on the pertinacity which in spite of time, which changes all things,
man shows in adhering to the old shapes of his public buildings, even
long after they have been applied to new purposes. Our churches still
retain the form of the Basilica, although probably the plan of the
temple would better suit our worship. In Italy the courts of justice
are as spacious and lofty as the means of a community are able to
make them. One can almost fancy oneself to be in the open air, where
once justice used to be administered. And do we not build our great
theatres with their offices under a roof exactly similar to those
of the first theatrical booths of a fair, which were hurriedly put
together of planks? The vast multitude of those in whom, about the
time of the Reformation, a thirst for knowledge was awakened, obliged
the scholars at our universities to take shelter as they could in the
burghers houses, and it was very long before any colleges for pupils
(_Waisenhäuser_), were built, thereby facilitating for the poor youths
the acquirement of the necessary education for the world.
* * * * *
I have spent the whole of this bright and beautiful day under the open
heaven: scarcely do I ever come near a mountain, but my interest in
rocks and stones again revives. I feel as did Antæus of old, who found
himself endued with new strength, as often as he was brought into fresh
contact with his mother earth. I rode towards Palermo, where is found
the so-called Bolognese sulphate of Barytes, out of which are made the
little cakes which, being calcined, shine in the dark, if previously
they have been exposed to the light, and which the people here call
shortly and expressively "fosfori."
On the road, after leaving behind me a hilly track of argillaceous
sandstone, I came upon whole rocks of selenite, quite visible on the
surface. Near a brickkiln a cascade precipitates its waters, into which
many smaller ones also empty themselves. At first sight the traveller
might suppose he saw before him a loamy hill, which had been worn away
by the rain; on a closer examination I discovered its true nature
to be as follows:--the solid rock of which this part of the line of
hills consists is schistous, bituminous clay of very fine strata, and
alternating with gypsum. The schistous stone is so intimately blended
with pyrites that, exposed to the air and moisture, it wholly changes
its nature. It swells, the strata gradually disappear, and there is
formed a kind of potter's clay, crumbling, shelly, and glittering on
the surface like stone-coal. It is only by examining large pieces of
both (I myself broke several, and observed the forms of both), that
it is possible to convince oneself of the transition and change. At
the same time we observed the shelly strata studded with white points,
and occasionally also variegated with yellow particles. In this way,
by degrees, the whole surface crumbles away, and the hill looks like
a mass of weather-worn pyrites on a large scale. Among the lamina
some are harder, of a green and red color. Pyrites I very often found
disseminated in the rock.
I now passed along the channels which the last violent gullies of rain
had worn in the crumbling rock, and to my great delight found many
specimens of the desired barytes, mostly of an imperfect egg-shape,
peeping out in several places of the friable stone, some tolerably
pure, and some slightly mingled with the clay in which they were
imbedded. That they have not been carried hither by external agency
any one may convince himself at the first glance; whether they were
contemporaneous with the schistous clay, or whether they first arose
from the swelling and dissolving of the latter, is matter calling for
further inquiry. Of the specimens I found, the larger and smaller
approximated to an imperfect egg-shape; the smallest might be said to
verge upon irregular crystalline forms. The heaviest of the pieces I
brought away weighed seventeen loth (81/2 oz.) Loose in the same clay,
I also found perfect crystals of gypsum. Mineralogists will be able to
point out further peculiarities in the specimens I bring with me. And
I was now again loaded with stones! I have packed up at least half a
quarter of a hundred-weight.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Bologna-Legano.]
_Oct._ 20, 1786, _in the night._
How much should I have still to say, were I to attempt to confess to
you all that in this beautiful day has passed through my mind. But
my wishes are more powerful than my thoughts. I feel myself hurried
irresistibly forward; it is only with an effort that I can collect
myself sufficiently to attend to what is before me. And it seems as if
heaven heard my secret prayer. Word has just been brought me that there
is a vetturino going straight to Rome, and so the day after to-morrow
I shall set out direct for that city; I must, therefore, to-day and
to-morrow, look after my affairs, make all my little arrangements, and
despatch my many commissions.
* * * * *
_Legano on the Apennines_, _Oct._ 21, 1786.
Whether I have to-day left Bologna, or whether I have been driven out
of it, I cannot say. Enough that I eagerly availed myself of an earlier
opportunity of quitting it. And so here I am at a wretched inn, in
company with an officer of the Pope's army, who is going to Perugia,
where he was born. In order to say something as I seated myself by
his side in the two-wheeled carriage, I paid him the compliment of
remarking, that as a German accustomed to associate with soldiers,
I found it very agreeable to have to travel with an officer of the
Pope. "Pray do not," he replied, "be offended at what I am about
to answer--it is all very well for you to be fond of the military
profession, for, in Germany, as I have heard, everything is military;
but with regard to myself, although our service is light enough, so
that in Bologna, where I am in garrison, I can do just as I like,
still I heartily wish I were rid of this jacket, and had the disposal
of my father's little property. But I am a younger son and so must be
content."
* * * * *
_Oct._ 22, 1786. _Evening._
Here, at Ciredo, which also is a little paltry place on the Apennines,
I feel myself quite happy, knowing that I am advancing towards the
gratification of my dearest wishes. To-day we were joined by a riding
party--a gentleman and a lady--an Englishman and a soi-disant sister.
Their horses are beautiful, but they ride unattended by any servants,
and the gentleman, as it appears, acts the part both of groom and valet
de chambre. Everywhere they find something to complain of--to listen to
them is like reading a few pages out of Archenholz's book.
To me the Apennines are a most remarkable portion of the world. The
great plains of the basin of the Po are followed by a hilly tract
which rises out of the bottom, in order, after running between the two
seas, to form the southern extremity of the Continent. If the hills
had been not quite so steep and high above the level of the sea, and
had not their directions crossed and recrossed each other as they do,
the ebb and flow of the tides in primeval times might have exercised
a greater and wider influence on them, and might have washed over and
formed extensive plains, in which case this would have been one of the
most beautiful regions of this glorious clime--somewhat higher than the
rest of it. As it is, however, it is a strong net of mountain ridges,
interlacing each other in all directions--one often is puzzled to know
whither the waters will find their vent. If the valleys were better
filled up, and the bottoms flatter and more irrigated, the land might
be compared to Bohemia, only that the mountains have in every respect
a different character. However, it must not for one moment be thought
of as a mountainous waste, but as a highly cultivated though hilly
district. The chestnut grows very fine here; the wheat excellent, and
that of this year's sowing, is already of a beautiful green. Along the
roads are planted ever-green oaks with their small leaves, but around
the churches and chapels the slim cypress.
* * * * *
_Perugia, October,_ 25, 1786. _Evening._
For two evenings I have not written. The inns on the road were so
wretchedly bad that it was quite useless to think of bringing out
a sheet of paper. Moreover, I begin to be a little puzzled to find
anything, for since quitting Venice the travelling bag has got more and
more into confusion.
Early in the morning (at 23 o'clock, or about 10 of our reckoning)
we left the region of the Apennines and saw Florence in an extensive
valley, which is highly cultivated and sprinkled over with villas and
houses without end.
I ran rapidly over the city, the cathedral, the baptistery. Here again
a perfectly new and unknown world opened upon me, on which, however, I
will not further dwell. The gardens of the Botoli are most delightfully
situated. I hastened out of them as fast as I had entered them.
In the city we see the proof of the prosperity of the generations who
built it; the conviction is at once forced upon us that they must
have enjoyed a long succession of wise rulers. But above all one is
struck with the beauty and grandeur which distinguish all the public
works, and roads, and bridges in Tuscany. Everything here is at once
substantial and clean; use and profit not less than elegance are alike
kept in view, everywhere we discern traces of the care which is taken
to v preserve them. The cities of the Papal States on the contrary only
seem to stand, because the earth is unwilling to swallow them up.
The sort of country that I lately remarked, the region of the
Apennines, might have been, is what Tuscany really is. As it lies so
much lower the ancient sea was able to do its duty properly, and has
thrown up here deep beds of excellent mark. It is a light yellow hue
and easily worked. They plough deep, retaining, however, most exactly
the ancient manner. Their ploughs have no wheels, and the share is not
moveable. Bowed down behind his oxen the peasant pushes it down into
the earth, and turns up the soil. They plough over a field as many as
five times, and use but little dung, which they scatter with the hands.
After this they sow the corn. Then they plough together two of the
smaller ridges into one, and so form deep trenches of such a nature
that the rain-water easily runs off the lands into them. When the corn
is grown up on the ridges, they can also pass along these trenches in
order to weed it. This way of tilling is a very sensible one, wherever
there is a fear of over-moisture; but why it is practised on these
rich, open plains I cannot understand. This remark I just made at
Arezzo, where a glorious plain expands itself. It is impossible to find
cleaner fields anywhere, not even a lump of earth is to be seen; all is
as fine as if it had been sifted. Wheat thrives here most luxuriantly,
and the soil seems to possess all the qualities required by its nature.
Every second year beans are planted for the horses, who in this country
get no oats. Lupins are also much cultivated, which at this season are
beautifully green, being ripe in March. The flax, too, is up; it stands
the winter, and is rendered more durable by frost.
The olive-trees are strange plants. They look very much like willows;
like them also they lose the heart of the wood and the bark splits.
But still they have a greater appearance of durability; and one sees
from the wood, of which the grain is extremely fine, that it is a slow
grower. The foliage, too, resembles that of the willow, only the leaves
on the branches are thinner. All the hills around Florence are covered
with olive-trees and vines, between which grain is sown, so that every
spot of ground may be made profitable. Near Arezzo and farther on,
the fields are left more free. I observed that they take little care
to eradicate the ivy which is so injurious to the olive and the vine,
although it would be so easy to destroy it. There is not a meadow to
be seen. It is said that the Indian corn exhausts the soil; since it
has been introduced, agriculture has suffered in its other crops. I can
well believe it with their scanty manuring.
Yesterday I took leave of my Captain, with a promise of visiting him
at Bologna on my return. He is a true representative of the majority
of his countrymen. Here, however, I would record a peculiarity which
personally distinguished him. As I often sat quiet and lost in thought
he once exclaimed "_Che pensa? non deve mai pensar l'uomo, pensando
s'invecchia_;" which being interpreted is as much as to say, "What are
you thinking about; a man ought never to think; thinking makes one
old." And now for another apophthegm of his; "_Non deve fermarsi l'uomo
in una sola cosa, perche allora divien matto; bisogna aver mille cose,
una confusione nella testa_;" in plain English, "A man ought not to
rivet his thoughts exclusively on any one thing, otherwise he is sure
to go mad; he ought to have in his head a thousand things, a regular
medley."
[Sidenote: A papal soldier's ideas of protestants.]
Certainly the good man could not know that the very thing that made me
so thoughtful was my having my head mazed by a regular confusion of
things, old and new. The following anecdote will serve to elucidate
still more clearly the mental character of an Italian of this class.
Having soon discovered that I was a Protestant, he observed, after
some circumlocution, that he hoped I would allow him to ask me a few
questions, for he had heard such strange things about us Protestants
that he wished to know for a certainty what to think of us. "May you,"
he said, "live with a pretty girl without being married to her? do your
priests allow you to do that? To this I replied, that our priests are
prudent folk who take no notice of such trifles. No doubt if we were
to consult them upon such a matter they would not permit it." "Are you
not then obliged to ask them?" He exclaimed; "Happy fellows! as they
do not confess you, they do not of course find it out." Hereupon he
gave vent, in many reproaches to his discontent with his own priests,
uttering at the same time loud praises of our liberty. "But," he
continued, "as regards confession; how stands it with you? We are told
that all men, even if they are not Christians, must confess; but that
inasmuch as many, from their obduracy, are debarred from the right
way, they nevertheless make confession to an old tree; which indeed is
impious and ridiculous enough, but yet serves to show that, at least,
they recognize the necessity of confession." Upon this I explained to
him our Lutheran notions of confession, and our practice concerning it.
All this appeared to him very easy; for he expressed an opinion that it
was almost the same as confessing to a tree. After a brief hesitation,
he begged of me very gravely to inform him correctly on another point.
He had, forsooth, heard from the mouth of his own confessor, (who, he
said, was a truthful man,) that we Protestants are at liberty to marry
our own sisters, which assuredly is a "chose un peu forte." As I denied
this fact, and attempted to give him a more favourable opinion of our
doctrine, he made no special remark on the latter, which evidently
appeared to him a very ordinary and every-day sort of a thing; but
turned aside my remarks by a new question. "We have been assured," he
observed, "that Frederick the Great, who has won so many victories,
even over the faithful, and filled the world with his glory--that he
whom every one takes to be a heretic is really a Catholic, and has
received a dispensation from the Pope to keep the fact secret. For
while, as is well known, he never enters any of your churches, he
diligently attends the true worship in a subterranean chapel, though
with a broken heart, because he dare not openly avow the holy religion,
since were he to do so, his Prussians, who are a British people and
furious heretics, would no doubt murder him on the instant;--and to
risk that would do no good to the cause. On these grounds the Holy
Father has given him permission to worship in secret, in return for
which he quietly does as much as possible to propagate and to favour
the true and only saving faith." I allowed all this to pass, merely
observing, as it was so great a secret no one could be a witness to its
truth. The rest of our conversation was nearly of the same cast, so
that I could not but admire the wise priests who sought to parry, and
to distort whatever was likely to enlighten or vary the dark outline of
their traditional dogmas.
I left Perugia on a glorious morning, and felt the happiness of being
once more alone. The site of the city is beautiful, and the view of
the lake in the highest degree refreshing. These scenes are deeply
impressed on my memory. At first the road went downwards, then it
entered a cheerful valley, enclosed on both sides by distant hills,
till at last Assisi lay before us.
Here, as I had learned from Palladio and Volckmann, a noble temple of
Minerva, built in the time of Augustus, was still standing in perfect
repair. At _Madonna del Angelo_, therefore, I quitted my _vetturino_,
leaving him to proceed by himself to Foligno, and set off in the face
of a strong wind for Assisi, for I longed for a foot journey through
a country so solitary for me. I left on my left the vast mass of
churches, piled Babel-wise one over another, in one of which rest the
remains of the holy S. Francis of Assisi,--with aversion, for I thought
to myself, that the people who assembled in them were mostly of the
same stamp with my captain and travelling companion. Having asked of
a good-looking youth the way to the _della Minerva_, he accompanied
me to the top of the town, for it lies on the side of a hill. At last
we reached what is properly the old town, and behold before my eyes
stood the noble edifice, the first complete memorial of antiquity
that I had ever seen. A modest temple, as befitting so small a town,
and yet so perfect, so well conceived, that anywhere it would be an
ornament. Moreover, in these matters, how grand were the ancients in
the choice of their sites. The temple stands about half way up the
mountain, where two hills meet on the level place, which is to this day
called the Piazza. This itself slightly rises, and is intersected by
the meeting of four roads, which make a somewhat dilated S. Andrew's
Cross. In all probability the houses which are now opposite the temple,
and block up the view from it, did not stand there in ancient times.
If they were removed, we should have a south prospect over a rich and
fertile country, and at the same time the temple of Minerva would be
visible from all sides. The line of the roads is, in all probability,
very ancient since they follow the shape and inclination of the hill,
The temple does not stand in the centre of the flat, but its site is
so arranged that the traveller approaching from Rome, catches a fine
fore-shortened view of it. To give an idea of it, it is necessary to
draw not only the building itself but also its happily-chosen site.
Looking at the façade, I could not sufficiently admire the genius-like
identity of design which the architects have here, as elsewhere,
maintained. The order is Corinthian, the inter-columnar spaces being
somewhat above two modules. The bases of the columns and the plinths
seem to rest on pedestale, but it is only an appearance. The socle is
cut through in five places, and at each of these, five steps ascend
between the columns, and bring you to a level, on which properly the
columns rest, and from which also you enter the temple. The bold idea
of cutting through the socle was happily hazarded; for, as the temple
is situated on a hill, the flight of steps must otherwise have been
earned up to such a height as would have inconveniently narrowed the
area of the temple. As it is, however, it is impossible to determine
how many steps there originally were; for, with the exception of a very
few, they are all choked up with dirt or paved over. Most reluctantly
did I tear myself from the sight, and determined to call the attention
of architects to this noble edifice, in order that an accurate draught
of it may be furnished. For what a sorry thing tradition is, I here
again find occasion to remark. Palladio, whom I trust in every matter,
gives indeed a sketch of this temple, but certainly he never can have
seen it himself, for he gives it real pedestals above the area, by
which means the columns appear disproportionately high, and the result
is a sort of unsightly Palmyrene monstrosity, whereas, in fact, its
look is so full of repose and beauty as to satisfy both the eye and the
mind. The impression which the sight of this edifice left upon me is
not to be expressed, and will bring forth imperishable fruits. It was a
beautiful evening, and I now turned to descend the mountain. As I was
proceeding along the Roman road, calm and composed, suddenly I heard
behind me some rough voices in dispute; I fancied that it was only the
Sbirri, whom I had previously noticed in the town. I, therefore, went
on without care, but still with my ears listening to what they might be
saying behind me. I soon became aware that I was the object of their
remarks. Four men of this body (two of whom were armed with guns,)
passed me in the rudest way possible, muttering to each other, and
turning back, after a few steps, suddenly surrounded me. They demanded
my name, and what I was doing there. I said that I was a stranger,
and had travelled on foot to Assisi, while my vetturino had gone on
to Foligno. It appeared to them very improbable, that any one should
pay for a carriage and yet travel by foot. They asked me if I had been
visiting the "Gran Convento." I answered "no;" but assured them that
I knew the building of old, but being an architect, my chief object
this time was simply to gain a sight of the Maria della Minerva, which
they must be aware was an architectural model. This they could not
contradict, but seemed to take it very ill that I had not paid a visit
to the Saint, and avowed their suspicion that my business in fact was
to smuggle contraband goods. I pointed out to them how ridiculous it
was that a man who walked openly through the streets alone, and without
packs and with empty pockets, should be taken for a contrabandist.
[Sidenote: Assisi--an adventure.]