Quenched is our light of youth!
And fled our days of pleasure,
When all was hope and truth,
And trusting--without measure.
Blindly we believed
Words of fondness spoken--
Cruel hearts deceived,
So our peace was broken!
What can charm us more?
Life hath lost its sweetness!
Weary lags the hour--
"Time hath lost its fleetness!"
As the buds in May
Were the joys we cherished,
Sweet--but frail as they,
Thus they passed and perished!
And the few bright hours
Wintry age can number,
Sickly, senseless flowers,
Lingering through December!
_Rome, March 15._--We arrived here yesterday morning about one, after
a short but delightful journey from Velletri. We have now a suite of
apartments in the Hotel d'Europe; and our accommodations are in all
respects excellent, almost equal to Schneiderf's at Florence.
On entering Rome through the gate of the Lateran, I was struck by the
emptiness and stillness of the streets, contrasted with those of
Naples; and still more by the architectural grandeur and beauty which
everywhere met the eye. This is as it should be: the merry, noisy,
half-naked, merry-andrew set of ragamuffins which crowd the streets
and shores of Naples, would strangely misbecome the desolate majesty
of the "Eternal City." Though we now reside in the most fashionable
and frequented part of Rome, the sound of carts and carriages is
seldom heard. After nine in the evening a profound stillness reigns;
and I distinguish nothing from my window but the splashing of the
Fountain della Barchetta.
The weather is lovely; we were obliged to close our Venetian blinds
against the heat at eight this morning, and afterwards we drove to the
gardens of the Villa Borghese, where we wandered about in search of
coolness and shade.
* * * * *
26.--I must now descend to the common occurrences of our every-day
life.
For the last week we have generally spent the whole or part of the
morning, in some of the galleries of art; and the afternoon in the
gardens of the neighbouring villas. Those of the Villa Medici have
their vicinity to our inn, and their fine air to recommend them. From
the Villa Lanti, and the Monte Mario, we have a splendid view of the
whole city and Campagna of Rome. The Pope's gardens on the Monte
Cavallo, are pleasant, accessible, and very private: the gardens of
the Villa Pamfili, are enchanting; but our usual haunt is the garden
of the Villa Borghese. In this delightful spot we find shade and
privacy, or sunshine and society, as we may feel inclined. To-day it
was intensely hot; but we found the cool sequestered walks and alleys
of cypress and ilex, perfectly delicious. I spread my shawl upon a
green bank carpeted with violets, and lounged in most luxurious
indolence. I had a book with me, but felt no inclination to read. The
soft air, the trickling and murmuring of innumerable fountains, the
urns, the temples, the statues--the localities of the scene--all
dispose the mind to a kind of vague but delightful reverie to which we
"find no end, in wandering mazes lost."
In these gardens we frequently meet the Princess Pauline: sometimes
alone, but oftener surrounded by a cortège of beaux. She is no longer
the "Venere Vincitrice" of Canova; but her face, though faded, is
pretty and intelligent; and she still preserves the "andar celeste,"
and all the distinguished elegance of her petite and graceful figure.
Of the stories told of her, I suppose one half _may_ be true--and that
half is quite enough. She is rather more famous for her gallantries,
than for her bon-gout in the choice of her favourites; but it is
justice to Pauline to add, that her native benevolence of heart seems
to have survived all her frailties; and every one who speaks of her
here, even those who must condemn her, mention her in a tone of
kindness, and even of respect. She is still in deep mourning for the
Emperor.
The Villa Pamfili is about two miles from Rome on the other side of
the Monte Gianicolo. The gardens are laid out in the artificial style
of Italian gardening, a style which in England would horrify me as in
the vilest and most old-fashioned taste--stiff, cold, unnatural, and
altogether detestable. Through what inconsistency or perversity of
taste is it then, that I am enchanted with the fantastic elegance, and
the picturesque gaiety of the Pamfili gardens; where sportive art
revels and runs wild amid the luxuriance of nature? Or is it, as I
would rather believe, because these long arcades of verdure, these
close _walls_ of laurel, pervious to the air, but impervious to the
sunshine, these broad umbrageous avenues and marble terraces, these
paved grottoes and ever trickling fountains, these gods and nymphs,
and urns and sarcophagi, meeting us at every turn with some classical
or poetical association, harmonize with the climate and the country,
and the minds of the people; and are _comfortable_ and consistent as a
well carpeted drawing-room and a warm chimney-corner would be in
England?
"But it is all so artificial and unnatural"--Agreed;--so are our
yellow unsheltered gravel walks, meandering through smooth shaven
lawns, which have no other beauty than that of being dry when every
other place is wet; our shapeless flower-beds so elaborately
irregular, our clumps and dots of trees, and dwarfish shrubberies. I
have seen some over-dressed grounds and gardens in England, the
perpetrations of Capability Brown and his imitators, the landscape
gardeners, quite as bad as any thing I see here, only in a different
style, and certainly more adapted to England and English taste. I must
confess, that in these enchanting gardens of the Villa Pamfili, a
little less "ingenuity and artifice" would be better. I hate _mere_
tricks and gimcrackery, of which there are a few instances, such as
their hydraulic music, jets-d'eau--water-works that play occasionally
to the astonishment of children and the profit of the gardeners--but
how different, after all, are these Italia gardens to the miserable
grandeur, and senseless, tasteless parade of Versailles!
In these gardens an interesting discovery has just been made; an
extensive burial place, or columbarium, in singular preservation. The
skeletons and ashes have not been removed. Some of the tombs are
painted in fresco, others floored with very pretty mosaic. The
disposition of the urns is curious: they are imbedded in the masonry
of the wall with moveable lids. On a tile I found the name of Sextus
Pompeius, in letters beautifully formed, and deeply and distinctly
cut, and an inscription which I was not Latinist enough to translate
accurately, but from which it appears that these columbaria belonged
to a branch of the Pompey family.
27.--To-day, after English chapel, I look a walk to the San Gregorio,
on the other side of the Palatine, which since I first came to Rome
has been to me a favourite and chosen spot. I sat down on the steps of
the church to rest, and enjoy at leisure the fine view of the hill
and ruins opposite. Arches on arches, a wilderness of desolation! and
mingled with massive fragments of the halls and towers of the Cæsars,
were young shrubs just putting on their brightest green, and the
almond-trees covered with their gay blossoms, and the cloudless and
resplendent skies bending over all.
I tried to sketch the scene before me, but could not form a stroke. I
cannot now take a short walk without feeling its ill effects; and my
hand shook so much from nervous weakness, that after a few vain
efforts to steady it, I sorrowfully gave up the attempt. On returning
home by the Coliseum, and through the Forum and Capitol, I met many
things I should wish to remember. After all, what place is like Rome,
where it is impossible to move a step without meeting with some
incident or object to excite reflection, to enchant the eye, or
interest the imagination? Rome may yield to Naples or Florence in mere
external beauty; but every other spot on earth, Athens perhaps alone
excepted, must yield to Rome in interest.
* * * * *
28.--This morning we walked down to the studio of Mr. Wagenal, to see
the Ægina marbles; which, as objects of curiosity, interested me
extremely. These statues are on a smaller scale than I expected, being
not much more than half the size of life, but of better workmanship,
and in a style of sculpture altogether different from any thing I ever
saw before. They formed the ornaments of the pediment of the Temple of
Jupiter in the island of Ægina, and represented a group of fighting
and dying warriors, with an armed Pallas in the centre: but the
subject is not known.
The execution of these statues must evidently be referred to the
earliest ages of Grecian art; to a period when sculpture was confined
to the exact imitation of natural forms. Several of the figures were
extremely spirited, and very correct both in design and execution; but
there is no attempt at grace, and a total deficiency of ideal beauty:
in the Pallas, especially, the drapery and forms are but one remove
from the cold formal Etruscan style, which in its turn is but one
remove from the yet more tasteless Egyptian. I think it was at the
Villa Albani, I saw the singular Etruscan basso-relievo which I was
able to compare mentally with what I saw to-day; and the resemblance
in _manner_ struck me immediately. Thorwaldson is now restoring these
marbles in the most admirable style for the King of Bavaria, to whom
they were sold by Messrs. Cockerel and Linkh (the original
discoverers) for 8000_l._
Gibson, the celebrated English sculptor, joined us while looking at
the Ægina marbles, and accompanied us to the studio of Pozzi, the
Florentine statuary. Here I saw several instances of that affected and
meretricious taste which prevails too much among the foreign
sculptors. I remember one example almost ludicrous, a female Satyr
with her hair turned up behind and dressed in the last Parisian
fashion; as if she had just come from under the hands of Monsieur
Hyppolite. By the same hand which committed this odd solecism, I saw a
statue of Moses, now modelling in clay, which, if finished in marble
in a style worthy of its conception, and if not spoiled by some
affected niceties in the execution, will be a magnificent and sublime
work of art.
Gibson afterwards showed us round his own studio: his exquisite group
of Psyche borne away by the Zephyrs enchanted me. The necessity which
exists for supporting all the figures has rendered it impossible to
give them the same aërial lightness I have seen in paintings of the
same subject, yet they are all _but_ aërial. Psyche was criticised by
two or three of our party; but I thought her faultless: she is a
lovely timid girl; and as she leans on her airy supporters, she seems
to contemplate her flight down the precipice, half-shrinking, though
secure. Mr. W** told me that in the original design, the left foot of
one of the Zephyrs rested upon the ground: and that Canova, coming in
by chance while Gibson was working on the model, lifted it up, and
this simple and masterly alteration has imparted the most exquisite
lightness to the attitude.
Gibson was Canova's favourite pupil: he has quite the air of a genius:
plain features, but a countenance all beaming with fire, spirit, and
intelligence. His Psyche remains still in the model, as he has not yet
found a patron munificent enough to order it in marble; at which I
greatly wonder. Could I but afford to bestow seven hundred pounds on
my own gratification, I would have given him the order on the spot.[P]
30.--Yesterday we dined _al fresco_ in the Pamfili gardens: and though
our party was rather too large, it was well assorted, and the day went
off admirably. The queen of our feast was in high good humour, and
irresistible in charms; Frattino very fascinating, T** was caustic and
witty, W** lively and clever, Sir J** mild, intelligent, and elegant,
V**, as usual, quiet, sensible, and self-complacent, L** as absurd and
assiduous as ever. Every body played their part well, each by a tacit
convention sacrificing to the _amour propre_ of the rest. Every
individual really occupied with his own particular _rôle_, but all
apparently happy, and mutually pleased. Vanity and selfishness,
indifference and ennui, were veiled under a general mask of good
humour and good breeding, and the flowery bonds of politeness and
gallantry held together those who knew no common tie of thought or
interest; and when parted (as they soon will be, north, south, east,
and west), will probably never meet again in this world; and whether
they do or not, who thinks or cares!
Our luxurious dinner, washed down by a competent proportion of
Malvoisie and Champagne, were spread upon the grass, which was
literally _flowery turf_, being covered with violets, iris, and
anemones of every dye. Instead of changing our plates, we washed them
in a beautiful fountain which murmured near us, having first, by a
libation, propitiated the presiding nymph for this pollution of her
limpid waters. For my own peculiar taste there were too many servants
(who on these occasions are always _de trop_), too many luxuries, too
much fuss; but considering the style and number of our party, it was
all consistently and admirably managed: the grouping of the company,
picturesque because unpremeditated, the scenery round, the arcades,
and bowers, and columns, and fountains, had an air altogether quite
poetical and romantic; and put me in mind of some of Watteau's
beautiful garden-pieces, and Stothard's fêtes-champêtres.
To me the day was not a day of pleasure; for the small stock of
strength and spirits with which I set out was soon exhausted, and the
rest of the day was wasted in efforts to appear cheerful and support
myself to the end, lest I should spoil the general mirth: on all I
looked with complacency tinged with my habitual melancholy. What I
most admired was the delicious view, from an eminence in the wildest
part of the gardens, over the city and Campagna to the blue Apennines,
where Frascati and Albano peeped forth like nests of white buildings
glittering upon a rich back ground, tinted with blue and purple; the
hill where Cato's villa stood, and still called the Portian Hill, and
on the highest point the ruined temple of Jupiter Latialis visible at
the distance of seventeen miles, and shining in the setting sun like
burnished gold. What I most felt and enjoyed was the luxurious
temperature of the atmosphere, the purity and brilliance of the skies,
the delicious security with which I threw myself down on the turf
without fear of damp and cold, and the thankful consciousness, that
neither the light or worldly beings round me, nor the sadness which
weighed down my own heart, had quite deadened my once quick sense of
pleasure, but left me still some perception of the splendour and
classical interest of the glorious scenes around me, combined as it
was with all the enchantment of natural beauty--
"----The music and the bloom
And all the mighty ravishment of spring."
TOLSE AI MARTIRI OGNI CONFIN, CHI AL CORE TOGLIER POTEO
LA LIBERTA DEL PIANTO!
O ye blue luxurious skies!
Sparkling fountains,
Snow-capp'd mountains,
Classic shades that round me rise!
Towers and temples, hills and groves,
Scenes of glory,
Fam'd in story,
Where the eye enchanted roves!
O thou rich embroider'd earth!
Opening flowers,
Leafy bowers,
Sights of gladness, sounds of mirth!
Why to my desponding heart,
Darkly thinking,
Sadly sinking,
Can ye no delight impart?[Q]
_Sunday, 31._--To-day the Holy week begins, and a kind of programma of
the usual ceremonies of each day was laid on my toilette this morning.
The bill of fare for this day runs thus:--
"Domenica delle Palme, nel Capella Papale nel Palazzo Apostolico,
canta messa un Cardinal Prete. Il Sommo Pontefice fa la benedizione
delle Palme, con processione per la Sala Regia."
I gave up going to the English service accordingly, and consented to
accompany R** and V** to the Pope's Chapel. We entered just as the
ceremony of blessing the palms was going on: a cardinal officiated for
the poor old pope, who is at present ill.
After the palms had been duly blessed, they were carried in procession
round the splendid anti-chamber, called the Sala Regia; meantime the
chapel doors were closed upon them, and on their return, they (not the
palms, but the priests) knocked and demanded entrance in a fine
recitative; two of the principal voices replied from within; the choir
without sung a response, and after a moment's silence the doors were
opened, and the service went on.
This was very trivial and tedious. Rospo said, very truly, that the
procession in Blue Beard was much better _got up_. All these
processions sound very fine in mere description, but in the reality
there is always something to disappoint or disgust; something which
leaves either a ludicrous or a painful impression on the mind. The old
priests and cardinals to-day looking like so many old beggar-women
dressed up in the cast-off finery of a Christmas pantomime, the
assistants smirking and whispering, the singers grinning at each
other between every solemn strain of melody, and blowing their noses
and spitting about like true Italians--in short, the want of keeping
in the _tout ensemble_ shocked my taste and my imagination, and, I may
add, better, more serious feelings. It is well to see these things
once, that we may not be cheated with fine words, but judge for
ourselves. I foresee, however, that I shall not be tempted to
encounter any of the more crowded ceremonies.