All-good--seems not far away, hedged off from entrance by this and that
device of man; but all about us, with its paths ready and free to our
treading, and its true life not withdrawing and making conditions of
acceptance, but enfolding and making us feel it is our own inheritance
and we can enter into it.
I hope the little book is growing or quite grown. It interests me to
hear of it. Do not give it up, whatever you do.
I noted the recovery of your peculiar and pretty penmanship the moment I
saw your letter. Blessed be the potato, henceforth and forever!
L. G. C.
Maiori, April 5, 1886.
[Illustration: Naples, General View.]
NAPLES.
I think I told you Sicily was being talked of for our next objective
point. Well, we had a beautiful drive to Salerno; from there by rail to
Paestum, where I enjoyed the grand old temples for the second time, the
others for the first time.
We lunched in the temple of Neptune, and I gathered again the acanthus
and wild flowers. The trip was charming, through a continuous garden
with orchards and farm lands.
At the temple, an incident occurred I do not like to recall. I was
looking at some curios surrounded by a throng of boys of all ages. While
deciding about purchasing a very peculiar terra cotta head, they pressed
closer and closer to me. Presently I wanted my glasses; they were gone.
I could not linger. Before we reached the station, they were brought to
me; had evidently been taken from my pocket for that very purpose, with
the certainty of getting a reward. This was the only instance of the
kind that happened to me in all my wanderings.
Back to Salerno, and from there to Pompeii. The whole route was a revel
of spring beauty. Deep valleys, mountains, wide-spreading plains--“how
beautiful and wonderful all this little earth!” We spent the time till
train hour for Naples in the exhumed city. Nothing more marvelous than
its frescoes so fresh and well-preserved.
Naples and shopping next day. Some friends who had just returned from
Sicily and Tunis came to tell us about it. One brought many Tunis
purchases to show us. Another gave a description of a Tunis wedding,
which, by a happy chance, they witnessed. The bride did not see her
husband for eight days! The display of presents was most gorgeous.
At 4 p. m., we went to the steamer for Sicily. A storm was brewing as we
boarded it, and by the late dinner hour it was upon us in all its fury.
One by one the passengers left the table till I alone remained. The
effect on me was not ordinary sea-sickness, but a kind of torpidity;
once in my birth I could not lift my head, though I was not unconscious.
The storm lasted all night, but the morning broke brilliantly clear and
invigorating.
Palermo at noon; we had to stay aboard
[Illustration: Peasant Cart, Palermo.]
till 3 p. m., to be put through a process of disinfecting. All sorts of
officers came to examine. Barges ran alongside with great tubs of
disinfectant water to put soiled clothes through. Then the dogano, and
such a racket of talk and cries! Hotel des Palmes from the steamer. It
was pleasantly situated and very comfortable, and has a lovely garden.
Before going to bed, Tunis was given up. The cousins could not risk the
sea-sickness.
We spent several days in Palermo and its environs. I think it might be
called the City of Mosaics. Its cathedrals, chapels, palaces, walls,
everywhere were a mass of this ornamentation. We went from one to
another till my brain was in a buzz. The gorgeousness and beauty and
exquisite execution of the extraordinary subjects were beyond
description. Only seeing can grasp such wonders. There was an _English
garden_ full of flowers and familiar and unfamiliar trees and shrubbery.
Indeed, Palermo can boast many gardens. In our drives on the Marina, a
very brilliant feature was the carts peculiar to the country. The body
of the cart, the two wheels, the shafts and the trappings of the donkey
were covered with pictures and designs in the gaudiest colors--blues,
reds, greens, orange, etc. The peasants in them were arrayed in garb to
match, with faces alight with the most good-humored smiles.
The palaces we were most interested in were those of La Zisa and La
Cuba, of Saracenic origin. The feature of the former was its fountain
bursting from the wall in the vestibule facing the entrance door, and
descending over a succession of steps to the floor, where it took the
form of a simple rectangular cross. Above the fountain was a painted
arch, below which were three pictures in Mosaics. This was very curious.
La Cuba had nothing but a discolored honey-combed vaulting in a small
court. A pavilion formerly belonging to it had been removed to the
center of a garden on the opposite side of the street. We tramped to it.
It had a dome in the roof and an arched doorway, and was built of
massive stones, but otherwise was not especially interesting.
To Monreale was a drive of several miles, to see its Cathedral and Abbey
and fine views. Its Mosaics are celebrated, but I did not dream of
anything like the wonderful Cloisters of the Abbey. The Mosaics on the
walls of the Cathedral cover an area of 70,000 square feet,
[Illustration: Interior of Museum (Metopes), Palermo.]
representing scenes from both the Old and New Testaments. I could only
look and exclaim.
The Cloisters are all that remain of the original Abbey; they are
quadrangular and the pointed arches supported by 216 columns are covered
with mosaics, all of their capitals and many of the shafts being
different. I could not even faintly grasp the amount of labor required
for the execution of such elaborate work. We had haze, showers and rain
every day, but lost no time from our sight-seeing. One day we went in
the rain to the Museum, where are the famous Metopes, “the most ancient
of Greek sculptures except the lions of Mycene.” These are from the
temple of Selinus, where we were to have gone, but a party of English,
who had just returned, gave such a disenchanting account of the
hardships of the trip, we gave it up. These Metopes are on a sublime
scale representing the contests of gods and goddesses and heroes, and
are indescribable. One is that of Perseus slaying Medusa.
Not tiring of beautiful Palermo, but of the rain, we left one afternoon
for Girgenti, “the most beautiful city of mortals,” according to Pindar.
The railway must have been the work of friendly genii, taste, labor and
abundance of the “coin of the county,” for it ran for miles between
triple hedges of roses, geraniums and cacti, planted in the order I have
named them one above the other.
In Holland the hedges are of poppies, and “Out West” in our own country,
of sunflowers, both such a blaze of color, the one red, the other
orange, as to almost scorch the eye.
The number of ruins of temples on a grand scale in and around Girgenti
keeps the sightseers “on the wing;” and at bed-time, the second in the
little day-book reads: What a full and interesting day! I wish I had
time to tell of these in detail. But Syracuse and the Fountain of
Arethusa! Thither the route was of the most varied. Hills and
wide-spreading vales like our prairies; cities crowning mountains;
sulphur-works and great blocks of it piled at the stations ready for
shipment; orchards, exquisite gardens and vineyards, but no forests,
only a few trees here and there, principally eucalyptus that have been
recently set out. Wild flowers by the acre in countless varieties, one
being a species of clover, the head three, four and five inches long,
and blood-red in color. We stopped at Catania for lunch at the station,
ordered it, and when it was served with one glance let it “severely
alone.” Whereupon the waiter fell into a deep dejection. We reached
Syracuse at 9:30 p. m.
The night drive through the streets to the hotel was beautiful, and we
slept the sleep of those who knew the good things of this world were
awaiting us next morning. What a day we made of it! We rambled through
the Roman Ampitheater; sat where the nobles had in the Greek Theater;
visited the quarries--quarries are one of the most famous
characteristics of Syracuse--Euryalis, the fountain of Arethusa, indeed,
leaving nothing unseen. In the quarry of Paradise is the famous Ear of
Dionysius. You may be sure we tried its extraordinary echoes. In
another, that of Latonia de Cappuccini, quarry of the Capuchins, we
lunched. The manager of our hotel was our cicerone, a refined and
gentlemanly person, but we could not induce him to join us, so strong
was his feeling of the difference in our positions. He served us with
gloved hands, and when we had finished withdrew from sight to take his
lunch. We walked around the ruined fort atop of it, and descended into
the depths of its subterranean fortifications. From the top, Mt. Etna
was a sublime spectacle--its vast mass of snow-covered volcano seemed
lifted bodily into the loftiest heights of air while its base was
enveloped in an impenetrable white mist. Anything more ideally ethereal
could not be imagined.
The Fountain of Arethusa is inclosed in a circular basin, and can be
gazed upon from above standing on a platform with a railing. I looked
and longed to get nearer. The custodian was at hand with key ready to
unlock a gate. I entered and found the familiar quotation a truth,
“Facilis est discensus.” The water was edged with a thick growth of the
papyrus, its long, slender stalks topped with a kind of palmlike tuft.
There was a most enchanting walk from our hotel to the fountain, and an
irresistible fascination found me repeating my visit to it. It took in
one of the finest views of the harbor and Mt. Etna. I often stopped as I
wandered to wonder if perchance I trod in the footsteps of Archimides,
if my glance rested on the same points in both land and water view, and
wished--how I wished!--my brain might burn with his momentous thoughts
and calculations.
Exquisite views await and arrest the traveler everywhere in Sicily.
There are some barren stretches, but these seem to be forgotten
[Illustration: Archimedes.]
as soon as lost sight of. As our train swept on, these were unrolled
before us. Afar off, nestling on the side of a mountain, we caught a
glimpse of Meliti, where the Hybla honey of the poets was made. Once
more at Catania--it seemed almost a miracle--we were ushered into a
Pullman palace car! We could hardly credit “the evidence of our senses.”
No cars are comparable for comfort, convenience and elegance with those
of our own native land. It was really amusing to see how soon we
adjusted ourselves to the accustomed luxuries. We ascertained on inquiry
that this was a special train placed at the expense of the Pullman
Company as an experiment. It was hoped and thought it would be a
success.
Directly there was a chorus of exclamation. The seven rocks of the
Cyclops! The rocks the blind Polyphemus hurled so impatiently after “the
crafty Ulysses.” They rise at no great distance from the shore, and from
the size of some of them the strength of the giant must have been indeed
taxed.
Speeding over the plain of Catania took me back to school days and my
mythology. For to a part of it belongs the touching story of Proserpine
and its harrowing pictures of Pluto carrying her off, her arms
outstretched for rescue, and her lovely face furrowed with such terror,
horror and agony as fixed itself indelibly upon memory. “The Vale of
Enna,” with its flowers bedewed with the tears of the tortured mother
and lighted by the burning torch in her hand, as she sought hither and
thither for her lost child--how strange to think I was recalling all the
story right there upon the ground.
We made but a short tarry at Messina, and then came our reluctant
_addio_ to beautiful, historic Sicily. Trinacria of old, so called
because of its triangular shape. Not anywhere was flaunted that hideous
coat of arms--the head of Medusa, the Gorgon with locks of wreathing
serpents and the three legs springing from it as a center, representing
a triangle, and the haunting countenance of horror that turned one into
stone but to look at it. Yet, I put the picture of it into my album of
Sicilian photographs!
How the heart aches over the good-byes that we know mean forever.
Good-bye, O lovely Sicily.
L. G. C.
Naples, May 1, 1886.
[Illustration: Head of Medusa, Coat of Arms of Sicily, Palermo.]
LAUTERBRUNNEN.
Yours of 15th received yesterday. May 17th was the date of receipt of
your last previous favor. May 23d I mailed a reply from Florence. Yet
you say you have had no letter for three months. What does this mean? I
am “wrought up,” I can tell you; because _that_ letter was the
quintessence of myself. No use to go into details about it. _You_, who
so adequately wreak me upon expression, “witty, wise, brilliant, great
head and good heart”--dear me! were I the most egotistical instead of
meek and lowly minded of women--impossible to compete with you in _doing
justice_ to myself--you would resent such “poaching in your preserves.”
So I leave you to gnash teeth over the loss you can so fully comprehend.
I shall never get over it myself, never. I think I must mention two
items. There was a poem by myself and another by my cousin, Mrs. O----.
I sent the latter to prove that I do not “monopolize the family genius.”
You will remember you put that query. Please make a note of my
magnanimity in not withholding an evidence of its being possessed in
even a higher degree by another member. Do you think many--not women,
but--fellow-beings would be equal to that? Oh! I groan to think of that
lost scintilation! And shall every time I think of it. How you would
have enjoyed it! And more--how you would have flashed back again! Being
the cause of wit in others is almost better than being witty myself. No;
come to think of it, I have to “own up” to preferring to being the
possessor at first hand, and even in the overtopping degree. There’s the
milk and meekness of human coveteousness, of which I am “a bright and
shining light.” Not much of the goddess in such a confession. But--“I
can’t tell a lie,” you know, any more than _you_ or the rest of my
brethren and sisters. Oh! oh!--oh--h--h! that letter!
I am so glad you had “a good time” with Miss B----. How near she is to
my heart you must know by this time.
I have had a letter since you saw her. She wrote after her return home
in a glow of fine spirits. What a “triumphal progress” she and Mrs.
K---- had! Everybody, everywhere, seeming to have vied in the kindliest
courtesies, hospitalities and affectionate attentions. It did me as
much good to hear of it as if I had myself been a recipient. Mrs. K----
deserved the hospitalities in a special degree, her pleasant home in
Covington having always been a real Kentucky “open house.” As for Miss
B----, her extraordinary powers of entertaining--that big head of hers
so stuffed full of everything that adds to the feast and festival and
highest enjoyment--she honors her welcomes. Some day I count on seeing
the work you are giving so much time to. The “aim” must be indeed “a
difficult thing to attain,” as you say. But why not write unconscious of
“_the aim_?” Would not _the aim_ be attained, and more happily? I ask,
not to give, but to gain, information.