Journey to the Coast.--Lucca.--Pisa.--The leaning Tower.--The Campo
Santo.--Santa Maria della Spina.--Leghorn.--The Port.--American
Man-of-war.--The Protestant Cemetery.--Climate of Italy not genial
for Invalids.--Beauty of the Peasant Girls.
G---- W---- has been here, and we have made a run together down to the
coast. We parted in June last, you will recollect, in Amsterdam, he on
his way to Moscow, and we on ours to Rome, where he is likely to arrive
before us, as he is off already in that direction, and we still linger
here on the banks of the Arno. The little excursion we made together is
worthy of a passing word.
We left Florence in W----’s carriage, an excellent bachelor-like
vehicle, on as cold a noon-tide as one often meets with in New York,
even north of the highlands. These Apennines, which form a magnificent
backbone for Italy, give the country a great diversity of climate,
serving as a wall to heat it in summer, and as repositories of snow
to cool it in winter. We were closely curtained and had the glasses
up, and went _ventre terre_ over the paved roads, and yet had great
difficulty in keeping ourselves warm.
The first halt was at Pistoja, a town of some size, in which we amused
ourselves for half an hour in looking at a church or two, as well as
at some pictures. Taking a little refreshment, we proceeded at the
old pace, and drove into the gate of Lucca, just as night had set in.
Shivering with cold, for this little capital is in the heart of the
mountains, we made our way into a room, and only began to recover the
natural hue of our skins, when a dozen cones of the pine, well filled
with resin, were in a bright blaze. These and a plentiful supply of
faggots brought back the congealed vitality, whose current had almost
frozen. A good supper and good beds reconciled us to life.
We were up betimes, and went forth to explore Lucca. The town stands on
a plain, a mountain basin, and is walled in a semi-modern fashion. If
good for nothing in the way of defence, the ramparts make an excellent
promenade. We visited the churches and pictures as usual, and then
took a fancy to examine the palace, a long, unornamented edifice in
the heart of the place. The duke is travelling, and, pretty much as a
matter of course, is out of his own dominions, which, though one of
the most populous countries of Europe, possessing three hundred and
thirty souls to the square mile, has not one hundred and fifty thousand
people. When it is remembered that a large portion of even this small
territory is mountain and nearly uninhabited gorges, you may form some
notion of the manner in which the little plain itself is peopled.
The town has only twenty-two thousand souls; but as we walked on the
ramparts and overlooked the adjacent country, it seemed alive with
peasants of both sexes, labouring in the fields. They resembled pigeons
gleaning a stubble, literally forming lines of twenty or thirty,
working with hoes. Indeed the agriculture was gardening.
Lucca was a republic, down to the period of the French revolution,
about which time it was given to his sister Eliza by Napoleon, as
a duchy. I believe the palace is owing to her taste, and to the
expenditure of an imperial princess. We found it Parisian in style
and arrangement, and in these particulars, I thought, superior even
to Windsor. Nature has fitted the French to excel in mantua-making,
upholstery, and philosophy.
After passing the morning in this manner, we took flight for Pisa.
These republics must have had warm neighbourhoods formerly, for the
distance between the two towns is only a single relay. The respective
plains are separated by a noble pile of the Apennines, a mountain that
is isolated, and which serves admirably as a party-wall between the
capitals. The first glimpse we had of Pisa was of its tower and domes,
the houses and walls lying so low as scarcely to come into the view.
There was a line of respectable aqueduct, leading from the mountain,
however, to give notice of the proximity of civilisation. The country,
too, was fertile and well cultivated, but much less so than that of
Lucca.
Pisa is a place to be seen, for it was once of note, and has curious
remains of its former power. There is a palace, and the Tuscan court is
here at this moment, passing a few weeks in it every winter, the town,
nothwithstanding, is dull and half-depopulated, noble houses being to
be had for prices almost nominal.
The chief interest of Pisa is concentrated in a single corner, where
the cathedral, the baptistery, the Campo Santo, and the leaning tower
are all to be found within a few feet of each other. They are all
within the walls, as indeed is a good deal of vacant ground; both
Florence and Pisa, like Rome, appearing to have shrunk from their
ancient dimensions.
You probably know that it is a disputed point whether the tower, or
_campanile_, was built at its present inclination, or whether it sunk
on one side from a defect in the foundations. I shall take side with
those who espouse the former opinion. By looking at an engraving
you will perceive that this tower is composed of seven distinct
compartments, externally, each being ornamented with its own columns.
Internally it is merely a circular flight of steps, that lead to
the gallery of the bells. Now the four lowest of these compartments
lean materially, the two next less, and the last is almost, if not
absolutely, perpendicular. I think these facts go to show that the
tower was built in this form; for had it sunk when only half completed,
it is scarcely probable that the artist would have persevered: he would
have taken down the materials and laid the foundations anew. Then there
is no crack, no dislocation of the columns, not the least derangement
of the parts within or without, to denote a violent change of position.
The principal reasons for supposing that it has sunk since erected, are
the manner in which one side of the foundation appears to be buried,
and the fact that there is an ancient painting which represents the
tower as upright.
As for the first of these facts, it strikes me that an architect silly
enough to erect such a monstrosity would be as likely to begin his
folly at the bottom as any where else. The painting may be explained.
It is a fresco picture of the town, in the cloisters of the Campo
Santo, and no part of the tower is represented but the summit, which
appears above the adjoining buildings. I have told you already
that this summit is perpendicular, or so nearly so as to have that
appearance when abstracted from the rest of the tower. Besides, the
tower itself leans but one way, and taken in two positions, it of
course presents nothing extraordinary. Now the view in the picture
is precisely in one of these positions, or _en profile_. You will
remember, moreover, that the bit of tower seen in the painting is but
small, and that it is an accessory in which foreshortening would not
be much attended to had the artist been equal to such an attempt:
but, in fact, the whole work is of no great merit, and the entire
perspective is indifferent.
I am of opinion that this tower was built as it now stands, until a
point was reached where the architect thought it necessary to vary the
line, which, it would seem, he did twice before reaching the summit.
Caprices of this sort are not unknown; most men, indeed, fancying it a
greater achievement of genius to make a thing that is extravagant than
a thing whose merit consists in its exquisite fitness. A thousand will
exclaim at the manner in which cloth, or a bit of lace, is represented
in a picture or a statue, to one who will fully feel the beauty and
repose of the expression of either.
The effect of the leaning tower, when standing in the upper gallery,
is what one might imagine. It requires a slight effort of reason to
look down without a sensation of fear; for it is like looking over a
precipice. The view is fine, and for the first time in twenty years I
got a sight of the blue waters of the Mediterranean. We saw the island
of Gorgona, and overlooked a sea of plain. Had the day been finer, we
should have enjoyed the prospect more.
The cathedral is a droll medley of beauty, and of a barbarous taste.
The dome struck me as low and mean, and some of the details as good as
others are bad. But these are subjects of which I say little, too many
folios already existing on such matters. I liked the baptistery very
much.
As for the Campo Santo, who has not heard of it? It is contained within
cloisters, the monuments being under cover, and the space occupied by
the bodies is not larger than a considerable court in a palace. In this
place one might pass weeks in agreeable but melancholy contemplation.
In the baptistery we saw a priest by the font, muttering something, and
drawing near, found he was baptising a child. Religious rites, under
establishments, get to be rather common-place.
There are few spots in Europe of superior interest to this corner of
Pisa; and yet there is a little chapel on the quay, called _Santa Maria
della Spina_, that is worthy to be here, the tradition running that
it is the repository of a thorn from the crown of the Saviour. It is
a miniature edifice of marble, and one of the most grotesque little
things I have ever seen, in its way; quite equal to the celebrated
town-house of Louvain. The style is termed here _il Gotico Moresco_,
to distinguish it from _il Tedesco_, or what is here called the German
Gothic. There is a good deal of Moorish architecture in Tuscany, or
that which approaches it, if not quite pure, the court of the Medici
palace at Florence being in this oriental style. I think it singularly
beautiful in its place, especially for cloisters and courts. The
chapel in question is of black and white marble,--a taste that suits
its general quaintness, but which impairs the majesty of severer
architecture.
After passing the night in Pisa, we galloped across the wide plain to
Leghorn. The sea-air was grateful, even in winter, and I snuffed the
odour of this delightful sea with a delight that was “redolent of joy
and youth.” We got into a very good inn kept by a Scotchman, and soon
exhausted the wonders of the place. It is not easy for one who has not
been in Europe, to appreciate the difference that exists between its
capitals and its commercial towns. Leghorn is rather an interesting
town, and has even a few respectable points of poetic interest; but it
had an atmosphere of trade, that struck us forcibly on entering it.
It has canals within the walls, is fortified, and has some very good
streets.
We ordered dinner, and hurried off to the port. Here we feasted our
eyes on the different picturesque rigs and peculiar barks of this
poetical sea. Long years had gone by since I had seen the felucca, the
polacre, the xebec and the sparranara, and all the other quaint-looking
craft of the Mediterranean: for, whatever may be said of the
utilitarian qualities of our own vessels, poetry has had no more to
do with them than it has had to do with any thing else in the land. I
do not believe we are without poetic feeling as a people; but we are
sadly deficient in the ordinary appliances of the art. As we strolled
along the mole and quays, we met several men from the Levant; and an
Algerine Rais was calmly smoking his _chibouque_ on the deck of his
polacre.
Observing the eagerness with which I surveyed these objects, our
_laquais de place_ declared, it was a pity we had not been in Leghorn
ten days earlier, as we might then have found a ship worth seeing,
the Delaware, American man-of-war. We sneered at this information,
and asked him what a people like the Americans could produce that was
worth examining? “I thought so too, gentlemen,” he answered; “but
the Delaware was the finest ship that has ever been at Leghorn, as
every one admits.” “Of course her crew were black?” “Not so, signore:
_I expected that too_; but they were all as white as we are:” which
perhaps was not so literally true.
The only people in Europe who have a respectful opinion of the
Americans are those who see their ships: and these are getting to
entertain notions that are a little extravagant the wrong way.
Leghorn was the first sea-port that I had entered since leaving
Holland, and its delicious odours were inhaled with a delight that
no language can describe. I had been living in an atmosphere of
poetry for many months, and this was truly an atmosphere of life. The
fragrance of the bales of merchandise, of the piles of oranges--of
even the mud, saturated as it was with salt--to say nothing of the
high seasoning of occasional breathings of tar and pitch, to me were
pregnant “with odours of delight.” Still I found that residences in
European capitals, and among the Alps and Apennines, is creating a
strong distaste for all the more common appliances of commerce. Leghorn
seemed vulgar and mean, after Florence, with its pretty little court,
its museums and its refinements; and the only things that interested us
were the sea, the port, the picturesque vessels, the fragrance, and a
cemetery for the Protestant dead.
The Island of Gorgona was looming in the haze, a hummock of rock, and
it is said there are days on which the mountains of Corsica are visible
from the mole. There is also a noble dark pile at no great distance
from the town, which is, appropriately enough, called Monte Nero. Its
side is garnished with country-houses, and there is a church near its
summit that is in great repute among mariners, as a shrine at which
offerings are to be made for deliveries from the casualties of the sea:
I believe its name is that of Our Lady of the Storms. These Catholics
have certainly got all the poetry of the religion.
We went to the Protestant cemetery, which contains many American
graves, and among others, that of Captain Gamble, who died here, in
command of the Erie, about ten years ago. This gentleman, one of four
brothers in the service, had been my messmate on Lake Ontario some
twenty years before, and it was startling to find myself unexpectedly
standing over his grave in the other hemisphere. On examining the
monuments near, I was still more startled at reading the name of
“Tobias Smollett” on one of them. He is known to have come to Italy to
terminate his worldly career. The “Siste Viator” applies with force to
those who speak English, and who find themselves unexpectedly standing
over such a grave!
We soon exhausted the sights of Leghorn and returned to Pisa, where we
slept. The weather was intensely cold, and we sat shivering over a bad
fire until it was time to retire. I would advise no consumptive person
to come to Italy, in the expectation of finding a more genial climate
than can be got in America. The West Indies offer many more suitable
spots for the malady; and a man of science at Paris has told me that
the temperature of St. Augustine is known to be more mild and equal
than that of any other place in the world, of which there are authentic
journals of the changes of weather. Every one here tells me that the
patients usually come to die; a fact to which the Leghorn cemetery
bears ample testimony. It were a worthy object for the government
to push St. Augustine, if for no other purpose than to render it
comfortable to invalids.
The next day we returned to Florence, by the great route, reaching the
gates of the town in time to dine. The weather had become more mild,
and we were struck with the beauty of the peasant girls, many of whom
were sitting in the sun, and a fair proportion of whom had pretentions
to some of that pastoral prettiness of which the poets delight to
speak. These were the first females of the class, however, that had
the smallest claims to beauty, which it had been my good fortune to
meet with in Europe, out of England. Hitherto I had seen occasional
exceptions, but on this road we actually met with rural beauties in
crowds. I attribute the circumstance to their employment; for most of
them were plaiting straw for hats.