New mode of Travelling.—Route from Venice to Vicenza.—Theatre on a new
plan by Palladio.—Verona: The Amphitheatre, and the Tomb of
Juliet.—Observations on Italians and Italian Society.—Banditti and
Assassins.—Lower classes of Italians.—Nobles and Gentlemen.—Italy by
nature a single country.—Its divisions into States.—Obstacles to its
consolidation.—Napoleon.—A confederated Republic predicted.—Line of
the Tyrol.—New mode of Travelling the most expensive.—The Inn at
Trent.—Picturesque Valley.—Tower at Botzen.—Brixen.—Pass of the
Brenner.—Innspruck.—The Cathedral, and the Castle of the Counts of
the Tyrol.
A novel mode of travelling was suggested to me, and I determined to try
it, merely to compare it with the others. In most of the countries of
the Continent, the governments control the diligences, or public
coaches, which are drawn by post-horses. In the Austrian States one can
travel in the diligences at his own hours, provided a certain number of
places are paid for. The size of my family admitting of this, I have
come up from Venice to Innspruck in that mode; the advantages being
those of paying once for all at Venice, of travelling entirely under the
authority of the government, and of not being under the necessity of
wrangling with the postillions. The disadvantage, as I have since
discovered, was that of paying considerably more than I should have
done, after quitting Italy, had we come post in the old way. In Lombardy
we had no difficulty, postmasters and postillions conducting themselves
admirably; but in the Tyrol it was a constant scene of wrangling about
hours and horses. I shall not repeat the experiment, after we have
fairly crossed the Alps.
We left Venice quite early, in a public boat, being now fairly in the
hands of government. At Mestre we found our own carriage, and, entering
it, we were soon furnished with four horses and two postillions. The
latter cut a strange figure, in yellow coats and cocked hats. They were
perfectly civil, however, and we soon found ourselves in Padua.
Changing horses, we now diverged from our old route, taking the road to
Vicenza, where we dined. The country was not so tame as Lombardy is in
general, and we were rapidly approaching the advanced hills of the Alps.
Still, the road, a good one in every sense, ran along a very even
surface.
Vicenza is the city of Palladio, and a house he built for himself, a
small but tasteful edifice, and a theatre of his own on a new plan, were
shown us. This theatre, instead of the ordinary painted scenery, had a
real perspective, and houses and streets, _en petit_, as one sees them
in a town. This invention was founded in hypercriticism. A play is, at
the best, but a conventional and poetical representation of life, like a
romance, a statue, or a picture; and while it is properly subject to
laws that are founded in nature, this nature may, in all, be respected
to absurdities. Who but a bungler would put eyes in a statue, give a
real perspective to a picture, rigid nature instead of its _beau idéal_
to a romance, or real streets to a theatre? The common scenery is
sufficient to the illusion we require; for, like the unities, after all,
a theatrical street, which of necessity must be contained in a single
house, is but a conventional street. The thing, as a matter of course,
was a failure.
After quitting Vicenza, the country became even prettier, and we passed
a few small towns. It was still early when we came in sight of a town
lying in part against the side of a hill, with ancient walls and other
objects of a picturesque appearance. The environs were particularly
verdant, and altogether the place had a more lively and flourishing air
than any city we had seen since quitting Bologna. This was Verona, the
end of our journey for the day. We had done near a hundred miles since
morning, with great ease to ourselves, having almost crossed the whole
of the ancient Venetian-Italian States.
Although this town stands on the great plain of Lombardy, it is at its
commencement, and at the point where the Adige issues from among the
Alps, to incline eastward before it throws its waters into the Adriatic.
We found a genteel and good inn, as well as neatness and perfect
civility. After giving our orders, we sallied forth to see the only two
things of which our time would allow,—the amphitheatre, and the tomb or
sarcophagus of Juliet, for you will remember we were now in the country
of the Montagues and the Capulets.
The amphitheatre stands on an area in a corner of the town, where it is
seen to great advantage. Unlike the Coliseum, it is perfect, or nearly
so, on the exterior, so that one can get an accurate notion of its
general effect. The interior, also, is almost as perfect as that at
Pompeii; and as the building is much larger, it may be included among
the greatest of the works of the kind that have descended to our own
times. There is a portion of it set apart for theatrical
representations, by the erection of a stage and enclosing a few of the
seats; and, truly, the difference between the scale of a Roman arena and
that of one of our own modern edifices is here made sufficiently
manifest. I do not wish to be understood that this temporary little
theatre is of extraordinary dimensions; but still it is large enough to
contain an ordinary audience. It struck me as being more intended for
_spectacles_ than for the regular drama. It had no roof, though I was
told the climate admits of representations at night in it. We see the
same thing in New York during the summer months.
Perhaps the dimensions of the amphitheatre of Verona are not much more
than half of those of the Coliseum, (in cubic contents, I mean,) and yet
it is a stupendous edifice. It is relatively low,—or, it might be safer
to say, it struck me so, after dwelling five months so near the
Coliseum; but, standing on its summit, it is a fearful fall to look at.
It is said that the amphitheatres of Rome, Verona, and Nismes contain
among them all that is wanting to give us the most accurate notions of
the details of this sort of structure. Certainly, as a whole, this is
the most perfect of any I have seen. There is no visible reason why this
immense building should not still stand, until destroyed by some natural
convulsion.
The sarcophagus is no great matter. It stands in a garden, and is merely
a plain marble chest, without its lid. Shakspeare is known to have taken
the story of Romeo and Juliet from a tale of the misfortunes of two
young lovers of this place; and it is certainly possible that this may
have been the very tomb of the lady. The names are anglicised in the
play, but not materially varied. The guide showed us a house which, he
affirmed, belonged to one of the warring families—the Montagues, I
believe; but there are so many English travellers, just now, that the
temptation to embellish is exceedingly strong. One looks at these things
with an easy credulity, for it is the wisest way, when there is no
serious historical or antiquarian question dependant on the truth. What
matters it now, whether a young lady named Guilietta died of love, and
was buried in this tomb? The name of Montague came from the Continent,
and is still met with in France: among the connexions of General
Lafayette is a Marquis de Montaigu, whom I have seen in his company, and
who is his neighbour, at La Grange. I dare say there were Capuletti,
also, in scores. These people must have had houses, and they must have
had tombs; and it is as well for us travellers to believe we see them
here at Verona, as to believe any thing else. For the _laquais de place_
and the keeper of the garden, it is even much better.
We breakfasted at Verona, which struck us as a bustling and pleasing
town, with a singular air of _bon ton_ about it; and then we went our
way. The _enceinte_ of this city, like that of Genoa, embraces a large
side-hill that is mostly in villas and gardens; but the defences are of
no great account.
Shortly after quitting the walls, we turned into the valley of the
Adige, and reached a point where one may be said to take his last look
at Italy. A—— laughed at me, for this was the only country, as she
affirmed, that she had ever known me to quit looking over a shoulder.
Certainly, the tendency in common is to look ahead, and I confess to the
truth of the charge of having looked behind me on this occasion. I have
never yet quitted any country with one half the regret that I quitted
Italy. Its nature, its climate, its recollections, its people even, had
been gradually gaining on my affections for near two years, and I felt
that reluctance to separate, that one is apt to experience on quitting
his own house.
I have told you little in these letters of the Italians themselves, and
nothing of what may be called their society. I have seen much of the
former, of necessity, and a little, though not much, of the latter. A
diffidence of my own knowledge lies at the bottom of this forbearance;
for I am fully sensible that he who would describe beyond the surface,
must have had better means of information than mine have been. Still, I
will not quit this charming region without giving you, in a very few
words, a summary of my opinions, such as they are.
I came to Italy with too many of the prejudices that had got abroad
concerning the Italian character. The whole country is virtually a
conquered country—and men are seldom wronged without being abused. In
the first place, the marvels about banditti and assassins are enormously
exaggerated. Banditti there have been, and robbers there still are. The
country is peculiarly adapted to invite their presence. With
unfrequented mountains nearly always in sight, roads crowded with
travellers, great poverty, and polices of no great energy, it could
hardly be otherwise; and yet, a man of ordinary prudence may go from one
extremity of the country to the other with very little risk.
Assassinations I believe to be no more frequent than murders in France
or England. If the _quasi_ duels or irregular combats of the south-west
be enumerated, I believe, in proportion to population, that three men
lose their lives by violence in that portion of the republic, to one in
Italy.
The lower classes of Italy, with the exception of those who live on
travellers, appear to me to be unsophisticated, kind, and
well-principled. There is a native activity of mind about them that
renders their rogues great rogues; but I question if the mass here be
not quite as honest as the mass in any country under the same social
pressure. An American should always remember the exemption from
temptation that exists in his own country. Common crimes are certainly
not so general with us as in most of Europe, and precisely for the
reason named; but _uncommon meannesses_ abound in a large circle of our
population. The vices of an American origin are necessarily influenced
by the condition of American society; and, as a principle, the same is
true here. It may be questioned if examination, taking into view all the
circumstances, would give a result so much on our favour as some
pretend. Once removed from the towns and the other haunts of travellers,
I have found the Italians of the lower classes endued with quite as many
good qualities as most of their neighbours, and with more than some of
them. They are more gracious than the English, and more sincere than the
French, and infinitely more refined than the Germans; or, it might be
better to say, less obtuse and coarse. Certainly, they are quick-witted;
and, physically, they are altogether a finer race, though short, than I
had expected to see.
Shades of difference exist in Italian character, as between the
different States, the preference being usually given to the inhabitants
of Upper Italy. I have not found this difference so manifestly clear
against the South; though I do believe that the Piedmontese, in a
physical sense, are the finest race of the entire country.
Foreigners would better appreciate the Italian character if they better
understood the usages of the country. A nation divided like this,
conquered as this has been, and lying, as it now does, notoriously at
the mercy of any powerful invader, loses the estimation that is due to
numbers. The stranger regards the people as unworthy of possessing
distinctive traits, and obtrudes his own habits on them, coarsely and,
too often, insolently. This, in part, is submitted to, from necessity;
but mutual ill-will and distrust are the consequences. The vulgar-minded
Englishman talks of the “damned Italians,” and the vulgar-minded
American, quite in rule, imitates his great model, though neither has,
probably, any knowledge of the people beyond that which he has obtained
in inns, and in the carriages of the _vetturini_.
In grace of mind, in a love, and even in a knowledge of the arts, a
large portion of the common Italians are as much superior to the
Anglo-Saxon race as civilization is superior to barbarism. We deride
their religious superstitions; but we overlook the exaggerations,
uncharitableness, and ferocity of our own fanaticism. Of the two, I
firmly believe a Divine Omniscience finds less to condemn in the former.
I do not know any peasantry in which there is more ingenuousness, with
less of rusticity and vulgarity than that of Tuscany.
The society of Italy, which is but another word for the nobles of the
country, so far as I have seen it, has the general European character,
modified a little by position. They have a general acquaintance with
literature, without being often learned; and there is a grace about
their minds, derived from the constant practice of contemplating the
miracles of art, that is rather peculiar to them. An Italian gentleman
is more gracious than an Englishman, and less artificial than a
Frenchman. Indeed, I have often thought that in these particulars he is
the nearest a true standard of any gentleman of Europe. There is a
sincerity in this class, also, that took me by surprise; a simplicity of
mind rather than of manner, that is not common on the other side of the
Alps. Notwithstanding what has been said and written about _les esprits
fins_, I question if the trait can be properly imputed to the general
Italian character. After all this, however, I freely admit the limited
nature of my own observation, and you will not attach to these opinions
more value than they deserve; still, they merit more attention than the
loose notions on the same subject that have been thrown before the
world, unreflectingly and ignorantly, by most of our travellers.
Nature appears to have intended Italy for a single country. With a
people speaking the same language—a territory almost surrounded by
water, or separated from the rest of Europe by a barrier of grand
mountains—its extent, ancient history, relative position, and interests,
would all seem to have a direct tendency towards bringing about this
great end. The —— of —— assured me that such was the intention of
Napoleon, who looked forward to the time when he might convert the whole
of the peninsula into a single state. Had he continued to reign, and had
he been the father of two or more sons, it is quite probable that he
would have distributed his kingdoms among them at his death; but, while
he lived, no man would have got any thing back from Napoleon Bonaparte
with his own consent.
Italy, instead of being the consolidated country that one could wish it
were, is now divided into ten states, excluding little Monaco. These
countries are, Piedmont or Sardinia, Lombardy, Modena, Parma, Massa,
Lucca, Tuscany, the Papal territories, San Marino, and the two Sicilies.
This is an approach towards consolidation; the Venetian States, the
duchy of Genoa, and a great many smaller countries being swallowed up by
their more important neighbours, as has been the case in Germany. Massa
will soon be joined to Modena,[10] and Lucca to Tuscany, which will
reduce the number of independent governments to eight,—or, deducting San
Marino, a community of no account, to seven. The entire population is
thought to be from eighteen to nineteen millions.
Footnote 10:
This junction has since been made.
The study of Italy is profitable to an American. One of the greatest,
indeed the only serious obstacle, to consolidation of all the Italian
States, arises from the hereditary hatreds and distrusts of the people
of one country to those of another. Such is it to separate the family
tie, and such would soon be our own condition were the bond of union
that now unites us severed. By playing off one portion of the country
against the others, the common enemy would plunder all.
The Italians, while they are sensible that Napoleon did them good by
introducing the vigour and improvements of France, do not extol his
reign. They justly deem him a selfish conqueror, and, I make no doubt,
joyfully threw off his yoke. The conscription appears to have been the
most oppressive of his measures; and well it might be, for, even
admitting that his ultimate ends were to be beneficial, the means were
next to intolerable. He improved the roads, invigorated the police,
reformed many abuses, and gave new impulses to society, it is true; but
in the place of the old grievances, he substituted King Stork for King
Log.
The laws and customs of the Italian countries have so many minute points
of difference, that the wishes of some of the patriots of this region
point towards a Confederated Republic, something like that of
Switzerland. Sooner or later, Italy will inevitably become a single
State: this is a result that I hold to be inevitable, though the means
by which it is to be effected are still hidden. Italy, as one nation,
would command the Mediterranean and the Adriatic, and the jealousies of
France and England are likely to oppose more obstacles to the
consolidation, than the power of Austria. The Confederation would be
played on by both these powers; and it appears to me that it is just the
worst mode of attempting a change, that could be adapted. In the absence
of great political events, to weaken the authority of the present
governments, education is the surest process, though a slow one. In no
case, the people of a country should confide in foreigners for the
attainment of their political ends. All history has shown that
communities are not to be trusted in such matters; and if I were an
Italian bent on consolidation, I would not turn my eyes beyond the Alps
for relief. After all, there is so much room for meliorations more
immediately serviceable, that perhaps the wisest way is, to direct the
present energies to reforms, rather than to revolutions; though many
here will tell you the former are to be obtained only through the
latter.
Our road soon led us into a great valley, the Alps gradually closing on
us as we advanced, until we again found ourselves in their gigantic
embraces. The Adige, a swift but brawling stream, flowed on our left,
and the country gradually lost the breadth and softness of Italy in the
peculiarities of a mountain district. About two o’clock, we passed a
village called Avio, where we changed horses. Here we got but one
postillion, short traces for the leaders, a long whip, and a new
livery,—the certain signs that we were in Germany: in fact, we had
crossed the line of the Tyrol, about a league to the southward. Roveredo
was a town of some importance, and here we began to see some of the
independence of the Tyrolese, who paid very little attention to the
printed regulations of the road. I had been furnished with a _carte de
route_, with instructions to enter any complaints about speed, delays,
or other failure to comply with the law; and this I did at one
post-house in the presence of the post-master, who had not only made a
false entry as to the time of our arrival and departure, but who was
impudent and dilatory. This complaint he endeavoured to defeat by
correcting his own entry. To effect this, he had asked me for the
way-bill; and when I found out the object, he refused to give it back
again.—Thereupon, I seized him by the collar, and wrested the paper out
of his hands. For a moment there were symptoms of blows; but,
distrusting the result, the rogue yielded. He menaced me loudly,
notwithstanding; and when I carried off the prize to the carriage, we
were surrounded by the rascal with a dozen other blackguards to back
him. He refused to give us horses, and I noted the time, on the
way-bill, again, before his face. This frightened him, and I believe he
was glad to get rid of us.
It would seem I had adopted a mode of travelling peculiarly disagreeable
to the postmasters; for, while it cost me more than the ordinary
posting, they were paid less, the government pocketing the difference.
This I did not know, or certainly I would have saved my money; but being
in the scrape, as a _pis aller_, I was determined to fight my way out of
it. I do think there is enough of Jack in me yet to have threshed the
fellow, had we got to facers,—a termination of the affair that the short
struggle gave the rascal reason to anticipate.
It was dark before we drove into a small city that stands between lofty
mountains, one of which rose like a dark wall above it, quite _à la
Suisse_. The Adige flowed through this town, which was Trent, so
celebrated for its religious council.
The inn here was semi-Swiss, semi-German. When I put the usual question
as to the price of the rooms, the landlord, a hearty Boniface-sort of a
person, laughed, and said, “You are now in Germany; give yourself no
trouble on that score.” I took him at his word, and found him honest.
There was a sort of great _sala_ in the centre of the house, that
communicated with the different apartments. Something like a dozen
escutcheons ornamented its walls; and, on examining them, I found
inscriptions to show that they had been placed there to commemorate the
visits of sundry kings and princes to the larder of mine host. Among
others, the Emperor, the late and the present Grand Dukes of Tuscany,
and the King of Bavaria, were of the number. The latter sovereign is a
great traveller, running down into Italy every year or two. The Marquis
of Hertford was also honoured with a blazonry,—probably on account of
his expenses. I have seen this usage, once or twice, in other parts of
Europe.
The next day, our road, an even, good carriageway, led up the valley of
the Adige, along a valley that might have passed for one of Switzerland,
a little softened in features. There were ruined towers on the spurs of
the mountains, and here and there was a hold that was still kept up. One
in particular, near Botzen, struck us as singularly picturesque, for it
was not easy to see how its inhabitants reached it. The costumes, too,
were singular; prettier, I thought, than any of Switzerland. The men
wore cock’s feathers, stuck obliquely with a smart air in their high
conical hats: some carried guns, and all had a freedom of manner about
them that denoted the habits of mountaineers. At Botzen we left the
Adige, following a branch, however, that was not smaller than the stream
which retains the name. The country now became more romantic and more
wild. The châteaux were of a simpler kind, though always picturesque.
The road continued good, and the horses were excellent: they reminded us
strongly of American horses. We did not arrive at Brixen until after
dark; but we found German neatness, German civility, German honesty, and
German family portraits. Every man has ancestors of some sort or other,
but one sees no necessity for lampooning them with a pencil after they
are dead.
Brixen stands in a mountain-basin, a town of a German-Swiss character.
Soon after quitting it, next morning, we began to ascend the celebrated
Pass of the Brenner, which offered nothing more than a long and winding
road among forests and common mountain scenery. We had been too recently
in Switzerland to be in ecstasies, and yet we were pleased. It began to
be stormy; and by the time we reached the post-house, the road had
several inches of snow in it. Two days before, we had been eating
cherries and strawberries at Verona!
One gets to be sophisticated in time. On landing in England, I refused a
beggar a sixpence, _because he asked for it_, my American habits
revolting at the meanness of begging. To-day A—— had a good laugh at me
for a change of character. By the arrangement at Venice, I was not
obliged to give any thing to the postillions; but I usually added a
franc to their regular receipts from the government. On this occasion
the postillion very properly abstained from asking for that which he
knew he could not properly claim. The money, however, was in my hand;
but seeing that he kept aloof, I put it up, unconsciously saying, “Hang
the fellow! if he will not ask for it, let him go without it.” This is
the way we get to be the creatures of habit, judging of nations and men
by standards that depend on accidents. Four years earlier, I should
certainly have refused the postillion, _had_ he asked for the money; and
now I denied him because he did _not_! I hope to reach the philosophical
and just medium in due time, in this as well as in some other matters.
We went a post on the mountain, a wild, without being absolutely a
savage district, before we turned the summit. This point was discovered
by the runs of water at the roadside, one of which was a tributary of
the Adige, sending its contributions to the Adriatic, while the other
flows into the Inn, which communicates with the Danube. The descent,
however, soon spoke for itself, and we went down a mountain on a scale
commensurate with that by which we had ascended.
At a turn in the road, a beautiful fairy-like scene suddenly presented
itself. There was a wide and fertile plain, through which meandered a
respectable river. Our own mountain melted away to its margin on one
side, and a noble wall of rock, some two or three thousand feet high,
bounded it on the other. Directly before us lay a town, with the usual
peculiarities of a mountain-city, though it had a cathedral, and even a
palace. This was Innspruck, the capital of the Tyrol, and the immediate
object of our journey. We drove into it at an early hour, and in time to
enjoy the play of mists, and the brilliancy of the snows that still
rendered the adjacent cliffs hoary.
We had glimpses of glaciers to-day, and saw an abbey or two in poetical
situations. Innspruck reminded us a good deal of Berne. The palace is
respectable, though not large, and the cathedral is quaint and
venerable. In the latter there is a row of knights in their ancient
armour, or, rather, a row of armour which is so placed as to resemble
knights ranged in order. I believe the armour is that of the former
sovereigns of the Tyrol.
There is also a little castle, a mile or two from the town, that now
belongs to the Emperor, and was once the hold, or palace, of the Counts
of the Tyrol. We had the curiosity to visit it. Certes, a small prince a
few centuries since lived in a very simple style. There were the
knights’ hall, a picture-gallery, and other sounding names; but a more
unsophisticated abode can hardly be imagined for a gentleman. To compare
any of these mountain-castles to a modern country-house, even in
America, is out of the question, for nothing can be plainer than most of
their accommodations. This was a little better than a common Yankee
palace, I allow, for that is the _ne plus ultra_ of discomfort and
pretension; but, after all, you might fancy yourself in a barn that had
been converted into a dwelling.
The gallery was awful—almost as bad as that one occasionally meets in an
American tavern, or that we actually enjoyed last night at Brixen.
Still, the place was quaint, and of great interest from its
associations. It even had its armour.
We are now at a stand. Vienna is on our right, Switzerland on our left,
and the last pass of the Alps is before us. Examining the map, I see the
“Iser rolling rapidly,” Munich, and a wide field of Germany in the
latter direction, and it has just been decided to push forward as far as
Saxony and Dresden before we make another serious halt.