O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood,
Smooth-flowing Mincius crowned with vocal reeds.
Its waters were exquisitely transparent; but it was difficult to
remember its poetical pretensions, in sight of those odious barracks
and batteries. The reeds mentioned by Virgil and Milton still flourish
upon its banks, and I forgave them for spoiling in some degree the
beauty of the shore, when I thought of Adelaïde of Burgundy, who
concealed herself among them for three days, when she fled from the
dungeon of Peschiera to the arms of her lover. I was glad I had read
her story in Gibbon, since it enabled me to add to classical and
poetical associations, an interest at once romantic and real.
The rest to-morrow--for I can write no more.
_At Verona, Oct. 20._--I had just written the above when I was
startled by a mournful strain from a chorus of voices, raised at
intervals, and approaching gradually nearer. I walked to the window,
and saw a long funeral procession just entering the church, which is
opposite to the door of our inn. I immediately threw over me a veil
and shawl, followed it, and stood by while the service was chaunted
over the dead. The scene, as viewed by the light of about two hundred
tapers, which were carried by the assistants, was as new to me as it
was solemn and striking; but it was succeeded by a strange and forlorn
contrast. The moment the service was over, the tapers were suddenly
extinguished; the priests and the relatives all disappeared in an
inconceivably short time, and before I was quite aware of what was
going forward: the coffin, stripped of its embroidered pall and
garlands of flowers, appeared a mere chest of deal boards, roughly
nailed together; and was left standing on tressels, bare, neglected,
and forsaken in the middle of the church. I approached it almost
fearfully, and with a deeper emotion than I believed such a thing
could now excite within me. And here, thought I, rests the human
being, who has lived and loved, suffered and enjoyed, and, if I may
judge by the splendour of his funeral rites, has been honoured,
served, flattered while living:--and now not one remains to shed a
last tear over the dead, but a single stranger, a wanderer from a land
he perhaps knew not: to whom his very name is unknown! And while thus
I moralized, two sextons appeared; and one of them seizing the
miserable and deserted coffin, rudely and unceremoniously flung it on
his shoulders, and vanished through a vaulted door; and I returned to
my room, to write this, and to think how much better, how much more
_humanely_, we manage these things in our own England.
_Oct. 21._--Verona is a clean and quiet place, containing some fine
edifices by Palladio and his pupils. The principal object of interest
is the ancient amphitheatre; the most perfect I believe in Italy. The
inner circle, with all its ranges of seats, is entire. We ascended to
the top, and looked down into the Piazza d'arme, where several
battalions of Austrian soldiers were exercising; their arms glittering
splendidly in the morning sun. As I have now been long enough in Italy
to sympathize in the national hatred of the Austrians, I turned from
the sight, resolved not to be pleased. The arena of the amphitheatre
is smaller, and less oval in form than I had expected: and in the
centre, there is a little paltry gaudy wooden theatre for puppets and
tumblers,--forming a grotesque contrast to the massive and majestic
architecture around it: but even tumblers and puppets, as Rospo
observed, are better than wild beasts and ferocious gladiators.
There are also at Verona a triumphal arch to the Emperor Gallienus;
the architecture and inscription almost as perfect as if erected
yesterday;--and a most singular bridge of three irregular arches,
built, I believe, by the Scaligieri family, who were once princes of
Verona.
It is well known that the story of Romeo and Juliet is here regarded
as a traditionary and indisputable fact, and the tomb of Juliet is
shown in a garden near the town. So much has been written and said on
this subject, I can add only one observation. To the reality of the
story it has been objected that the oldest narrator, Masuccio, relates
it as having happened at Sienna: but might he not have heard the
tradition at Verona, and transferred the scene to Sienna, since he
represented it as related by a Siennese?--Della Corte, whose history
of Verona I have just laid down, mentions it as a real historical
event; and Louis da Porta, in his beautiful novel, la Giulietta,
expressly asserts that he has written it down from tradition. If
Shakespeare, as it is said, never saw the novel of Da Porta, how came
he by the names of Romeo and Juliet, the Montagues and the Capulets:
if he _did_ meet with it, how came he to depart so essentially from
the story, particularly in the catastrophe? I must get some books, if
possible, to clear up these difficulties.
23d, _at Padua._--We spent yesterday morning pleasantly at Vicenza.
Palladio's edifices in general disappointed me; partly because I am
not architect enough to judge of their merits, partly because, of most
of them the situation is bad, and the materials paltry: but the
Olympic theatre, although its solid perspective be a mere trick of the
art, surprised and pleased me. It has an air of antique and classic
elegance in its decorations, which is very striking. I have heard it
criticised as a specimen of bad taste and trickery: but why should its
solid scenery be considered more a _trick_, and in bad taste, than a
curtain of painted canvas? In both a deception is practised and
intended. We saw many things in Vicenza and its neighbourhood, which I
have not time nor spirits, to dwell upon.
We arrived here (at Padua) last night, and to-day I am again ill:
unable to see or even to wish to see any thing. My eyes are so full of
tears that I can scarcely write. I must lay down my pencil, lest I
break through my resolution, and be tempted to record feelings I
afterwards tremble to see written down.--O bitter and too lasting
remembrance! I must sleep it away--even the heavy and drug-bought
sleep to which I am now reduced, is better than such waking moments as
these.
* * * * *
_Venice, October 25th._--I feel while I gaze round me, as if I had
seen Venice in my dreams--as if it were itself the vision of a dream.
We have been here two days; and I have not yet recovered from my first
surprise. All is yet enchantment: all is novel, extraordinary,
affecting from the many associations and remembrances excited in the
mind. Pleasure and wonder are tinged with a melancholy interest; and
while the imagination is excited, the spirits are depressed.
The morning we left Padua was bright, lovely, and cloudless. Our drive
along the shores of the Brenta crowned with innumerable villas and gay
gardens was delightful; and the moment of our arrival at Fusina, where
we left our carriages to embark in gondolas, was the most auspicious
that could possibly have been chosen. It was about four o'clock: the
sun was just declining towards the west: the whole surface of the
_lagune_, smooth as a mirror, appeared as if paved with fire;--and
Venice, with her towers and domes, indistinctly glittering in the
distance, rose before us like a gorgeous exhalation from the bosom of
the ocean. It is farther from the shore than I expected. As we
approached, the splendour faded: but the interest and wonder grew. I
can conceive nothing more beautiful, more singular, more astonishing,
than the first appearance of Venice, and sad indeed will be the hour
when she sinks (as the poet prophesies) "into the slime of her own
canals."
The moment we had disembarked our luggage at the inn, we hired
gondolas and rowed to the Piazza di San Marco. Had I seen the church
of St. Mark any where else, I should have exclaimed against the bad
taste which every where prevails in it: but Venice is the proper
region of the fantastic, and the church of St. Mark--with its four
hundred pillars of every different order, colour, and material, its
oriental cupolas, and glittering vanes, and gilding and
mosaics--assimilates with all around it: and the kind of pleasure it
gives is suitable to the place and the people.
After dinner I had a chair placed on the balcony of our inn, and sat
for some time contemplating a scene altogether new and delightful. The
arch of the Rialto just gleamed through the deepening twilight; long
lines of palaces, at first partially illuminated, faded away at length
into gloomy and formless masses of architecture; the gondolas glided
to and fro, their glancing lights reflected on the water. There was a
stillness all around me, solemn and strange in the heart of a great
city. No rattling carriages shook the streets, no trampling of horses
echoed along the pavement: the silence was broken only by the
melancholy cry of the gondoliers, and the dash of their oars; by the
low murmur of human voices, by the chime of the vesper bells, borne
over the water, and the sounds of music raised at intervals along the
canals. The poetry, the romance of the scene stole upon me unawares. I
fell into a reverie, in which visionary forms and recollections gave
way to dearer and sadder realities, and my mind seemed no longer in my
own power. I called upon the lost, the absent, to share the present
with me,--I called upon past feelings to enhance that moment's
delight. I did wrong--and memory avenged herself as usual. I quitted
my seat on the balcony, with despair at my heart, and drawing to the
table, took out my books and work. So passed our first evening at
Venice.
Yesterday we visited the Accademia where there are some fine pictures.
The famous assumption by Titian is here, and first made me _feel_ what
connoisseurs mean when they talk of the carnations and draperies of
Titian. We were shown two designs for monuments to the memory of
Titian, modelled by Canova. Neither of them has been erected; but the
most beautiful, with a little alteration, and the substitution of a
lady's bust for Titian's venerable head, has been dedicated, I
believe, to the memory of the Archduchess Christina of Austria. I
remember also an exquisite Canaletti, quite different in style and
subject from any picture of this master I ever saw.
We then rowed to the ducal palace. The council chamber (I thought of
Othello as I entered it) is now converted into a library. The walls
are decorated with the history of Pope Alexander the Third, and
Frederic Barbarossa, painted by the Tintoretti, father and son, Paul
Veronese and Palma. Above them, in compartments, hang the portraits of
the Doges; among which Marino Faliero is _not_; but his name only,
inscribed on a kind of black pall. The Ganymede is a most exquisite
little group, attributed to the age of Praxiteles; and not without
reason even to the hand of that sculptor.
To-day we visited several churches--rich, on the outside, with all the
luxury of architecture,--withinside, gorgeous with painting,
sculpture, and many-coloured marbles. The prodigality with which the
most splendid and costly materials are lavished here is perfectly
amazing: pillars of lapis-lazuli, columns of Egyptian porphyry, and
pavements of mosaic, altars of alabaster ascended by steps incrusted
with agate and jasper:--but to particularize would be in vain. I will
only mention three or four which I wish to recollect: the Church of
the Madonna della Salute, so called because erected to the Virgin in
gratitude for the deliverance of the city from a pestilence, which she
miraculously drove into the Adriatic. It is remarkable for its
splendid pictures, most of them by Luca Giordano; and the superb high
altar. I think it was the Church of the Gesuata which astonished us
most. The whole of the inside walls and columns are encrusted with
Carrara marble inlaid with verd-antique, in a kind of damask pattern;
over the pulpit it fell like drapery, so easy, so graceful, so
exquisitely imitated, that I was obliged to touch it to assure myself
of the material. Then by way of contrast followed the Church of San
Giorgio Maggiore,--one of Palladio's masterpieces. After the dazzling
and gorgeous buildings we had left, its beautiful simplicity and
correct taste struck me at first with an impression of poverty and
coldness. At the Church of St. John and St. Paul is the famous
martyrdom, or rather assassination, of St. Peter Martyr, by Titian,
one of the most magical pictures in the world. Its tragic horror is
redeemed by its sublimity. Here too is a most admirable series of
bas-reliefs in white marble, representing the history of our Saviour,
the work of a modern sculptor. Here too the Doges are buried; and
close to the Church is the equestrian statue of one of the Falieri
family: near which Marino Faliero met the conspirators.
At the Frati is the grave of Titian: a small square slab covers him,
with this inscription:--
"Qui giace il gran Tiziano Vecelli.
Emulator dei Zeusi e degli Apelli."
there is no monument:--and there needs none.
It was, I think, in the Church of St. John and St. Paul, that I saw a
singular and beautiful altar of black touch-stone, used when mass is
said for the soul of an executed criminal.
This is all I can remember of to-day. I am fatigued, and my head
aches;--my imagination is yet dazzled:--my eyes are tired of admiring,
my mind is tired of thinking, and my heart with feeling.----Now for
repose.
27.--To-day we visited the Manfrini Palace, the Casa Pisani, the
Palazzo Barberigo, and concluded the morning in the colonnade of St.
Mark, and the public gardens. The day has been far less fatiguing than
yesterday: for though we have seen an equal variety of objects, they
forced the attention less, and gratified the imagination more.
At the Manfrini Palace there is the most valuable and splendid
collection of pictures I have yet seen in Italy or elsewhere. I have
no intention of turning my little Diary into a mere catalogue of names
which I can find in every guide-book; but I cannot pass over
Giorgione's beautiful group of himself, and his wife and child, which
Lord Byron calls "love at full length and life, not love ideal," and
it is indeed exquisite. A female with a guitar by the same master is
almost equal to it. There are two Lucretias--one by Guido and one by
Giordano: though both are beautiful, particularly the former, there
was, I thought, an impropriety in the conception of both pictures: the
figure was too voluptuous--too exposed, and did not give me the idea
of the matronly Lucretia, who so carefully arranged her drapery before
she fell. I remember, too, a St. Cecilia by Carlo Dolci, of most
heavenly beauty,--two Correggios--Iphigenia in Aulis, by Padovanino:
in this picture the figure of Agamemnon is a complete failure, but the
lifeless beauty of Iphigenia, a wonderful effort of art: and a hundred
others at least, all masterpieces.
The Barberigo Palace was the school of Titian. We were shown the room
in which he painted, and the picture he left unfinished when he died
at the age of 99. It is a David--as vigorous in the touch and style as
any of his first pictures.
* * * * *
It is now some days since I had time to write; or rather the intervals
of excitement and occupation found me too much exhausted to take up my
pencil. Our stay at Venice has been rendered most agreeable by the
kindness of Mr. H----, the British Consul, and his amiable and
charming wife, and in their society we have spent much of the last few
days.
One of our pleasantest excursions was to the Armenian convent of St.
Lazaro, where we were received by Fra Pasquale, an accomplished and
intelligent monk, and a particular friend of Mr. H----. After we had
visited every part of the convent, the printing press--the
library--the laboratory--which contains several fine mathematical
instruments of English make; and admired the beautiful little tame
gazelle which bounded through the corridors, we were politely
refreshed with most delicious sweetmeats and coffee; and took leave of
Fra Pasquale with regret.
There is no opera at present, but we have visited both the other
theatres. At the San Luca, they gave us "Elizabeth, the Exile of
Siberia," tolerably acted: but there was one trait introduced very
characteristic of the place and people: Elizabeth in a tremendous snow
storm, is pursued by robbers; and finding a crucifix, erected by the
road side, embraces it for protection. The crucifix flies away with
her in a clap of thunder, and sets her down safely at a distance from
her persecutors. The audience appeared equally enchanted and edified
by this scene: some of the women near me crossed themselves, and put
their handkerchiefs to their eyes: the men rose from their seats,
clapped with enthusiasm, and shouted "Bravo! Miracolo!"
At the San Benedetto we were gratified by a deep tragedy entitled
"Gabrielle Innocente," so exquisitely absurd, and so grotesquely
acted, that the best comedy could scarcely have afforded us more
amusement,--certainly not more _merriment_. In the course of the
evening, coffee and ices were served in our box, as is the custom
here.
With Mrs. H---- this evening I had a long and pleasant conversation;
she is really one of the most delightful and unaffected women I ever
met with: and as there is nothing in my melancholy visage and
shrinking reserve to tempt any person to converse with me, I must also
set her down as one of the most good-natured. She talked much of Lord
Byron, with whom, during his residence here she was on intimate terms.
She spoke of him, not conceitedly as one vain of the acquaintance of a
great character; nor with affected reserve, as if afraid of committing
herself--but with openness, animation, and cordial kindness, as one
whom she liked, and had reason to like. She says the style of Lord
Byron's conversation is very much that of Don Juan: just in the same
manner are the familiar, the brilliant, the sublime, the affecting,
the witty, the ludicrous, and the licentious, mingled and contrasted.
Several little anecdotes which she related I need not write down; I
can scarcely forget them, and it would not be quite fair as they were
told _en confiance_. I am no anecdote hunter, picking up articles for
"my pocket book."
* * * * *
A little while ago Captain F. lent me D'Israeli's Essays on the
Literary Character, which had once belonged to Lord Byron; and
contained marginal notes in his hand-writing. One or two of them are
so curiously characteristic that I copy them here.
The first note is on a passage in which D'Israeli, in allusion to Lord
Byron, traces his fondness for oriental scenery to his having read
Rycaut at an early age. On this Lord Byron observes, that he read
_every book_ relating to the east before he was ten years old,
including De Tott and Cantemir as well as Rycaut: at that age, he says
that he _detested_ all poetry, and adds, "when I was in Turkey, I was
oftener tempted to turn mussulman than poet: and have often regretted
since that _I did not_."
At page 99 D'Israeli says,
"The great poetical genius of our times has openly alienated himself
from the land of his brothers" (over the word _brothers_ Lord Byron
has written _Cains_.) "He becomes immortal in the _language_ of a
_people_ whom he would _contemn_, he accepts with ingratitude the fame
he loves more than life, and he is only truly great on that _spot_ of
_earth_, whose genius, when he is no more, will contemplate his shade
in sorrow and in anger."
Lord Byron has underlined several words in this passage, and writes
thus in the margin:
"What was rumoured of me in that language, if _true_, I was unfit for
England; and if _false_, England was unfit for me. But 'there is a
world elsewhere.' I have never for an instant regretted that
country,--but often that I ever returned to it. It is not my fault
that I am obliged to write in English. If I understood any present
language, Italian, for instance, equally well, I would write in
it:--but it will require ten years, at least, to form a style. No
tongue so easy to acquire a little of, and so difficult to master
thoroughly, as Italian."
The next note is amusing; at page 342 is mentioned the anecdote of
Petrarch, who when returning to his native town, was informed that the
proprietor of the house in which he was born had _often_ wished to
make alterations in it, but that the town's-people had risen to insist
that the house consecrated by his birth should remain unchanged;--"a
triumph," adds D'Israeli, "more affecting to Petrarch than even his
coronation at Rome."
Lord Byron has written in the margin--"It would have pained _me_ more
that the proprietor should _often_ have wished to make alterations,
than it would give me pleasure that the rest of Arezzo rose against
his right (for _right_ he had:) the depreciation of the lowest of
mankind is more painful, than the applause of the highest is pleasing.
The sting of the scorpion is more in _torture_ than the possession of
any thing short of Venus would be in rapture."
* * * * *
The public gardens are the work of the French, and occupy the
extremity of one of the islands. They contain the only trees I have
seen at Venice:--a few rows of dwarfish unhappy-looking shrubs,
parched by the sea breezes, and are little frequented. We found here a
solitary gentleman, who was sauntering up and down with his hands in
his pockets, and a look at once stupid and disconsolate. Sometimes he
paused, looked vacantly over the waters, whistled, yawned, and turned
away to resume his solemn walk. On a trifling remark addressed to him
by one of our party, he entered into conversation, with all the
eagerness of a man, whose tongue had long been kept in most unnatural
bondage. He congratulated himself on having met with some one who
would speak English; adding contemptuously, that "he understood none
of the outlandish tongues the people spoke hereabouts:" he inquired
what was to be seen here, for though he had been four days in Venice,
he had spent every day precisely in the same manner; viz. walking up
and down the public gardens. We told him Venice was famous for fine
buildings and pictures; he knew nothing of _them_ things. And that it
contained also, "some fine statues and antiques"--he cared nothing
about them neither--he should set off for Florence the next morning,
and begged to know what was to be seen there? Mr. R----told him, with
enthusiasm, "the most splendid gallery of pictures and statues in the
world!" He looked very blank and disappointed. "Nothing else?" then he
should certainly not waste his time at Florence, he should go direct
to Rome; he had put down the name of that _town_ in his pocket-book,
for he understood it was a very _convenient_ place: he should
therefore stay there a week; thence he should go to Naples, a place he
had also heard of, where he should stay another week: then he should
go to Algiers, where he should stay _three weeks_, and thence to
Tunis, where he expected to be very comfortable, and should probably
make a long stay; thence he should return home, having seen every
thing worth seeing. He scarcely seemed to know how or by what route he
had got to Venice--but he assured us he had come "fast enough;"--he
remembered no place he had passed through except Paris. At Paris he
told us there was a female lodging in the same hotel with himself, who
by his description appears to have been a single lady of rank and
fashion, travelling with her own carriages and a suite of servants. He
had never seen her; but learning through the domestics that she was
travelling the same route, he sat down and wrote her a long letter,
beginning "Dear Madam," and proposing they should join company, "for
the sake of good fellowship, and the _bit of chat_ they might have on
their way." Of course she took no notice of this strange billet, "from
which," added he with ludicrous simplicity, "I supposed she would
rather travel alone."
Truly, "Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time." After this
specimen, sketched from life, who will say there are such things as
caricatures?
* * * * *
We visited to-day the Giant's Staircase and the Bridge of Sighs, and
took a last farewell of St. Mark--we were surprised to see the church
hung with black--the festoons of flowers all removed--masses going
forward at several altars, and crowds of people looking particularly
solemn and devout. It is the "Giorno dei morte," the day by the Roman
Catholics consecrated to the dead. I observed many persons, both men
and women, who wept while they prayed, with every appearance of the
most profound grief. Leaving St. Mark, I crossed the square. On the
three lofty standards in front of the church formerly floated the
ensigns of the three states subjects to Venice,--the Morea, Cyprus,
and Candia: the bare poles remain, but the ensigns of empire are gone.
One of the standards was extended on the ground, and being of immense
length, I hesitated for a moment whether I should make a circuit, but
at last stepped over it. I looked back with remorse, for it was like
trampling over the fallen.
We then returned to our inn to prepare for our departure. How I regret
to leave Venice! not the less because I cannot help it.
_Rovigo, Nov. 3._ We left Venice in a hurry yesterday, slept at Padua,
and travelled this morning through a most lovely country, among the
Enganean hills to Rovigo, where we are very uncomfortably lodged at
the Albergo di San Marco.
I have not yet recovered my regret at leaving Venice so unexpectedly;
though as a residence, I could scarce endure it; the sleepy canals,
the gliding gondolas in their "dusk livery of woe"--the absence of all
verdure, all variety--of all _nature_, in short; the silence,
disturbed only by the incessant chiming of bells--and, worse than all,
the spectacle of a great city "expiring," as Lord Byron says, "before
our eyes," would give me the horrors: but as a visitor, my curiosity
was not half gratified, and I should have liked to have stayed a few
days longer--perhaps after all, I have reason to rejoice that instead
of bringing away from Venice a disagreeable impression of satiety,
disgust and melancholy, I have quitted it with feelings of admiration,
of deep regret, and undiminished interest.
Farewell, then, Venice! I could not have believed it possible that it
would have brought tears to my eyes to leave a place merely for its
own sake, and unendeared by the presence of any one I loved.
As Rovigo affords no other amusement I shall scribble a little longer.
Nothing can be more arbitrary than the Austrian government at Venice.
As a summary method of preventing robberies during the winter months,
when many of the gondoliers and fishermen are out of employ, the
police have orders to arrest, without ceremony, every person who has
no permanent trade or profession, and keep them in confinement and to
hard labour till the return of spring.
The commerce of Venice has so much and so rapidly declined, that Mr.
H---- told us when first he was appointed to the consulship, a hundred
and fifty English vessels cleared the port, and this year only five.
It should seem that Austria, from a cruel and selfish policy, is
sacrificing Venice to the prosperity of Trieste: but why do I call
that a cruel policy, which on recollection I might rather term
poetical and retributive justice?
The grandeur of Venice arose first from its trade in salt. I remember
reading in history, that when the king of Hungary opened certain
productive salt mines in his dominions, the Venetians sent him a
peremptory order to shut them up; and such was the power of the
Republic at that time, that he was forced to obey this insolent
command, to the great injury and impoverishment of his states. The
tables are now turned; the oppressor has become the oppressed.
The principal revenue derived from Venice is from the tax on houses,
there being no _land tax_. So rapid was the decay of the place, that
in two years seventy houses and palaces were pulled down; the
government forbade this by a special law, and now taxes are paid for
many houses whose proprietors are too poor to live in them.
There is no _society_, properly so called, at Venice; three old women
of rank receive company now and then, and it is any thing rather than
select.
Mr. F. told us at Venice, that on entering the states subject to
Austria, he had his Johnson's Dictionary taken from him, and could
never recover it; so jealous is the government of English principles
and English literature, that _all_ English books are prohibited until
examined by the police.
The whole country from Milan to Padua was like a vast garden, nothing
could exceed its fertility and beauty. It was the latter end of the
vintage; and we frequently met huge tub-like waggons loaded with
purple grapes, reeling home from the vineyards, and driven by men
whose legs were stained with treading in the wine-press--now and then,
rich clusters were shaken to the ground, as I have seen wisps of straw
fall from a hay-cart in England, and were regarded with equal
indifference. Sometimes we saw in the vineyards by the road-side,
groups of labourers seated among the branches of the trees, and
plucking grapes from the vines, which were trailed gracefully from
tree to tree and from branch to branch, and drooped with their
luxurious burthen of fruit. The scene would have been as perfectly
delightful, as it was new and beautiful, but for the squalid looks of
the peasantry; more especially of the women. The principal productions
of the country seem to be wine and silk. There were vast groves of
mulberry-trees between Verona and Padua; and we visited some of the
silk-mills, in which the united strength of men invariably performed
those operations which in England are accomplished by steam or water.
I saw in a huge horizontal wheel, about a dozen of these poor
creatures labouring so hard, that my very heart ached to see them, and
I begged that the machine might be stopped that I might speak to
them:--but when it _Was_ stopped, and I beheld their half savage, half
stupified, I had almost said _brutified_ countenances, I could not
utter a single word--but gave them something, and turned away.
"Compassion is wasted upon such creatures," said R----; "do you not
see that their minds are degraded down to their condition? they do not
pity themselves:"--but therefore did I pity them the more.
* * * * *
_Bologna, Nov. 5._--I fear I shall retain a disagreeable impression of
Bologna, for here I am again ill. I have seen little of what the town
contains of beautiful and curious: and that little, under unpleasant
and painful circumstances.
Yesterday we passed through Ferrara; only stopping to change horses
and dine. We snatched a moment to visit the hospital of St. Anna and
the prison of Tasso--the glory and disgrace of Ferrara. Over the iron
gate is written "Ingresso alia prigione di Torquato Tasso." The cell
itself is miserably gloomy and wretched, and not above twelve feet
square. How amply has posterity avenged the cause of the poet on his
tyrant!--and as we emerge from his obscure dungeon and descend the
steps of the hospital of St. Anna, with what fervent hatred,
indignation, and scorn, do we gaze upon the towers of the ugly red
brick palace, or rather fortress, which deforms the great square, and
where Alphonso feasted while Tasso wept! The inscription on the door
of the cell, calling on strangers to venerate the spot where Tasso,
"Infermo più di tristezza che delirio," was confined seven years and
one month--was placed there by the French, and its accuracy may be
doubted; as far as I can recollect. The grass growing in the wide
streets of Ferrara is no poetical exaggeration; I saw it rank and long
even on the thresholds of the deserted houses, whose sashless windows,
and flapping doors, and roofless walls, looked strangely desolate.
I will say nothing of Bologna;--for the few days I have spent here
have been to me days of acute suffering, in more ways than I wish to
remember, and therefore dare not dwell upon.
_At Covigliajo in the Apennines._--O for the pencil of Salvator, or
the pen of a Radcliffe! But could either, or could both united, give
to my mind the scenes of to-day, in all their splendid combinations of
beauty and brightness, gloom and grandeur? A picture may present to
the eye a small portion of the boundless whole--one aspect of the
every-varying face of nature; and words, how weak are they!--they are
but the elements out of which the quick imagination frames and
composes lovely landscapes, according to its power or its peculiar
character; and in which the unimaginative man finds only a mere chaos
of verbiage, without form, and void.
The scenery of the Apennines is altogether different in character from
that of the Alps: it is less bold, less lofty, less abrupt and
terrific--but more beautiful, more luxuriant, and infinitely more
varied. At one time, the road wound among precipices and crags,
crowned with dismantled fortresses and ruined castles--skirted with
dark pine forests--and opening into wild recesses of gloom, and
immeasurable depths like those of Tartarus profound; then came such
glimpses of paradise! such soft sunny valleys and peaceful
hamlets--and vine-clad eminences and rich pastures, with here and
there a convent half hidden by groves of cypress and cedars. As we
ascended we arrived at a height from which, looking back, we could see
the whole of Lombardy spread at our feet; a vast, glittering,
indistinct landscape, bounded on the north by the summits of the Alps,
just apparent above the horizon, like a range of small silvery clouds;
and on the east a long unbroken line of bluish light marked the far
distant Adriatic; as the day declined, and we continued our ascent
(occasionally assisted by a yoke of oxen where the acclivity was very
precipitate), the mountains closed around us, the scenery became more
wildly romantic, barren, and bleak. At length, after passing the
crater of a volcano, visible through the gloom by its dull red light,
we arrived at the Inn of Covigliajo, an uncouth dreary edifice,
situated in a lonely and desolate spot, some miles from any other
habitation. This is the very inn, infamous for a series of the most
horrible assassinations, committed here some years ago. Travellers
arrived, departed, disappeared, and were never heard of more; by what
agency, or in what manner disposed of, could not be discovered. It was
supposed for some time that a horde of banditti were harboured among
the mountains, and the police were for a long time in active search
for them, while the real miscreants remained unsuspected for their
seeming insignificance and helplessness; these were the mistress of
the inn, the camerière, and the curate of the nearest village, about
two leagues off. They secretly murdered every traveller who was
supposed to carry property--buried or burned their clothes, packages,
and vehicles, retaining nothing but their watches, jewels, and money.
The whole story, with all its horrors, the manner of discovery, and
the fate of these wretches, is told, I think, by Forsyth, who can
hardly be suspected of romance or exaggeration. I have him not with me
to refer to; but I well remember the mysterious and shuddering dread
with which I read the anecdote. I am glad no one else seems to
recollect it. The inn at present contains many more than it can
possibly accommodate. We have secured the best rooms, or rather the
_only_ rooms--and besides ourselves and other foreigners, there are
numbers of native travellers: some of whom arrived on horseback, and
others with the Vetturini. A kind of gallery or corridor separates the
sleeping rooms, and is divided by a curtain into two parts: the
smaller is appropriated to us, as a saloon: the other half, as I
contemplate it at this moment through a rent in the curtain, presents
a singular and truly Italian spectacle--a huge black iron lamp,
suspended by a chain from the rafters, throws a flaring and shifting
light around. Some trusses of hay have been shaken down upon the
floor, to supply the place of beds, chairs, and tables; and there,
reclining in various attitudes, I see a number of dark looking
figures, some eating and drinking, some sleeping; some playing at
cards, some telling stories with all the Italian variety of
gesticulation and intonation; some silently looking on, or listening.
Two or three common looking fellows began to smoke their segars, but
when it was suggested that this might incommode the ladies on the
other side of the curtain, they with genuine politeness ceased
directly. Through this motley and picturesque assemblage I have to
make my way to my bed-room in a few minutes--I will take another look
at them, and then--andiamo!
_Florence, Nov. 8._--"La bellisema e famosissima figlia di Roma," as
Dante calls her in some relenting moment. Last night we slept in a
blood-stained hovel--and to-night we are lodged in a palace. So much
for the vicissitudes of travelling.
I am not subject to idle fears, and least of all to superstitious
fears--but last night, at Covigliajo, I could not sleep--I could not
even lie down for more than a few minutes together. The whispered
voices and hard breathing of the men who slept in the corridor, from
whom only a slight door divided me, disturbed and fevered my nerves;
horrible imaginings were all around me: and gladly did I throw open my
window at the first glimpse of the dawn, and gladly did I hear the
first well-known voice which summoned me to a hasty breakfast. How
reviving was the breath of the early morning, after leaving that
close, suffocating, ill-omened inn! how beautiful the blush of light
stealing downwards from the illumined summits to the valleys, tinting
the fleecy mists, as they rose from the earth, till all the landscape
was flooded with sunshine: and when at length we passed the mountains,
and began to descend into the rich vales of Tuscany--when from the
heights above Fesole we beheld the city of Florence, and above it the
young moon and the evening star suspended side by side; and floating
over the whole of the Val d'Arno, and the lovely hills which enclose
it, a mist, or rather a suffusion of the richest rose colour, which
gradually, as the day declined, faded, or rather deepened into purple;
then I first understood all the enchantment of an Italian
landscape.--O what a country is this! All that I see, I _feel_--all
that I _feel_, sinks so deep into my heart and my memory! the deeper
because I suffer--and because I never think of expressing, or sharing,
one emotion with those around me, but lock it up in my own bosom; or
at least in my little book--as I do now.
_Nov. 10._--We visited the gallery for the first time yesterday
morning; and I came away with my eyes and imagination so dazzled with
excellence, and so distracted with variety, that I retained no
distinct recollection of any particular object except the Venus; which
of course was the first and great attraction. This morning was much
more delightful; my powers of discrimination returned, and my power of
enjoyment was not diminished. New perceptions of beauty and excellence
seemed to open upon my mind; and faculties long dormant, were roused
to pleasurable activity.
I came away untired, unsated; and with a delightful and distinct
impression of all I had seen. I leave to catalogues to particularise;
and am content to admire and to remember.
I am glad I was not disappointed in the Venus which I half expected.
Neither was I surprised: but I felt while I gazed a sense of unalloyed
and unmingled pleasure, and forgot the cant of criticism. It has the
same effect to the eye, that perfect harmony has upon the ear: and I
think I can understand why no copy, cast, or model, however accurate,
however exquisite, can convey the impression of tenderness and
sweetness, the divine and peculiar charm of the original.
After dinner we walked in the grounds of the Cascine,--a dairy farm
belonging to the grand Duke, just without the gates of Florence. The
promenade lies along the bank of the river, and is sheltered and
beautiful. We saw few native Italians, but great numbers of English
walking and riding. The day was as warm, as sunny, as brilliant as the
first days of September in England.
To-night, after resting a little, I went out to view the effect of the
city and surrounding scenery, by moonlight. It is not alone the
brilliant purity of the skies and atmosphere, nor the peculiar
character of the scenery which strikes a stranger; but here art
harmonizes with nature: the style of the buildings, their flat
projecting roofs, white walls, balconies, colonnades and statues, are
all set off to advantage by the radiance of an Italian moon.
I walked across the first bridge, from which I had a fine view of the
Ponte della Trinità, with its graceful arches and light balustrade,
touched with the sparkling moonbeams and relieved by dark shadow: then
I strolled along the quay in front of the Corsini palace, and beyond
the colonnade of the Uffizi, to the last of the four bridges; on the
middle of which I stood and looked back upon the city--(how justly
styled the Fair!)--with all its buildings, its domes, its steeples,
its bridges, and woody hills and glittering convents, and marble
villas, peeping from embowering olives and cypresses; and far off the
snowy peaks of the Apennines, shining against the dark purple sky: the
whole blended together in one delicious scene of shadowy splendour.
After contemplating it with a kind of melancholy delight, long enough
to get it by heart, I returned homewards. Men were standing on the
wall along the Arno, in various picturesque attitudes, fishing, after
the Italian fashion, with singular nets suspended to long poles; and
as I saw their dark figures between me and the moonlight, and elevated
above my eye, they looked like colossal statues. I then strayed into
the Piazza del Gran Duca. Here the rich moonlight, streaming through
the arcade of the gallery, fell directly upon the fine Perseus of
Benvenuto Cellini; and illuminating the green bronze, touched it with
a spectral and supernatural beauty. Thence I walked round the
equestrian statue of Cosmo, and so home over the Ponte Alla Carrajo.
_Nov. 11._--I spent about two hours in the gallery, and for the first
time saw the Niobe. This statue has been for a long time a favourite
of my imagination, and I approached it, treading softly and slowly,
and with a feeling of reverence; for I had an impression that the
original Niobe would, like the original Venus, surpass all the casts
and copies I had seen both in beauty and expression: but apparently
expression is more easily caught than delicacy and grace, and the
grandeur and pathos of the attitude and grouping easily copied--for I
think the best casts of the Niobe are accurate counterparts of the
original; and at the first glance I was capriciously disappointed,
because the statue did not _surpass_ my expectations. It should be
contemplated from a distance. It is supposed that the whole group once
ornamented the pediment of a temple--probably the temple of Diana or
Latona. I once saw a beautiful drawing by Mr. Cockerell, of the manner
in which he supposed the whole group was distributed. Many of the
figures are rough and unfinished at the back, as if they had been
placed on a height, and viewed only in front.
In the same room with the Niobe is a head which struck me more--the
_Alexandre mourant_. The title seemed to me misapplied; for there is
something indignant and upbraiding, as well as mournful, in the
expression of this magnificent head. It is undoubtedly Alexander--but
Alexander reproaching the gods--or calling upon Heaven for new worlds
to conquer.
I visited also the gallery of Bronzes: it contains, among other
master-pieces, the aërial Mercury of John of Bologna, of which we see
such a multiplicity of copies. There is a conceit in perching him upon
the bluff cheeks of a little Eolus: but what exquisite lightness in
the figure!--how it mounts, how it floats, disdaining the earth! On
leaving the gallery, I sauntered about; visited some churches, and
then returned home depressed and wearied: and in this melancholy
humour I had better close my book, lest I be tempted to write what I
could not bear to see written.
_Sunday._--At the English ambassador's chapel. To attend public
worship among our own countrymen, and hear the praises of God in our
native accents, in a strange land, among a strange people; where a
different language, different manners, and a different religion
prevail, affects the mind, or at least ought to affect it;--and deeply
too: yet I cannot say that I felt devout this morning. The last day I
visited St. Mark's, when I knelt down beside the poor weeping girl and
her dove-basket, my heart was touched, and my prayers, I humbly trust,
were not unheard: to-day, in that hot close crowded room, among those
fine people flaunting in all the luxury of dress, I felt suffocated,
feverish, and my head ached--the clergyman too----
* * * * *
Samuel Rogers paid us a long visit this morning. He does not look as
if the suns of Italy had _revivified_ him--but he is as _amiable_ and
amusing as ever. He talked long, _et avec beaucoup d'onction_, of
ortolans and figs; till methought it was the very poetry of epicurism;
and put me in mind of his own suppers--
"Where blushing fruits through scatter'd leaves invite,
Still clad in bloom and veiled in azure light.
The wine as rich in years as Horace sings;"
and the rest of his description, worthy of a poetical Apicius.
Rogers may be seen every day about eleven or twelve in the Tribune,
seated opposite to the Venus, which appears to be the exclusive object
of his adoration; and gazing, as if he hoped, like another Pygmalion,
to animate the statue; or rather perhaps that the statue might animate
_him_. A young Englishman of fashion, with as much talent as
espieglerie, placed an epistle in verse between the fingers of the
statue, addressed to Rogers; in which the goddess entreats him not to
come there _ogling_ every day;--for though "partial friends might deem
him still alive," she knew by his looks that he had come from the
other side of the Styx; and retained her _antique_ abhorrence of the
spectral dead, etc. etc. She concluded by beseeching him, if he could
not desist from haunting her with his _ghostly_ presence, at least to
spare her the added misfortune of being be-rhymed by his muse.
Rogers, with equal good nature and good sense, neither noticed these
lines nor withdrew his friendship and intimacy from the writer.
* * * * *
Carlo Dolce is not one of my favourite masters. There is a cloying
sweetness in his style, a general want of power which wearies me: yet
I brought away from the Corsini Palace to-day an impression of a head
by Carlo Dolce (La Poesia), which I shall never forget. Now I recall
the picture, I am at a loss to tell where lies the charm which has
thus powerfully seized on my imagination. Here are no "eyes upturned
like one inspired"--no distortion--no rapt enthusiasm--no Muse full of
the God;--but it is a head so purely, so divinely intellectual, so
heavenly sweet, and yet so penetrating,--so full of sensibility, and
yet so unstained by earthly passion--so brilliant, and yet so
calm--that if Carlo Dolce had lived in our days, I should have thought
he intended it for the personified genius of Wordsworth's poetry.
There is such an individual reality about this beautiful head, that I
am inclined to believe the tradition, that it is the portrait of one
of Carlo Dolce's daughters who died young:--and yet
"Did ever mortal mixture of earth's mould
Breathe such divine, enchanting ravishment?"
* * * * *
_Nov. 15._--Our stay at Florence promises to be far gayer than either
Milan or Venice, or even Paris; more diversified by society, as well
as affording a wider field of occupation and amusement.
Sometimes in the long evenings, when fatigued and over-excited, I
recline apart on the sofa, or bury myself in the recesses of a
_fauteuil_; when I am aware that my mind is wandering away to
forbidden themes, I force my attention to what is going forward; and
often see and hear much that is entertaining, if not improving. People
are so accustomed to my pale face, languid indifference and, what
M---- calls, my _impracticable_ silence, that after the first glance
and introduction, I believe they are scarcely sensible of my presence:
so I sit, and look, and listen, secure and harboured in my apparent
dullness. The flashes of wit, the attempts at sentiment, the
affectation of enthusiasm, the absurdities of folly, and the blunders
of ignorance; the contrast of characters and the clash of opinions,
the scandalous anecdotes of the day, related with sprightly malice,
and listened to with equally malicious avidity,--all these, in my days
of health and happiness, had power to surprise, or amuse, or provoke
me. I could mingle _then_ in the conflict of minds; and hear my part
with smiles in the social circle; though the next moment, perhaps, I
might contemn myself and others: and the personal scandal, the
characteristic tale, the amusing folly, or the malignant wit, were
effaced from my mind--
----"Like forms with chalk
Painted on rich men's floors for one feast night."
Now it is different: I can smile yet, but my smile is in pity, rather
than in mockery. If suffering has subdued my mind to seriousness, and
perhaps enfeebled its powers, I may at least hope that it has not
soured or imbittered my temper:--if what could once _amuse_, no longer
amuses,--what could once _provoke_ has no longer power to irritate:
thus my loss may be improved into a gain--_car tout est bien, quand
tout est mal_.
It is sorrow which makes our experience; it is sorrow which teaches us
to feel properly for ourselves and for others. We must feel deeply,
before we can think rightly. It is not in the tempest and storm of
passions we can reflect,--but afterwards when _the waters have gone
over our soul_; and like the precious gems and the rich merchandize
which the wild wave casts on the shore out of the wreck it has
made--such are the thoughts left by retiring passions.
Reflection is the result of feeling; from that absorbing,
heart-rending compassion for oneself (the most painful sensation,
_almost_, of which our nature is capable), springs a deeper sympathy
for others; and from the sense of our own weakness, and our own
self-upbraiding, arises a disposition to be indulgent--to forbear--and
to forgive--so at least it ought to be. When once we have shed those
inexpressibly bitter tears, which fall unregarded, and which we forget
to wipe away, O how we shrink from inflicting pain! how we shudder at
unkindness!--and think all harshness even in thought, only another
name for cruelty! These are but common-place truths, I know, which
have often been a thousand times better expressed. Formerly I heard
them, read them, and thought I believed them: now I feel them; and
feeling, I utter them as if they were something new.--Alas! the
lessons of sorrow are as old as the world itself.
To-day we have seen nothing new. In the morning I was ill: in the
afternoon we drove to the Cascina; and while the rest walked, I spread
my shawl upon the bank and basked like a lizard in the sunshine. It
was a most lovely day, a summer-day in England. In this paradise of a
country, the common air, and earth, and skies, seem happiness enough.
While I sat to-day, on my green bank--languid, indeed, but free from
pain--and looked round upon a scene which has lost its novelty, but
none of its beauty,--where Florence, with its glittering domes and its
back-ground of sunny hills, terminated my view on one side, and the
Apennines, tinted with rose colour and gold, bounded it on the other,
I felt not only pleasure, but a deep thankfulness that such pleasures
were yet left to me.
Among the gay figures who passed and repassed before me, I remarked a
benevolent but rather heavy-looking old gentleman, with a shawl
hanging over his arm, and holding a parasol, with which he was
gallantly shading a little plain old woman from the November sun.
After them walked two young ladies, simply dressed; and then followed
a tall and very handsome young man, with a plain but elegant girl
hanging on his arm. This was the Grand Duke and his family; with the
Prince of Carignano, who has lately married one of his daughters. Two
servants in plain drab liveries, followed at a considerable distance.
People politely drew on one side as they approached; but no other
homage was paid to the sovereign, who thus takes his walk in public
almost every day. Lady Morgan is merry at the expense of the Grand
Duke's taste for brick and mortar: but monarchs, like other men, must
have their amusements; some invent uniforms, some stitch
embroidery;--and why should not this good-natured Grand Duke amuse
himself with his trowel if he likes it? As to the Prince of Carignano,
I give him up to her lash--_le traître_--but perhaps he thought he was
doing right: and at all events there are not flatterers wanting, to
call his perfidy patriotism.
* * * * *
I am told that Florence retains its reputation of being the most
devout capital in Italy, and that here love, music, and devotion hold
divided empire, or rather are _tria juncta in uno_. The liberal
patronage and taste of Lord Burghersh, contribute perhaps to make
music so much a _passion_ as it is at present. Magnelli, the Grand
Duke's Maestra di Cappella, and director of the Conservatorio, is the
finest tenor in Italy. I have the pleasure of hearing him frequently,
and think the purity of his taste at least equal to the perfection of
his voice; rare praise for a singer in these "most brisk and
giddy-paced times." He gave us last night the beautiful recitative
which introduces Desdemona's song in Othello--
"Nessun maggior dolore,
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice
Nella miseria!"
and the words, the music, and the divine pathos of the man's voice
combined, made me feel--as I thought I never could have felt again.