I would not that the world should know,
How deep within my panting heart
A thousand warmer feelings glow,
Than word or look could e'er impart.
I would not that the world should guess
At aught beyond this outward show;
What happy dreams in secret bless--
What burning tears in secret flow.
And let them deem me cold or vain;
--O there is one who thinks not so!
In one devoted heart I reign,
And what is all the rest below?
9.--We have had two days of truly English weather; cold, damp, and
gloomy, with storms of wind and rain. I know not why, but there is
something peculiarly deforming and discordant in bad weather here; and
we are all rather stupid and depressed. To me, sunshine and warmth are
substitutes for health and spirits; and their absence inflicts
positive suffering. There is not a single room in our palazzetto which
is weather-proof; and as to a good fire, it is a luxury unknown, but
not unnecessary, in these regions. In such apartments as contain no
fire-place, a stufa, or portable stove, is set, which diffuses little
warmth, and renders the air insupportably close and suffocating.
I witnessed a scene last night, which was a good illustration of that
extraordinary indolence for which the Romans are remarkable. Our
laquais Camillo suffered himself to be turned off, rather than put
wood on the fire three times a-day; he would rather, he said, "starve
in the streets than break his back by carrying burdens like an ass;
and though he was miserable to displease the Onoratissimo Padrone, his
first _duty_ was to take care of his own health, which, with the
blessing of the saints, he was determined to do." R---- threw him his
wages, repeating with great contempt the only word of his long speech
he understood, "_Asino!_" "Sono Romano, io," replied the fellow,
drawing himself up with dignity. He look his wages, however, and
marched out of the house.
The impertinence of this Camillo was sometimes amusing, but oftener
provoking. He piqued himself on being a profound antiquarian, would
confute Nibby, and carried Nardini in his pocket, to whom he referred
on all occasions: yet the other day he had the impudence to assure us
that Caius Cestus was an English Protestant, who was excommunicated by
Pope Julius Cæsar; and took his Nardini out of his pocket to prove his
assertion.
V---- brought me to-day the "Souvenirs de Félicie," of Madame de
Genlis, which amused me delightfully for a few hours. They contain
many truths, many half or whole falsehoods, many impertinent things,
and several very interesting anecdotes. They are written with all the
graceful simplicity of style, and in that tone of lady-like feeling
which distinguishes whatever she writes: but it is clear that though
she represents these "Souvenirs" as mere extracts from her journal,
they have been carefully composed or re-composed for publication, and
were always intended to be seen. Now if my poor little Diary should
ever be seen! I tremble but to think of it!--what egotism and vanity,
what discontent--repining--caprice--should I be accused of?--neither
perhaps have I always been just to others; _quand on sent, on
réfléchit rarement_. Such strange vicissitudes of temper--such
opposite extremes of thinking and feeling, written down at the moment,
without noticing the intervening links of circumstances and
impressions which led to them, would appear like detraction, if they
should meet the eye of any indifferent person--but I think I have
taken sufficient precautions against the possibility of such an
exposure, and the only eyes which will ever glance over this blotted
page, when the hand that writes it is cold, will read, not to
_criticise_, but to _sympathise_.
10.--A lovely brilliant day, the sky without a cloud and the air as
soft as summer. The carriages were ordered immediately after
breakfast, and we sallied forth in high spirits--resolved as L** said,
with his usual felicitous application of Shakspeare,
"To take the tide in the affairs of men."
The baths of Titus are on the Æsquiline; and nothing remains of them
but piles of brickwork, and a few subterranean chambers almost choked
with rubbish. Some fragments of exquisite arabesque painting are
visible on the ceilings and walls; and the gilding and colours are
still fresh and bright. The brickwork is perfectly solid and firm, and
appeared as if finished yesterday. On the whole the impression on my
mind was, that not the slow and gentle hand of time, but sudden rapine
and violence had caused the devastation around us; and looking into
Nardini on my return, I found that the baths of Titus were nearly
entire in the thirteenth century, but were demolished with great
labour and difficulty by the ferocious Senator Brancaleone, who, about
the year 1257, destroyed an infinite number of ancient edifices, "per
togliere ai Nobili il modo di fortificarsi." The ruins were excavated
during the pontificate of Julius the Second, and under the direction
of Raffaelle, who is supposed to have taken the idea of the arabesques
in the Loggie of the Vatican, from the paintings here. We were shown
the niche in which the Laocoon stood, when it was discovered in 1502.
After leaving the baths, we entered the neighbouring church of San
Pietro in Vincoli, to look again at the beautiful fluted Doric columns
which once adorned the splendid edifice of Titus: and on this occasion
we were shown the chest in which the fetters of St. Peter are
preserved in a triple enclosure of iron, wood, and silver. My
unreasonable curiosity not being satisfied by looking at the mere
outside of this sacred coffer, I turned to the monk who exhibited it,
and civilly requested that he would open it, and show us the
miraculous treasure it contained. The poor man looked absolutely
astounded and aghast at the audacity of my request, and stammered out,
that the coffer was never opened, without a written order from his
holiness the pope, and in the presence of a cardinal, and, that this
favour was never granted to a heretic (con rispetto parlando); and
with this excuse we were obliged to be satisfied.
The church of San Martino del Monte is built on part of the
substructure of the baths of Titus; and there is a door opening from
the church, by which you descend into the ancient subterranean vaults.
The small, but exquisite pillars, and the pavement, which is of the
richest marbles, were brought from the Villa of Adrian at Tivoli. The
walls were painted in fresco by Nicolo and Gaspar Poussin, and were
once a celebrated study for young landscape painters; almost every
vestige of colouring is now obliterated by the damp which streams down
the walls. There are some excellent modern pictures in good
preservation, I think by Carluccio. This church, though not large, is
one of the most magnificent we have yet seen, and the most precious
materials are lavished in profusion on every part. The body of
Cardinal Tomasi is preserved here, embalmed in a glass case. It is
exhibited conspicuously, and in my life I never saw (or smelt)
anything so abominable and disgusting.
The rest of the morning was spent in the Vatican.
I stood to-day for some time between those two great masterpieces, the
Transfiguration of Raffaelle, and Domenichino's Communion of St.
Jerome. I studied them, I examined them figure by figure, and then in
the ensemble, and mused upon the different effects they produce, and
were designed to produce, until I thought I could decide to my own
satisfaction on their respective merits. I am not ignorant that the
Transfiguration is pronounced the "grandest picture in the world," nor
so insensible to excellence as to regard this glorious composition
without all the admiration due to it. I am dazzled by the flood of
light which bursts from the opening heavens above, and affected by the
dramatic interest of the group below. What splendour of colour! What
variety of expression! What masterly grouping of the heads! I see all
this--but to me Raffaelle's picture wants unity of interest: it is two
pictures in one: the demoniac boy in the foreground always shocks me;
and thus from my peculiarity of taste the pleasure it gives me is not
so perfect as it ought to be.
On the other hand, I never can turn to the Domenichino without being
thrilled with emotion, and touched with awe. The story is told with
the most admirable skill, and with the most exquisite truth and
simplicity: the interest is one and the same; it all centres in the
person of the expiring saint; and the calm benignity of the
officiating priest is finely contrasted with the countenances of the
group who support the dying form of St. Jerome: anxious tenderness,
grief, hope, and fear, are expressed with such deep pathos and
reality, that the spectator forgets admiration in sympathy; and I have
gazed, till I could almost have fancied myself one of the assistants.
The colouring is as admirable as the composition--gorgeously rich in
effect, but subdued to a tone which harmonizes with the solemnity of
the subject.
There is a curious anecdote connected with this picture, which I wish
I had noted down at length as it was related to me, and at the time I
heard it: it is briefly this. The picture was painted by Domenichino
for the church of San Girolamo della Carità. At that time the factions
between the different schools of painting ran so high at Rome, that
the followers of Domenichino and Guido absolutely stabbed and poisoned
each other; and the popular prejudice being in favour of the latter,
the Communion of St. Jerome was torn down from its place, and flung
into a lumber garret. Some time afterwards, the superiors of the
convent wishing to substitute a new altar-piece, commissioned Nicolo
Poussin to execute it; and sent him Domenichino's rejected picture as
old canvas to paint upon. No sooner had the generous Poussin cast his
eyes on it, than he was struck, as well he might be, with astonishment
and admiration. He immediately carried it into the church, and there
lectured in public on its beauties, until he made the stupid monks
ashamed of their blind rejection of such a masterpiece, and boldly
gave it that character it has ever since retained, of being the second
best picture in the world.
* * * * *
11.--A party of four, including L** and myself, ascended the dome of
St. Peter's; and even mounted into the gilt ball. It was a most
fatiguing expedition, and one I have since repented. I gained,
however, a more perfect, and a more sublime idea of the architectural
wonders of St. Peter's, than I had before; and I was equally pleased
and surprised by the exquisite neatness and cleanliness of every part
of the building. We drove from St. Peter's to the church of St.
Onofrio, to visit the tomb of Tasso. A plain slab marks the spot,
which requires nothing but his name to distinguish it. "After life's
fitful fever he sleeps well." The poet Guidi lies in a little chapel
close by; and his effigy is so placed that the eyes appear fixed upon
the tomb of Tasso.
In the church of Santa Maria Trastevere (which is held in peculiar
reverence by the Tresteverini), there is nothing remarkable, except
that like many others in Rome, it is rich in the spoils of antique
splendour: afterwards to the palazzo Farneze and the Farnesina, to see
the frescos of Raffaelle, Giulio Romano, and the Caraccis, which have
long been rendered familiar to me in copies and engravings.
12.--I did penance at home for the fatigue of the day before, and
to-day (the 13th) I took a delightful drive of several hours attended
only by Saccia. Having examined at different times, and in detail,
most of the interesting objects within the compass of the ancient
city, I wished to generalize what I had seen, by a kind of _survey_ of
the whole. For this purpose, making the Capitol a central point, I
drove first slowly through the Forum, and made the circuit of the
Palatine Hill, then by the arch of Janus (which by a late decision of
the antiquarians, has no more to do with Janus than with Jupiter), and
the temple of Vesta, back again over the site of the Circus Maximus,
between the Palatine and the Aventine (the scene of the Rape of the
Sabines), to the baths of Caracalla, where I spent an hour, musing,
sketching, and poetizing; thence to the church of San Stefano Rotundo,
once a temple dedicated to Claudius by Agrippina; over the Celian
Hill, covered with masses of ruins, to the church of St. John and St.
Paul, a small but beautiful edifice; then to the neighbouring church
of San Gregorio, from the steps of which there is such a noble view.
Thence I returned by the arch of Constantine, and the Coliseum, which
frowned on me in black masses through the soft but deepening twilight,
through the street now called the Suburra, but formerly the Via
Scelerata, where Tullia trampled over the dead body of her father, and
so over the Quirinal home.
My excursion was altogether delightful, and gave me the most
magnificent, and I had almost said, the most _bewildering_ ideas of
the grandeur and extent of ancient Rome. Every step was classic
ground: illustrious names, and splendid recollections crowded upon the
fancy--
"And trailing clouds of glory did they come."
On the Palatine Hill were the houses of Cicero and the Gracchi;
Horace, Virgil, and Ovid resided on the Aventine; and Mecænas and
Pliny on the Æsquiline. If one little fragment of a wall remained,
which could with any shadow of probability be pointed out as belonging
to the residence of Cicero, Horace, or Virgil, how much dearer, how
much more sanctified to memory would it be than all the magnificent
ruins of the fabrics of the Cæsars! But no--all has passed away. I
have heard the remains of Rome coarsely ridiculed, because, after the
researches of centuries, so little is comparatively known--because of
the endless disputes of antiquarians, and the night and ignorance in
which all is involved; but to the imagination there is something
singularly striking in this mysterious veil which hangs like a cloud
upon the objects around us. I trod to-day over the shapeless masses of
building, extending in every direction as far as the eye could reach.
Who had inhabited the edifices I trampled under my feet? What hearts
had burned--what heads had thought--what spirits had kindled _there_,
where nothing was seen but a wilderness and waste, and heaps of ruins,
to which antiquaries--even Nibby himself--dare not give a name? All
swept away--buried beneath an ocean of oblivion, above which rise a
few great and glorious names, like rocks, over which the billows of
time break in vain.
"Indi esclamo, qual' notte atra, importuua
Tutte l'ampie tue glorie a un tratto amorza?
Glorie di senno, di valor, di forza
Gia mille avesti, or non hai pur una!"
* * * * *
One of the most striking scenes I saw to-day was the Roman forum,
crowded with the common people gaily dressed (it is a festa or saint's
day); the women sitting in groups upon the fallen columns, nursing or
amusing their children. The men were playing at mora, or at a game
like quoits. Under the vast side of the Palatine Hill, on the side of
the Circus Maximus, I met a woman mounted on an ass, habited in a most
beautiful and singular holiday costume, a man walked by her side,
leading the animal she rode, with lover-like watchfulness. He was _en
veste_, and I observed that his cloak was thrown over the back of the
ass as a substitute for a saddle. Two men followed behind with their
long capotes hanging from their shoulders, and carrying guitars, which
they struck from time to time, singing as they walked along. A little
in advance there is a small chapel, and Madona. A young girl
approached, and laying a bouquet of flowers before the image, she
knelt down, hid her face in her apron, and wrung her hands from time
to time as if she was praying with fervor. When the group I have just
mentioned came up, they left the pathway, and made a circuit of many
yards to avoid disturbing her, the men taking off their hats, and the
woman inclining her head, in sign of respect, as they passed.
All this sounds, while I soberly write it down, very sentimental, and
picturesque, and poetical. It was exactly what I saw--what I often
see: such is the place, the scenery, the people. Every group is a
picture, the commonest object has some interest attached to it, the
commonest action is dignified by sentiment, the language around us is
music, and the air we breathe is poetry.
Just as I was writing the word _music_, the sounds of a guitar
attracted me to the window, which looks into a narrow back street, and
is exactly opposite a small white house belonging to a vetturino, who
has a very pretty daughter. For her this serenade was evidently
intended; for the moment the music began, she placed a light in the
window as a signal that she listened propitiously, and then retired.
The group below consisted of two men, the lover and a musician he had
brought with him: the former stood looking up at the window with his
hat off, and the musician, after singing two very beautiful airs,
concluded with the delicious and popular Arietta "Buona notte, amato
bene!" to which the lover _whistled_ a second, in such perfect tune,
and with such exquisite taste, that I was enchanted. Rome is famous
for serenades and serenaders; but at this season they are seldom
heard. I remember at Venice being wakened in the dead of the night by
such delicious music, that (to use a hyperbole common in the mouths
of this poetical people) I was "transported to the seventh heaven:"
before I could perfectly recollect myself, the music ceased, the
inhabitants of the neighbouring houses threw open their casements, and
vehemently and enthusiastically applauded, clapping their hands, and
shouting bravos: but neither at Venice, at Padua, nor at Florence did
I hear any thing that pleased and touched me so much as the serenade
to which I have just been listening.
* * * * *
14.--To-day was quite heavenly--like a lovely May-day in England: the
air so pure, so soft, and the sun so warm, that I would gladly have
dispensed with my shawl and pelisse. We went in carriages to the other
side of the Palatine, and then dispersing in small parties, as will or
fancy led, we lounged and wandered about in the Coliseum, and among
the neighbouring ruins till dinner time. I climbed up the western side
of the Coliseum, at the imminent hazard of my neck; and looking down
through a gaping aperture, on the brink of which I had accidentally
seated myself, I saw in the colossal corridor far below me, a young
artist, who, as if transported out of his senses by delight and
admiration, was making the most extraordinary antics and gestures:
sometimes he clasped his hands, then extended his arms, then stood
with them folded as in deep thought; now he snatched up his portfolio
as if to draw what so much enchanted him, then threw it down and
kicked it from him as if in despair. I never saw such admirable dumb
show: it was better than any pantomime. At length, however, he
happened to cast up his eyes, as if appealing to heaven, and they
encountered mine peeping down upon him from above. He stood fixed and
motionless for two seconds, staring at me, and then snatching up his
portfolio and his hat, ran off and disappeared. I met the same man
afterwards walking along the Via Felice, and could not help smiling as
he passed: he smiled too, but pulled his hat over his face and turned
away.
I discovered to-day (and it is no slight pleasure to make a discovery
for one's self), the passage which formed the communication between
the Coliseum and the Palace of the Cæsars, and in which the Emperor
Commodus was assassinated. I recognized it by its situation, and the
mosaic pavement described by Nibby. If I had time I might moralize
here, and make an eloquent tirade _à la Eustace_ about imperial
monsters and so forth,--but in fact I _did_ think while I stood in the
damp and gloomy corridor, that it was a fitting death for Commodus to
die by the giddy playfulness of a child, and the machinations of an
abandoned woman. It was not a favourable time or hour to contemplate
the Coliseum--the sunshine was too resplendent--
It was a garish, broad, and peering day,
Loud, light, suspicious, full of eyes and ears;
And every little corner, nook, and hole,
Was penetrated by the insolent light.
We are told that five thousand animals were slain in the amphitheatre
on its dedication--how dreadful! The mutual massacres of the
gladiators inspire less horror than this disgusting butchery! To what
a pitch must the depraved appetite for blood and death have risen
among the corrupted and ferocious populace, before such a sight could
be endured!
* * * * *
15.--We drove to-day to the tomb of Cecilia Metella, on the Appian
Way, to the Fountain of Egeria, and the tomb of the Scipios near the
Porta Cappena.
I wish the tomb of Cecilia Metella had been that of Cornelia or
Valeria. There may be little in a name, but how much there is in
association! What this massy fabric wanted in classical fame Lord
Byron has lately supplied in poetical interest. The same may be said
of the Fountain of Egeria, to which he has devoted some of the most
exquisite stanzas in his poem, and has certainly invested it with a
charm it could not have possessed before. The woods and groves which
once surrounded it, have been all cut down, and the scenery round it
is waste and bleak; but the fountain itself is pretty, overgrown with
ivy, moss, and the graceful capillaire plant (capello di venere)
drooping from the walls, and the stream is as pure as crystal. L**,
who was with us, took up a stone to break off a piece of the statue,
and maimed, defaced, and wretched as it is, I could not help thinking
it a profanation to the place, and stopped his hand, calling him a
_barbarous Vandyke_: he looked so awkwardly alarmed and puzzled by the
epithet I had given him! The identity of this spot (like all other
places here) has been vehemently disputed. At every step to-day we
encountered doubt, and contradiction, and cavilling: authorities are
marshalled against each other in puzzling array, and the modern
unwillingness to be cheated by fine sounds and great names has become
a general scepticism. I have no objection to the "shadows, doubts, and
darkness" which rest upon all around us; it rather pleases my fancy
thus to "dream over the map of things," abandoned to my own
cogitations and my own conclusions; but then there are certain points
upon which it is very disagreeable to have one's faith disturbed; and
the Fountain of Egeria is one of these. So leaving the more learned
antiquarians to fight it out, _secundum artem_, and fire each other's
wigs if they will, I am determined, and do steadfastly believe, that
the Fountain of Egeria I saw to-day is the very identical and original
Fountain of Egeria--of Numa's Egeria--and therefore it _is_ so.
The tomb of the Scipios is a dirty dark wine cellar: all the urns, the
fine sarcophagus, and the original tablets and inscriptions have been
removed to the Vatican. I thought to-day while I stood in the
sepulchre, and on the very spot whence the sarcophagus of Publius was
removed, if Scipio, or Augustus, or Adrian, could return to this
world, how would their Roman pride endure to see their last
resting-places, the towers and the pyramids in which they fortified
themselves, thus violated and put to ignoble uses, and the urns which
contained their ashes stuck up as ornaments in a painted room, where
barbarian visitors lounge away their hours, and stare upon their
relics with scornful indifference or idle curiosity!
* * * * *
The people here, even the lowest and meanest among them seem to have
imbibed a profound respect for antiquity and antiquities, which
sometimes produces a comic effect. I am often amused by the exultation
with which they point out a bit of old stone, or piece of brick wall,
or shapeless fragment of some nameless statue, and tell you it is
_antico, molto, antico_, and the half contemptuous tone in which they
praise the most beautiful modern production, _é moderna--ma pure non é
cativà!_
* * * * *
18.--We had an opportunity of witnessing to-day one of the most
splendid ceremonies of the Catholic church. It is one of the four
festivals at which the Pope performs mass in state at the Vatican, the
anniversary of St. Peter's entrance into Rome, and of his taking
possession of the Papal chair; for here St. Peter is reckoned the
first Pope. To see the high priest of an ancient and wide-spread
superstition publicly officiate in his sacred character, in the
grandest temple in the universe, and surrounded by all the trappings
of his spiritual and temporal authority, was an exhibition to make sad
a reflecting mind, but to please and exalt a lively imagination: I
wished myself a Roman Catholic for one half hour only. The procession,
which was so arranged as to produce the most striking theatrical
effect, moved up the central aisle, to strains of solemn and beautiful
music from an orchestra of wind instruments. The musicians were placed
out of sight, nor could I guess from what part of the buildings the
sounds proceeded; but the blended harmony, so soft, yet so powerful
and so equally diffused, as it floated through the long aisles and
lofty domes, had a most heavenly effect. At length appeared the Pope,
borne on the shoulders of his attendants, and habited in his full
Pontifical robes of white and gold; fans of peacocks' feathers were
waved on each side of his throne, and boys flung clouds of incense
from their censers. As the procession advanced at the slowest possible
foot-pace, the Pope from time to time stretched forth his arms which
were crossed upon his bosom, and solemnly blessed the people as they
prostrated themselves on each side. I could have fancied it the
triumphant approach of an Eastern despot, but for the mild and
venerable air of the amiable old Pope, who looked as if more humbled
than exalted by the pageantry around him. It might be _acting_, but if
so, it was the most admirable acting I ever saw: I wish all his
attendants had performed their parts as well. While the Pope assists
at mass, it is not etiquette for him to do anything for himself: one
Cardinal kneeling, holds the book open before him, another carries his
handkerchief, a third folds and unfolds his robe, a priest on each
side supports him whenever he rises or moves, so that he appears among
them like a mere helpless automaton going through a certain set of
mechanical motions, with which his will has nothing to do. All who
approach or address him prostrate themselves and kiss his embroidered
slipper before they rise.
When the whole ceremony was over, and most of the crowd dispersed, the
Pope, after disrobing, was passing through a private part of the
church where we were standing accidentally, looking at one of the
monuments. We made the usual obeisance, which he returned by inclining
his head. He walked without support, but with great difficulty, and
appeared bent by infirmity and age: his countenance has a melancholy
but most benevolent expression, and his dark eyes retain uncommon
lustre and penetration. During the twenty-one years he has worn the
tiara, he has suffered many vicissitudes and humiliations with dignity
and fortitude. He is not considered a man of very powerful intellect
or very shining talents: he is not a Ganganelli or a Lambertini; but
he has been happy in his choice of ministers, and his government has
been distinguished by a spirit of liberality, and above all by a
partiality to the English, which calls for our respect and gratitude.
There were present to-day in St. Peter's about five thousand people,
and the church would certainly have contained ten times the number.
* * * * *
19.--We went to-day to view the restored model of the Coliseum
exhibited in the Piazza di Spagna; and afterwards drove to the
manufactory of the beads called _Roman Pearl_, which is well worth
seeing _once_. The beads are cut from thin laminæ of alabaster, and
then dipped into a composition made of the scales of a fish (the
Argentina). When a perfect imitation of pearl is intended, they can
copy the accidental defects of colour and form which occur in the real
gem, as well as its brilliance, so exquisitely, as to deceive the most
practised eye.
20.--I ordered the open carriage early this morning, and, attended
only by Scaccia, partly drove and partly walked through some of the
finest parts of ancient Rome. The day has been perfectly lovely; the
sky intensely blue without a single cloud; and though I was weak and
far from well, I felt the influence of the soft sunshine in every
nerve: the pure elastic air seemed to penetrate my whole frame, and
made my spirits bound and my heart beat quicker. It is true, I had to
regret at every step the want of a more cultivated companion, and that
I felt myself shamefully--no--not _shamefully_, but _lamentably_
ignorant of many things. There is so much of which I wish to know and
learn more: so much of my time is spent in hunting books, and
acquiring by various means the information with which I ought already
to be prepared; so many days are lost by frequent indisposition, that
though I enjoy, and feel the value of all I _do_ know and observe, I
am tantalized by the thoughts of all I must leave behind me
unseen--there must necessarily be so much of what I do not even
_hear_! Yet, in spite of these drawbacks, my little excursion to-day
was delightful. I took a direction just contrary to my last
expedition, first by the Quattro Fontane to the Santa Maria Maggiore,
which I always see with new delight; then to the ruins called the
temple of Minerva Medici, which stand in a cabbage garden near another
fine ruin, once called the Trofei di Mario, and now the Acqua Giulia:
thence to the Porta Maggiore, built by Claudius; and round by the
Santa Croce di Gerusalemme. This church was built by Helena, the
mother of Constantine, and contains her tomb, besides a portion of the
_True Cross_ from which it derives its name. The interior of this
Basilica struck me as mean and cold. In the fine avenue in front of
the Santa Croce, I paused a few minutes to look round me. To the right
were the ruins of the stupendous Claudian Aqueduct with its gigantic
arches, stretching away in one unbroken series far into the Campagna:
behind me the amphitheatre of Castrense: to the left, other ruins,
once called the Temple of Venus and Cupid, and now the Sessorium: in
front, the Lateran, the obelisk of Sesostris, the Porta San Giovanni,
and great part of the ancient walls; and thence the view extended to
the foot of the Apennines. All this part of Rome is a scene of
magnificent desolation, and of melancholy yet sublime interest: its
wildness, its vastness, its waste and solitary openness, add to its
effect upon the imagination. The only human beings I beheld in the
compass of at least two miles, were a few herdsmen driving their
cattle through the gate of San Giovanni, and two or three strangers
who were sauntering about with their note books and portfolios,
apparently enthusiasts like myself, lost in the memory of the past and
the contemplation of the present.
I spent some time in the Lateran, then drove to the Coliseum, where I
found a long procession of penitents, their figures and faces totally
concealed by their masks and peculiar dress, chaunting the Via Crucis.
I then examined the site of the Temple of Venus and Rome, and
satisfied myself by ocular demonstration of the truth of the
measurements which gave sixty feet for the height of the columns and
eighteen feet for the circumference. I knew enough of geometrical
proportion to prove this to my own satisfaction. On examining the
fragments which remain, each fluting measured a foot, that is, eight
inches right across. This appears prodigious, but it is nevertheless
true. I am forced to believe to-day what I yesterday doubted, and
deemed a piece of mere antiquarian exaggeration.
This magnificent edifice was designed and built by the Emperor Adrian,
who piqued himself on his skill in architecture, and carried his
jealousy of other artists so far, as to banish Apollodorus, who had
designed the Forum of Trajan. When he had finished the Temple of Venus
and Rome, he sent to Apollodorus a plan of his stupendous structure,
challenging him to find a single fault in it. The architect severely
criticised some trifling oversights; and the Emperor, conscious of the
justice of his criticisms, and unable to remedy the defects, ordered
him to be strangled. Such was the fate of Apollodorus, whose
misfortune it was to have an Emperor for his rival.
They are now clearing the steps which lead to this temple, from which
it appears that the length of the portico in front was three hundred
feet, and of the side five hundred feet.
While I was among these ruins, I was struck by a little limpid
fountain, which gushed from the crumbling wall and lost itself among
the fragments of the marble pavement. All looked dreary and desolate;
and that part of the ruin which from its situation must have been the
_sanctum sanctorum_, the shrine of the divinity of the place, is now a
receptacle of filth and every conceivable abomination.
I walked on to the ruins now called the Basilica of Constantine, once
the Temple of Peace. This edifice was in a bad style, and constructed
at a period when the arts were at a low ebb: yet the ruins are vast
and magnificent. The exact direction of the Via Sacra has long been a
subject of vehement dispute. They have now laid open a part of it
which ran in front of the Basilica: the pavement is about twelve feet
below the present pavement of Rome, and the soil turned up in their
excavations is formed entirely of crumbled brickwork and mortar, and
fragments of marble, porphyry, and granite. I returned by the Forum
and the Capitol, through the Forums of Nerva and Trajan, and so over
the Monte Cavallo, home.
* * * * *
23.--Last night we had a numerous party, and Signor P. and his
daughter came to sing. _She_ is a private singer of great talent, and
came attended by her lover or her _fiancé_; who, according to Italian
custom, attends his mistress every where during the few weeks which
precede their marriage. He is a young artist, a favourite pupil of
Camuccini, and of very quiet, unobtrusive manners. La P. has the
misfortune to be plain; her features are irregular, her complexion of
a sickly paleness, and though her eyes are large and dark, they
appeared totally devoid of lustre and expression. Her plainness, the
bad taste of her dress, her awkward figure, and her timid and
embarrassed deportment, all furnished matter of amusement and
observation to some young people, (English of course,) whose
propensities for _quizzing_ exceeded their good breeding and good
nature. Though La P. does not understand a word of either French or
English, I thought she could not mistake the significant looks and
whispers of which she was the object, and I was in pain for her, and
for her modest lover. I drew my chair to the piano, and tried to
divert her attention by keeping her in conversation, but I could get
no farther than a few questions which were answered in monosyllables.
At length she sang--and sang divinely: I found the pale automaton had
a soul as well as a voice. After giving us, with faultless execution,
as well as great expression, some of Rossini's finest songs, she sung
the beautiful and difficult cavatina in Otello, "_Assisa al piè d'un
Salice_," with the most enchanting style and pathos, and then stood as
unmoved as a statue while the company applauded loud and long. A
moment afterwards, as she stooped to take up a music book, her lover,
who had edged himself by degrees from the door to the piano, bent his
head too, and murmured in a low voice, but with the most passionate
accent, "O brava, brava cara!" She replied only by a look--but it was
such a look! I never saw a human countenance so entirely, so
instantaneously changed in character: the vacant eyes kindled and
beamed with tenderness: the pale cheek glowed, and a bright smile
playing round her mouth, just parted her lips sufficiently to discover
a set of teeth like pearls. I could have called her at that moment
beautiful; but the change was as transient as sudden--it passed like a
gleam of light over her face and vanished, and by the time the book
was placed on the desk, she looked as plain, as stupid, and as
statue-like as ever. I was the only person who had witnessed this
little by-scene; and it gave me pleasant thoughts and interest for the
rest of the evening.
Another trait of character occurred afterwards, which amused me, but
in a very different style. Our new Danish friend, the Baron B----,
told us he had once been present at the decapitation of nine men,
having first fortified himself with a large goblet of brandy. After
describing the scene in all its horrible details, and assuring us in
his bad German French that it was "_une chose bien mauvaise à voir_,"
I could not help asking him with a shudder, how he felt afterwards;
whether it was not weeks or months before the impressions of horror
left his mind? He answered with smiling naïveté and taking a pinch of
snuff, "_Ma foi! madame, je n'ai pas pu manger de la viande toute
cette journée-là?_"
* * * * *
27.--We drove to the Palazzo Spada, to see the famous Spada Pompey,
said to be the very statue at the base of which Cæsar fell. I was
pleased to find, contrary to my expectations, that this statue has
great intrinsic merit, besides its celebrity, to recommend it. The
extremities of the limbs have a certain clumsiness which may perhaps
be a feature of resemblance, and not a fault of the sculptor; but the
attitude is noble, and the likeness of the head to the undisputed bust
of Pompey in the Florentine gallery, struck me immediately. The
Palazza Spada, with its splendid architecture, dirt, discomfort, and
dilapidation, is a fair specimen of the Roman palaces in general. It
contains a corridor, which from an architectural deception appears
much longer than it really is. I hate tricks--in architecture
especially. We afterwards visited the Pantheon, the Church of Santa
Maria sopra Minerva, (an odd combination of names,) and concluded the
morning at Canova's. It is one of the pleasures of Rome to lounge in
the studj of the best sculptors; and it is at Rome only that sculpture
seems to flourish as in its native soil. Rome is truly the _city of
the soul_, the home of art and artists. With the divine models of the
Vatican ever before their eyes, these inspiring skies above their
heads, and the quarries of marble at a convenient distance--it is here
only they can conceive and execute those works which are formed from
the _beau-idéal_; but it is not here they meet with patronage: the
most beautiful things I have seen at the various studj have all been
executed for English, German, and Russian noblemen. The names I heard
most frequently were those of the Dukes of Bedford and Devonshire,
Prince Esterhazy, and the King of England.
Canova has been accused of a want of simplicity, and of giving a too
voluptuous expression to some of his figures: with all my admiration
of his genius, I confess the censure just. It is particularly
observable in the Clori svegliata (the Nymph awakened by Love), the
Cupid and Psyche, for Prince Yousouppoff, the Endymion, the Graces,
and some others.
In some of Thorwaldson's works there is exquisite grace, simplicity,
and expression: the Shepherd Boy, the Adonis, the Jason, and the Hebe,
have a great deal of antique spirit. I did not like the colossal
Christ which the sculptor has just finished in clay: it is a proof
that bulk alone does not constitute sublimity: it is deficient in
dignity, or rather in _divinity_.
At Rodolf Schadow's, I was most pleased by the Cupid and the
Filatrice. His Cupid is certainly the most beautiful Cupid I ever saw,
superior, I think, both to Canova's and to Thorwaldson's. The
Filatrice, though so exquisitely natural and graceful, a little
disappointed me; I had heard much of it, and had formed in my own
imagination an idea different and superior to what I saw. This
beautiful figure has repose, simplicity, nature, and grace, but I felt
a _want_--the want of some internal sentiment: for instance, if,
instead of watching the rotation of her spindle with such industrious
attention, the Filatrice had looked careless, or absent, or pensive,
or disconsolate, (like Faust's Margaret at her spinning-wheel,) she
would have been more interesting--but not perhaps what the sculptor
intended to represent.
Schadow is ill, but we were admitted by his order into his private
study; we saw there the Bacchante, which he has just finished in clay,
and which is to emulate or rival Canova's Dansatrice. He has been at
work upon a small but beautiful figure of a piping Shepherd-boy, which
is just made out: beside it lay Virgil's Eclogues, and his spectacles
were between the leaves.[J]
Almost every thing I saw at Max Laboureur's struck me as vapid and
finikin. There were some pretty groups, but nothing to tempt me to
visit it again.
* * * * *
30.--We spent the whole morning at the Villa Albani, where there is a
superb collection of antique marbles, most of them brought from the
Villa of Adrian at Tivoli. To note down even a few of the objects
which pleased me would be an endless task. I think the busts
interested me most. There is a basso-relievo of Antinous--the
beautiful head declined in his usual pensive attitude: it is the most
finished and faultless piece of sculpture in relievo I ever saw; and
as perfect and as polished as if it came from the chisel yesterday.
There is another basso-relievo of Marcus Aurelius, and Faustina, equal
to the last in execution, but not in interest.
We found Rogers in the gardens: the old poet was sunning
himself--walking up and down a beautiful marble portico, lined with
works of art, with his note-book in his hand. I am told he is now
writing a poem of which Italy is the subject; and here, with all the
Campagna di Roma spread out before him--above him, the sunshine and
the cloudless skies--and all around him, the remains of antiquity in a
thousand elegant, or venerable, or fanciful forms: he could not have
chosen a more genial spot for inspiration. Though we disturbed his
poetical reveries rather abruptly, he met us with his usual amiable
courtesy, and conversed most delightfully. I never knew him more
pleasant, and never saw him so animated.
Our departure from Rome has been postponed from day to day in
consequence of a _trifling_ accident. An Austrian colonel was taken by
the banditti near Fondi, and carried up into the mountains: ten
thousand scudi were demanded for his ransom; and for many days past,
the whole city has been in a state of agitation and suspense about his
ultimate fate. The Austrians, roused by the insult, sent a large body
of troops (some say three thousand men) against about one hundred and
fifty robbers, threatening to exterminate them. They were pursued so
closely, that after dragging their unfortunate captive over the
mountains from one fastness to another, till he was nearly dead from
exhaustion and ill-treatment, they either abandoned or surrendered him
without terms. The troops immediately marched back to Naples, and the
matter rests here: I cannot learn that any thing farther will be done.
The robbers being at present panic-struck by such unusual energy and
activity, and driven from their accustomed haunts, by these valorous
champions of good order and good policy, it is considered that the
road is now more open and safe than it has been for some time, and if
nothing new happens to alarm us, we set off on Friday next.
I visited to-day the baths of Dioclesian, and the noble church which
Michel Angelo has constructed upon, and out of, their gigantic ruins.
It has all that grand simplicity, that _entireness_ which
characterizes his works: it contains, too, some admirable pictures. On
leaving the church, I saw on each side of the door, the monuments of
Salvator Rosa and Carlo Maratti--what a contrast do they exhibit in
their genius, in their works, in their characters, in their
countenances, in their lives! Near this church (the Santa Maria dei
Angeli) is the superb fountain of the Acqua Felice, the first view of
which rather disappointed me. I had been told that it represented
Moses striking the rock,--a magnificent idea for a fountain! but the
execution falls short of the conception. The water, instead of gushing
from the rock, is poured out from the mouths of two prodigious lions
of basalt, brought, I believe, from Upper Egypt: they seem misplaced
here. A little beyond the Ponta Pia is the Campo Scelerato, where the
Vestals were interred alive. We afterwards drove to the Santi Apostoli
to see the tomb of the excellent Ganganelli, by Canova. Then to Sant'
Ignazio, to see the famous ceiling painted in perspective by the
jesuit Pozzo. The effect is certainly marvellous, making the interior
appear to the eye, at least twice the height it really is; but though
the illusion pleased me as a work of art, I thought the trickery
unnecessary and misplaced. At the magnificent church of the Gesuiti
(where there are two entire columns of giallo antico) I saw a list of
relics for which the church is celebrated, and whose efficacy and
sanctity were vouched for by a very respectable catalogue of miracles.
Among these relics there are a few worth mentioning for their oddity,
viz. one of the Virgin's _shifts_, three of her hairs, and the skirt
of Joseph's coat.
* * * * *
31.--We spent nearly the whole day in the gallery of the Vatican, and
in the Pauline and Sistine chapels.
_February 1st, at Valletri._--I left Rome this morning exceedingly
depressed: Madame de Staël may well call travelling _un triste
plaisir_. My depression did not arise from the feeling that I left
behind me any thing or any person to regret, but from mixed and
melancholy emotions, and partly perhaps from that weakness which makes
my hand tremble while I write--which has bound down my mind, and all
its best powers, and all its faculties of enjoyment, to a languid
passiveness, making me feel at every moment, I am not what I was, or
ought to be, or might have been.
We arrived, after a short and most delightful journey by Albano, the
Lake Nemi, Gensao, etc. at Velletri, the birth-place of that wretch
Octavius, and famous for its wine. The day has been as soft and as
sunny as a May-day in England, and the country, through which we
travelled but too rapidly, beyond description lovely. The blue
Mediterranean spread far to the west, and on the right we had the
snowy mountains, with their wild fantastic peaks "rushing on the sky."
I felt it all in my heart with a mixture of sadness and delight which
I cannot express.
This land was made by nature a paradise: it seems to want no charm,
"unborrowed from the eye,"--but how has memory sanctified, history
illustrated, and poetry illumined the scenes around us; where every
rivulet had its attendant nymph, where every wood was protected by its
sylvan divinity; where every tower has its tale of heroism, and "not a
mountain lifts its head unsung;" and though the faith, the glory, and
the power of the antique time be passed away--still
A spirit hangs,
Beautiful region! o'er thy towns and farms,
Statues and temples, and memorial tombs.
I can allow that one-half, at least, of the beauty and interest we
see, lies in our own souls; that it is our own enthusiasm which sheds
this mantle of light over all we behold: but, as colours do not exist
in the objects themselves, but in the rays which paint them--so beauty
is not less real, is not less BEAUTY, because it exists in
the medium through which we view certain objects, rather than in those
objects themselves. I have met persons who think they display a vast
deal of common sense, and very uncommon strength of mind, in rising
superior to all prejudices of education and illusions of romance--to
whom enthusiasm is only another name for affectation--who, where the
cultivated and the contemplative mind finds ample matter to excite
feeling and reflection, give themselves airs of fashionable
_nonchalance_, or flippant scorn--to whom the crumbling ruin is so
much brick and mortar, no more--to whom the tomb of the Horatii and
Curiatii is a _stack of chimneys_, the Pantheon _an old oven_, and the
Fountain of Egeria a _pig-sty_. Are such persons aware that in all
this there is an affectation, a thousand times more gross and
contemptible, than that affectation (too frequent perhaps) which they
design to ridicule?
"Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes,
He is a slave--the meanest we can meet."
2.--Our journey to-day has been long, but delightfully diversified,
and abounding in classical beauty and interest. I scarce know what to
say, now that I open my little book to record my own sensations: they
are so many, so various, so painful, so delicious--my senses and my
imagination have been so enchanted, my heart so very heavy--where
shall I begin?
In some of the scenes of to-day--at Terracina, particularly, there was
beauty beyond what I ever beheld or imagined: the scenery of
Switzerland is of a different character, and on a different scale: it
is beyond comparison grander, more gigantic, more overpowering, but it
is not so poetical. Switzerland is not Italy--is not the enchanting
_south_. This soft balmy air, these myrtles, orange-groves,
palm-trees; these cloudless skies, this bright blue sea, and sunny
hills, all breathe of an enchanted land; "a land of Faery."
Between Velletri and Terracina the road runs in one undeviating line
through the Pontine Marshes. The accounts we have of the baneful
effects of the malaria here, and the absolute solitude, (not a human
face or a human habitation intervening from one post-house to
another,) invest the wild landscape with a frightful and peculiar
character of desolation. As for the mere exterior of the country, I
have seen more wretched and sterile looking spots, (in France, for
instance,) but none that so affected the imagination and the spirits.
On leaving the Pontine Marshes, we came almost suddenly upon the sunny
and luxuriant region near Terracina: here was the ancient city of
Anxur; and the gothic ruins of the castle of Theodoric, which frown on
the steep above, are contrasted with the delicate and Grecian
proportions of the temple below. All the country round is famed in
classic and poetic lore. The Promontory (once poetically the _island_)
of Circe is still the Monte Circello: here was the region of the
Lestrygons, and the scene of part of the Æneid and Odyssey; and
Corinne has superadded romantic and charming associations quite as
delightful, and quite as _true_.
Antiquarians, who, like politicians, "seem to see the things that are
not," have placed all along this road, the sites of many a celebrated
town and fane--"making hue and cry after many a city which has run
away, and by certain marks and tokens pursuing to find it:" as some
old author says so quaintly. At every hundred yards, fragments of
masonry are seen by the road-side; portions of brickwork, sometimes
traced at the bottom of a dry ditch, or incorporated into a fence;
sometimes peeping above the myrtle bushes on the wild hills, where the
green lizards lie basking and glittering on them in thousands, and the
stupid ferocious buffalo, with his fierce red eyes, rubs his hide and
glares upon us as we pass. No--not the grandest monuments of Rome--not
the Coliseum itself, in all its decaying magnificence, ever inspired
me with such profound emotions as did those nameless, shapeless
vestiges of the dwellings of man, starting up like memorial tombs in
the midst of this savage but luxuriant wilderness. Of the beautiful
cities which rose along this lovely coast, the colonies of elegant and
polished Greece--one after another swallowed up by the "insatiate maw"
of ancient Rome, nothing remains--their sites, their very names have
passed away and perished. We might as well hunt after a forgotten
dream.
Vain was the chief's, the sage's pride,
They had no POET, and they died!
In vain they toil'd, in vain they bled,
They had no POET--and are dead.
I write this a Gaëta--a name famous in the poetical, the classical,
the military story of Italy, from the day of Æneas, from whom it
received its appellation, down to the annals of the late war. On the
site of our inn, (the Albergo di Cicerone,) stood Cicero's Formian
Villa; and in an adjoining grove he was murdered in his litter by the
satellites of the Triumviri, as he attempted to escape. I stood
to-night on a little terrace, which hung over an orange grove, and
enjoyed a scene which I would paint, if words were forms, and hues,
and sounds--not else. A beautiful bay, enclosed by the Mola di Gaëta,
on one side, and the Promontory of Misenum on the other: the sky
studded with stars and reflected in a sea as blue as itself--and so
glassy and unruffled, it seemed to slumber in the moonlight: now and
then the murmur of a wave, not hoarsely breaking on rock and shingles,
but kissing the turfy shore, where oranges and myrtles grew down to
the water edge. These, and the remembrances connected with all, and a
mind to think, and a heart to feel, and thoughts both of pain and
pleasure mingling to render the effect more deep and touching.--Why
should I write this? O surely I need not fear that I shall _forget_!
LINES WRITTEN AT MOLA DI GAETA, NEAR THE RUINS OF CICERO'S FORMIAN
VILLA.
We wandered through bright climes, and drank the beams
Of southern suns: Elysian scenes we view'd,
Such as we picture oft in those day dreams
That haunt the fancy in her wildest mood.
Upon the sea-heat vestiges we stood,
Where Cicero dwelt, and watch'd the latest gleams
Of rosy light steal o'er the azure flood:
And memory conjur'd up most glowing themes,
Filling the expanded heart, till it forgot
Its own peculiar grief!--O! if the dead
Yet haunt our earth, around this hallow'd spot,
Hovers sweet Tully's spirit, since it fled
The Roman Forum--Forum now no more!
Though cold and silent be the sands we tread,
Still burns the "eloquent air," and to the shore
There rolls no wave, and through the orange shade
There sighs no breath, which doth not speak of him,
THE FATHER OF HIS COUNTRY: and though dim
Her day of empire--and her laurel crown
Torn and defaced, and soiled with blood and tears,
And her imperial eagles trampled down--
Still with a queen-like grace, Italia wears
Her garland of bright names,--her coronal of stars,
(Radiant memorials of departed worth!)
That shed a glory round her pensive brow,
And make her still the worship of the earth!
_Naples. Sunday 3rd._--We left Gaëta early. If the scene was so
beautiful in the evening--how bright, how lovely it was this morning!
The sun had not long risen; and a soft purple mist hung over part of
the sea; while to the north and west the land and water sparkled and
glowed in the living light. Some little fishing boats which had just
put off, rocked upon the glassy sea, which lent them a gentle motion,
though itself appeared all mirror-like and motionless. The orange and
lemon trees in full foliage literally bent over the water; and it was
so warm at half past eight that I felt their shade a relief.
After leaving Gaëta, the first place of note is or _was_ Minturnum,
where Marius was taken, concealed in the marshes near it. The marshes
remain, the city has disappeared. Capua is still a large town; but it
certainly does not keep up its ancient fame for luxury and good cheer:
for we found it extremely difficult to procure any thing to eat. The
next town is Avversa, a name unknown, I believe, in the classical
history of Italy: it was founded, if I remember rightly, by the Norman
knights. Near this place is or was the convent where Queen Joanna
strangled her husband Andrea, with a silken cord of her own weaving.
So says the story: _non lo credo io_.
From Avversa to Naples the country is not interesting; but fertile and
rich beyond description: an endless succession of vineyards and orange
groves. At length we reached Naples; all tired and in a particularly
sober and serious mood: we remembered it was the Sabbath, and had
forgotten that it was the first day of the Carnival; and great was our
amazement at the scene which met us on our arrival--
I looked, I stared, I smiled, I laughed: and all
The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.
The whole city seemed one vast puppet-show; and the noisy gaiety of
the crowded streets almost stunned me. One of the first objects we
encountered was a barouche full of Turks and Sultanas, driven by an
old woman in a tawdry court dress as coachman; while a merry-andrew
and a harlequin capered behind as footmen. Owing to the immense size
of the city, and the difficulty of making our way through the motley
throng of masks, beggars, lazzaroni, eating-stalls, carts and
carriages, we were nearly three hours traversing the streets before we
reached our inn on the Chiaja.
I feel tired and over-excited: I have been standing on my balcony
looking out upon the moonlit bay, and listening to the mingled shouts,
the laughter, the music all around me; and thinking--till I feel in no
mood to write.
* * * * *
7.--Last night we visited the theatre of San Carlo. It did not strike
me as equal to the Scala at Milan. The form is not so fine, the extent
of the stage is, or appeared to be, less; but there is infinitely more
gilding and ornament; the mirrors and lights, the sky-blue draperies
produce a splendid effect, and the coup-d'oeil is, on the whole,
more gay, more theatre-like. It was crowded in every part, and many of
the audience were in dominos and fancy dresses: a few were masked.
Rossini's Barbiere di Seviglia, which contains, I think more _melody_
than all his other operas put together, (the Tancredi perhaps
excepted,) was most enchantingly sung, and as admirably acted; and the
beautiful classical ballet of "Niobe and her Children," would have
appeared nothing short of perfection, had I not seen the Didone
Abbandonata at Milan. But they have no actress here like the graceful,
the expressive Pallerini; nor any actor equal to the Æneas of the
Scala.
* * * * *
The Austrians, who are paramount here, allow masks only twice a week,
Sundays and Thursdays. The people seem determined to indemnify
themselves for this restriction on their pleasures by every allowed
excess during the two days of merriment, which their despotic
conquerors have spared them. I am told by M** and S**, our Italian
friends, that the Carnival is now fallen off from its wild spirit of
fanciful gaiety; that it is stupid, dull, tasteless, in comparison to
what it was formerly, owing to the severity of the Austrian police. I
know nothing about the propriety of the measures which have been
resorted to for curbing the excesses of the Carnival: I think if
people _will_ run away instead of fighting for their national rights,
they must be content to suffer accordingly--but I meddle not with
politics, and with all my heart abhor them. Whatever the gaities of
the Carnival may have been formerly, it is scarce possible to conceive
a more fantastic, a more picturesque, a more laughable scene than the
Strada di Toledo exhibited to-day; the whole city seemed to wear "one
universal grin;" and such an incessant fire of sugar-plums (or what
seemed such) was carried on, and with such eagerness and mimic fury,
that when our carriage came out of the conflict, we all looked as if a
sack of flour had been shaken over us. The implements used in this
ridiculous warfare, are, for common purposes, little balls of plaster
of Paris and flour, made to resemble small comfits: friends and
acquaintances pelted each other with real confetti, and those of the
most delicious and expensive kinds. A double file of carriages moved
in a contrary direction along the Corso; a space in the middle and on
each side being left for horsemen and pedestrians, and the most exact
order was maintained by the guards and police; so that if by chance a
carriage lost its place in the line it was impossible to recover it,
and it was immediately obliged to leave the street, and re-enter by
one of the extremities. Besides the warfare carried on below, the
balconies on each side were crowded with people in gay or grotesque
dresses, who had _sacks_ of bon-bons before them, from which they
showered vollies upon those beneath, or aimed across the street at
each other: some of them filled their handkerchiefs, and then
dexterously loosening the corners, and taking a certain aim, flung a
volley at once. This was like a cannon loaded with grape-shot, and
never failed to do the most terrific execution.
Among the splendid and fanciful equipages of the masqueraders, was
one, containing the Duke of Monteleone's family, in the form of a
ship, richly ornamented, and drawn by six horses mounted by masks for
postilions. The fore part of the vessel contained the Duke's party,
dressed in various gay costumes, as Tartar warriors and Indian queens.
In the stern were the servants and attendants, _travestied_ in the
most grotesque and ludicrous style. This magnificent and unwieldly car
had by some chance lost its place in the procession, and vainly
endeavoured to whip in; as it is a point of honour among the
charioteers not to yield the _pas_. Our coachman, however, was ordered
(though most unwilling) to draw up and make way for it; and this
little civility was acknowledged, not only by a profusion of bows, but
by such a shower of delicious sugar plums, that the seats of our
carriage were literally covered with them, and some of the gentlemen
flung into our laps elegant little baskets, fastened with ribbons, and
filled with exquisite sweetmeats. I could not enter into all this with
much spirit; "_non son io quel ch'un tempo fui:_" but I was an amused,
though a quiet spectator; and sometimes saw much more than those who
were actually engaged in the battle. I observed that to-day our
carriage became an object of attention, and a favourite point of
attack to several parties on foot, and in carriages; and I was at no
loss to discover the reason. I had with me a lovely girl, whose truly
English style of beauty, her brilliant bloom, heightened by her eager
animation, her lips dimpled with a thousand smiles, and her whole
countenance radiant with glee and mischievous archness, made her an
object of admiration, which the English expressed by a fixed stare,
and the Italians by sympathetic smiles, nods, and all the usual
superlatives of delight. Among our most potent and malignant
adversaries, was a troop of elegant masks in a long open carriage, the
form of which was totally concealed by the boughs of laurel, and
wreaths of artificial flowers, with which it was covered. It was drawn
by six fine horses, fancifully caparisoned, ornamented with plumes of
feathers, and led by grotesque masks. In the carriage stood twelve
persons in black silk dominos, black hats, and black masks; with
plumes of crimson feathers, and rich crimson sashes. They were armed
with small painted targets and tin tubes, from which they shot vollies
of confetti, in such quantities, and with such dexterous aim, that we
were almost overwhelmed whenever we passed them. It was in vain we
returned the compliment; our small shot rattled on their masks, or
bounded from their shields, producing only shouts of laughter at our
expense.
A favourite style of mask here, is the dress of an English sailor,
straw hats, blue jackets, white trowsers, and very white masks with
pink cheeks: we saw hundreds in this whimsical costume.
13.--On driving home rather late this evening, and leaving the noise,
the crowds, the confusion and festive folly of the Strada di Toledo,
we came suddenly upon a scene, which, from its beauty, no less than by
the force of contrast, strongly impressed my imagination. The shore
was silent, and almost solitary: the bay as smooth as a mirror, and as
still as a frozen lake; the sky, the sea, the mountains round were all
of the same hue, a soft grey tinged with violet, except where the
sunset had left a narrow crimson streak along the edge of the sea.
There was not a breeze, not the slightest breath of air, and a single
vessel, a frigate with all its white sails crowded, lay motionless as
a monument on the bosom of the waters, in which it was reflected as in
a mirror. I have seen the bay more splendidly beautiful; but I never
saw so peculiar, so lovely a picture. It lasted but a short time: the
transparent purple veil became a dusky pall, and night and shadow
gradually enveloped the whole.[K]
* * * * *
How I love these resplendent skies and blue seas! Nature here seems to
celebrate a continual Festa, and to be for ever decked out in holiday
costume! A drive along the "_sempre beata Mergellina_" to the
extremity of the Promontory of Pausilippo is positive enchantment:
thence we looked over a landscape of such splendid and unequalled
interest! the shores of Baia, where Cicero, Horace, Virgil, Pliny,
Mecænas, lived; the white towers of Puzzuoli and the Islands of
Ischia, Procida, and Nisida. There was the Sybil's Cave, Lake Acheron,
and the fabled Lethe; there the sepulchre of Misenus, who defied the
Triton; and the scene of the whole sixth book of the Æneid, which I am
now reading in Annibal Caro's translation: there Agrippina mourned
Germanicus; and there her daughter fell a victim to her monster of a
son. At our feet lay the lovely little Island of Nisida, the spot on
which Brutus and Portia parted for the last time before the battle of
Philippi.
To the south of the bay the scenery is not less magnificent, and
scarcely less dear to memory: Naples, rising from the sea like an
amphitheatre of white palaces, and towers, and glittering domes:
beyond, Mount Vesuvius, with the smoke curling from its summits like a
silver cloud, and forming the only speck upon the intense blue sky;
along its base Portici, Annunziata, Torre del Greco, glitter in the
sun; every white building--almost every window in every building,
distinct to the eye at the distance of several miles: farther on, and
perched like white nests on the mountainous promontory, lie Castel a
Mare, and Sorrento, the birth-place of Tasso, and his asylum when the
injuries of his cold-hearted persecutors had stung him to madness, and
drove him here for refuge to the arms of his sister. Yet, farther on,
Capua rises from the sea, a beautiful object in itself, but from which
the fancy gladly turns to dwell again upon the snowy buildings of
Sorrento.
"O de la liberté vieille et sainte patrie!
Terre autrefois féconde en sublimes vertus!
Sous d'indignes Césars maintenant asservie
Ton empire est tombé! tes héros ne sont plus!
Mais dans son sein l'âme aggrandie
Croit sur leurs monumens respirer leur génie,
Comme on respire encore dans un temple aboli
La Majesté du Dieu dont il était rempli."