Calais--Beau Brummell--Paris--The Polignac Ministry--Polignac and
Charles X.--The Duke of Orleans--State of Parties--Talleyrand--
Lyons--First Impressions of Mountain Scenery--Mont Cenis--
Turin--Marengo--Genoa--Road to Florence--Pisa--Florence--Lord
and Lady Burghersh--Thorwaldsen--Lord Cochrane--Rome--
St. Peter's--Frascati--Grotta Ferrata--Queen Hortense and Louis
Napoleon--Coliseum--Death of Lady Northampton--The Moses--
Gardens--Palm Sunday--Sistine Chapel--The Cardinals--Popes--
Cardinal Albani--The Farnese Palace--A Dead Cardinal--Pasquin--
Statue of Pompey--Galleries and Catacombs--Bunsen--The Papal
Benediction--Ceremonies of the Holy Week--The Grand
Penitentiary--A Confession--Protestant Cemetery--Illumination
of St. Peter's--Torlonia--Bunsen on the Forum.
[Page Head: PARIS IN MARCH 1830]
Paris, March 6th, 1830 {p.282}
I left London at three o'clock on Wednesday, the 3rd, and arrived
at Dover between twelve and one. Went over in the packet at nine
on Thursday, which was not to have sailed till twelve, but did go
at nine, principally because they heard that I had got despatches,
for I had armed myself with three passports couched in such
terms as were most likely to be useful. A good but rather long
passage--near four hours--and the day magnificent. Landed with
difficulty in boats. Detained at Calais till seven. There I had a
long conversation with Brummell about his Consulship, and was
moved by his account of his own distresses to write to the Duke
of Wellington and ask him to do what he could for him. I found
him in his old lodging, dressing; some pretty pieces of old
furniture in the room, an entire toilet of silver, and a large
green macaw perched on the back of a tattered silk chair with
faded gilding; full of gaiety, impudence, and misery.
Lord Tweeddale came over in the packet, and we dined together. He
was full of the Duke of Richmond's speech about the Duke of
Wellington the other night, which he said had annoyed the Duke of
Wellington more than anything that ever happened to him, and that
the Duke of Richmond was now equally sorry for what he had said.
He (Tweeddale) was employed to carry a message from the one Duke
to the other, which, however, the Duke of Wellington did not take
in good part, nor does it seem that he is at all disposed to lay
aside his resentment. Tweeddale ranks Richmond's talents very
highly, and says he was greatly esteemed in the army.
Left Calais at seven; travelled all night--the roads horrid in
most parts--and arrived at Paris last night at half-past twelve.
Found everything prepared--an excellent apartment, _laquais de
place_, and courier. Called on Lady Stewart and old Madame
Craufurd, and wandered about the whole day. Paris looking gay and
brilliant in the finest weather I ever saw. I find the real
business is not to begin in the Chambers till about the 10th, so
I shall not wait for it. Polignac is said to be very stout, but
the general opinion is that he will be in a minority in the
Chambers; however, as yet I have seen nobody who can give good
information about the state of parties. For the first time
(between Calais and Paris) I saw some new houses and barns
building near Abbeville and Beauvais, and the cottages near
Monsieur de Clermont-Tonnerre's mansion had a very English look.
It is Lent, and very little going on here. During the Carnival
they had a ball for the benefit of the poor, which was attended
by 5,000 people, and produced 116,000 francs. Immense sums were
given in charity, and well appropriated during the severe
weather. There are also nuns (_soeurs de charité_), who visit and
tend the sick, whose institution is far more practically useful
than anything of which our Protestant country can boast. I shall
only stay here a very few days.
[Page Head: IMPENDING CRISIS IN FRANCE]
March 8th, 1830 {p.283}
It will be difficult to get away from this place if I don't go at
once; the plot thickens, and I am in great danger of dawdling on,
Yesterday morning I walked about, visiting, and then went through
the Tuileries and the Carrousel. The Gardens were full of
well-dressed and good-looking people, and the day so fine that it
was a glorious sight. The King is, after all, hardly master of
his own palace, for the people may swarm like bees all around and
through it, and he is the only man in Paris who cannot go into
the Gardens. Dined with Standish, Brooke Greville, Madame Alfred
de Noailles and her daughter, and then went to Madame de
Flahault's to see the world and hear politics. After all, nobody
has an idea how things will turn out, or what are Polignac's
intentions or his resources. Lord Stuart[1] told me that he knew
nothing, but that when he saw all the Ministers perfectly calm
and satisfied, and heard them constantly say all would be well,
although all France and a clear majority in both Chambers seemed
to be against them, he could not help thinking they must have
some reason for such confidence, and something in reserve, of
which people were not aware. Lady Keith,[2] with whom I had a
long talk, told me that she did not believe it possible they
could stand, that there was no revolutionary spirit abroad, but a
strong determination to provide for the stability of their
institutions, a disgust at the obstinacy and pretensions of the
King, and a desire to substitute the Orleans for the reigning
branch, which was becoming very general; that Polignac is wholly
ignorant of France, and will not listen to the opinions of those
who could enlighten him. It is supposed that the King is
determined to push matters to extremity, to try the Chambers, and
if his Ministry are beaten to dissolve them and govern _par
ordonnance du Roi_, then to try and influence the elections and
obtain a Chamber more favourable than the present. Somebody told
her the other day of a conversation which Polignac had recently
had with the King, in which his Majesty said to him, 'Jules,
est-ce que vous m'êtes très-dévoué?' 'Mais oui, Sire; pouvez-vous
en douter?' 'Jusqu'à aller sur l'échafaud?' 'Mais oui. Sire, s'il
le faut.' 'Alors tout ira bien.' It is thought that he has got
into his head the old saying that if Louis XVI. had got upon
horseback he could have arrested the progress of the Revolution--
a piece of nonsense, fit only for a man 'qui n'a rien oublié ni
rien appris.' It is supposed the Address will be carried against
the Government by about 250 to 130. (It was 221 to 180. ---- has
a _tabatière Warin_ of that day, with the names of the 221 on the
lid.) All the names presented to the King yesterday for the
Presidency are obnoxious to him, but he named Royer Collard, who
had twice as many votes as any of the others. It was remarked at
the _séance royale_ that the King dropped his hat, and that the
Duke of Orleans picked it up, and they always make a great deal
of these trifles. The Duke of Orleans is, however, very well with
the Court, and will not stir, let what will happen, though he
probably feels like Macbeth before the murder of Duncan--
If chance will have me King, why let chance crown me
Without my stir.
[1] [Lord Stuart de Rothesay was then British Ambassador in
Paris.]
[2] [Married to Count de Flahault; in her own right
Baroness Keith and Nairn. She died in 1867.]
March 8th, 1830, at night {p.285}
Walked about visiting, and heard all the gossip of Paris from
little Madame Graham, who also invited me to Pozzo di Borgo's box
at the Opera. I don't mean to record the gossip and scandal
unless when I hear something out of the common way and amusing.
Dined with Stuart; Tweeddale, Gurwood, Allen, and some heavy
_attachés_; no French. He appears to live handsomely. Afterwards
to the Opera to see Taglioni, who did not dance; then to Madame
Appony's, to whom I was introduced, and we had plenty of bowing
and smirking and civilities about my family. Rather bored at the
party, and am come home quite resolved to be off on Thursday, but
am greatly puzzled about my route, for everybody recommends a
different one.
March 9th, 1830 {p.285}
Dined with M. de Flahault; met M. de Talleyrand, Madame de Dino,
General Sébastiani, M. Bertin de Vaux, Duc de Broglie, and
Montrond. Sébastiani and Bertin de Vaux are Deputies, and all
violent Oppositionists. After dinner M. de Lescure, another man,
and the young Duc de Valençay, Madame de Dino's son, came in.
They talked politics all the time, and it was curious enough to
me. Bertin is the sort of man in appearance that Tierney was, and
shrewd like him; he is brother to the editor, and principal
manager himself, of the 'Journal des Débats.' Sébastiani is slow
and pompous. The Duc de Broglie is one of the best men in France.
They all agreed that the Government cannot stand. Talleyrand is
as much against it as any of them. Sébastiani told me they should
have 280 against 130. Talleyrand said that it was quite
impossible to predict what might be the result of this contest
(if the Court pushed matters to extremity) both to France and
Europe, and that it was astonishing surrounding nations, and
particularly England, did not see how deeply they were interested
in the event. He said of us, 'Vous avez plus d'argent que de
crédit.' He looks horridly old, but seems vigorous enough and
alive to everything. After dinner they all put their heads
together and chattered politics as fast as they could. Madame de
Flahault is more violent than her husband, and her house is the
resort of all the Liberal party. Went afterwards to the Opera and
saw Maret, the Duc de Bassano, a stupid elderly bourgeois-looking
man, with two very pretty daughters. The battle is to begin in
the Chamber on Saturday or Monday on the Address. Talleyrand told
me that the next three weeks would be the most important of any
period since the Restoration. It is in agitation to deprive him
of his place of Grand Chambellan.
[Page Head: MOUNTAIN SCENERY]
Susa, March 15th, 1830, 9 o'clock. {p.286}
Just arrived at this place at the foot of Mont Cenis. Left Paris
on the 11th, at twelve o'clock at night. On the last day,
Montrond made a dinner for me at a club to see M. des Chapelles
play at whist. I saw it, but was no wiser; but I conclude he
plays very well, for he always wins, is not suspected of
cheating, and excels at all other games. At twelve I got into my
carriage, and (only stopping an hour and a half for two
breakfasts) got to Lyons in forty-eight hours and a half. Journey
not disagreeable, and roads much better than I expected,
particularly after Macon, when they became as good as in England;
but the country presents the same sterile, uninteresting
appearance as that between Calais and Paris--no hedges, no trees,
except tall, stupid-looking poplars, and no châteaux or farm-houses.
I am at a loss to know why a country should look so ill which I
do not believe is either barren or ill cultivated. Lyons is a
magnificent town. It was dark when I arrived, or rather
moonlight, but I could see that the quay we came along was fine,
and yesterday morning I walked about for an hour and was
struck with the grandeur of the place; it is like a great and
magnificent Bath; but I had not time to see much of it, and, with
beautiful weather, I set off at ten o'clock. The mountains (les
Échelles de Savoie) appear almost directly in the distance, but
it was long before I could make out whether they were clouds or
mountains.
After crossing the Pont de Beauvoisin we began to mount the
Échelles, which I did on foot, and I never shall forget the first
impression made upon me by the mountain scenery. It first burst
upon me at a turn of the road--one huge perpendicular rock above
me, a deep ravine with a torrent rushing down and a mountain
covered with pines and ilexes on the other side, and in front
another vast rock which was shining in the reflected light of the
setting sun. I never shall forget it. How I turned round and
round, afraid to miss a particle of the glorious scene. It was
the liveliest impression because it was the first. I walked
nearly to the other post with the most exquisite pleasure, but it
was dark by the time I got to La Grotta. I went on, however, all
night, very unhappy at the idea of losing a great deal of this
scenery, but consoled by the reflection that there was plenty
left. As soon as it was light I found myself in the middle of the
mountains (the Lower Alps), and from thence I proceeded across
the Mont Cenis. Though not the finest pass, to me, who had never
seen anything like it, it appeared perfectly beautiful, every
turn in the road presenting a new combination of Alpine
magnificence. Nothing is more striking than the patches of
cultivation in the midst of the tremendous rocks and precipices,
and in one or two spots there were plots of grass and evergreens,
like an English shrubbery, at the foot of enormous mountains
covered with snow. There was not a breath of air in these
valleys, and the sun was shining in unclouded brightness, so that
there was all the atmosphere of summer below with all the livery
of winter above.
The altitude of some tall crag
That is the eagle's birthplace, or some peak
Familiar with forgotten years, that shows,
Inscribed as with the silence of the thought
Upon its bleak and visionary sides,
The history of many a winter storm
Or obscure record of the path of fire.
There the sun himself
At the calm close of Summer's longest day
Rests his substantial orb; between those heights,
And on the top of either pinnacle,
More keenly than elsewhere in night's blue vault
Sparkle the stars, as of their station proud:
Thoughts are not busier in the mind of man
Than the mute agents stirring there,--alone
Here do I sit and watch.
In one place, too, I remarked high up on the side of the rugged
and barren mountain two or three cottages, to arrive at which
steps had been cut in the rock. No sign of vegetation was near,
so exactly the description of Goldsmith:--
Dear is that shed to which their souls conform,
And dear that hill that lifts them to the storm;
[Page Head: THE MONT CENIS]
In another place there was a cluster of houses and a church newly
built. Not far from Lans-le-Bourg (at the foot of Mont Cenis) is
a very strong fort, built by the King of Sardinia, which commands
the road. It has a fine effect perched upon a rock, and
apparently unapproachable. A soldier was pacing the battlement,
and his figure gave life to the scene and exhibited the immensity
of the surrounding objects, so minute did he appear. At
Lans-le-Bourg they put four horses and two mules to my carriage,
but I took my courier's horse and set off to ride up the mountain
with a guide who would insist upon going with me, and who
proposed to take me up a much shorter way by the old road, which,
however, I declined; he was on foot, and made a short cut up the
hill while I rode by the road, which winds in several turns up
the mountain. Fired with mountainous zeal, I had a mind to try
one of these short cuts, and giving my horse to Paolo (my _valet
de chambre_) set off with my guide to climb the next intervening
ascent; but I soon found that I had better have stuck to my
horse, for the immensity of the surrounding objects had deceived
me as to the distance, and the ground was so steep and slippery
that, unprepared as I was for such an attempt, I could not keep
my footing. When about half-way up, I looked ruefully round and
saw steeps above and below covered with ice and snow and loose
earth. I could not get back, and did not know how to get on. I
felt like the man who went up in a balloon, and when a mile in
the air wanted to be let out. My feelings were very like what
Johnson describes at Hawkestone in his tour in Wales. 'He that
mounts the precipices at ---- wonders how he came thither, and
doubts how he shall return; his walk is an adventure and his
departure an escape. He has not the tranquillity but the horrors
of solitude--a kind of turbulent pleasure between fright and
admiration.' My guide, fortunately, was active and strong, and
properly shod so he went first, making steps for me in the snow,
into which I put my feet after his, while with one hand I grasped
the tail of his blue frock and with the other seized bits of twig
or anything I could lay hold of; and in this ludicrous way,
scrambling and clambering, hot and out of breath, to my great joy
I at last got to the road, and for the rest of the ascent
contented myself with my post-horse, who had a set of bells
jingling at his head and was a sorry beast enough. I was never
weary, however, of admiring the scenery. The guide told me he had
often seen Napoleon when he was crossing the mountain, and that
he remembered his being caught in a _tormento_,[3] when his life
was saved by two young Savoyards, who took him on their backs
and carried him to a _rifugio_.[4] He asked them if they were
married, and, finding they were not, enquired how much was enough
to marry upon in that country, and then gave them the requisite
sum, and settled pensions of 600 francs on each of them. One is
dead, the other still receives it. As I got near the top of the
mountain the road, which had hitherto been excellent, became
execrable and the cold intense. I had left summer below and found
winter above. I looked in vain for the chamois, hares, wolves,
and bears, all of which I was told are found there. At last I
arrived at the summit, and found at the inn a friar, the only
inhabitant of the Hospice, who, hearing me say I would go there
(as my carriage was not yet come), offered to go with me; he was
young, fat, rosy, jolly, and dirty, dressed in a black robe with
a travelling-cap on his head, appeared quick and intelligent, and
spoke French and Italian. He took me over the Hospice, which is
now quite empty, and showed me two very decently furnished rooms
which the Emperor Napoleon used to occupy, and two inferior
apartments which had been appropriated to the Empress Maria
Louisa. The N.'s on the _grille_ of the door had been changed for
V.E.'s (Victor Emmanuel) and M.T.'s (Maria Theresa), and
frightful pictures of the Sardinian King and Queen have replaced
the Imperial portraits. All sorts of distinguished people have
slept there _en passant_, and do still when compelled to spend
the night on Mont Cenis. He offered to lodge and feed me, but I
declined. I told him I was glad to see Napoleon's bedroom, as I
took an interest in everything which related to that great man,
at which he seemed extremely pleased, and said, 'Ah, monsieur,
vous êtes donc comme moi.' I dined at the inn (a very bad one) on
some trout which they got for me from the Hospice--very fine
fish, but very ill dressed. The sun was setting by the time I set
off, it was dusk when I had got half-way down the descent, and
dark before I had reached the first stage. When half-way down the
descent, the last rays of the sun were still gilding the tops of
the crags above, and the contrast between that light above and
the darkness below was very fine. From what I saw of it, and from
what I guess, straining my eyes into the darkness to catch the
dim and indistinct shapes of the mountains, the Italian side is
the finest--the most wild and savage and with more variety. On
the French side you are always on the breast of the same
mountain, but on the Italian side you wind along different rocks
always hanging over a precipice with huge black, snow-topped
crags frowning from the other ridge. I was quite unhappy not to
see it. Altogether I never shall forget the pleasure of the two
days' journey and the first sight of the Alps, exceeding the
expectations I had formed, and for years I have enjoyed nothing
so much. The descent (at the beginning of which, by-the-bye, I
was very nearly overturned) only ends at this place, where I
found a tolerable room and a good fire, but the _cameriere_
stinking so abominably of garlic that he impregnated the whole
apartment.
[3] A _tormento_ (most appropriate name) is a tempest of
wind, and sleet, and snow, exceedingly dangerous to
those who are met by it.
[4] A _rifugio_ is a sort of cabin, of which there are
several built at certain distances all the way up the
mountain, where travellers may take shelter.
[Page Head: TURIN]
Turin, March 16th, 1830 {p.291}
Got here early and meant to sleep, but have changed my mind and
am going on. A fine but dull-looking town. Found the two
Forsters, who pressed me to stay. Made an ineffectual attempt to
get into the Egyptian Museum, said to be the finest in the world.
It was collected by Drovetti, the French Consul, and offered to
us for £16,000, which we declined to give, and the King of
Sardinia bought it. Forster told me that this country is rich,
not ill governed, but plunged in bigotry. There are near 400
convents in the King's dominions. It is the dullest town in
Europe, and it is because it looks so dull that I am in a hurry
to get out of it. This morning was cloudy, and presented fresh
combinations of beauty in the mountains when the clouds rolled
round their great white peaks, sometimes blending them in the
murky vapour, and sometimes exhibiting their sharp outlines above
the wreath of mist. I did not part from the Alps without casting
many a lingering look behind.
Genoa, March 18th, 1830 {p.291}
Got on so quick from Turin that I went to Alessandria that night,
and set off at half-past six yesterday morning. Crossed the field
of battle of Marengo, a boundless plain (now thickly studded with
trees and houses), and saw the spot where Desaix was killed. The
bridge over the Bormida which Melas crossed to attack the French
army is gone, but another has been built near it. The Austrians
or Sardinians have taken down the column which was erected to the
memory of Desaix on the spot where he fell; they might as well
have left it, for the place will always be celebrated, though
they only did as the French had done before. After the battle of
Jena they took down the Column of Rossbach,[5] but that was
erected to commemorate the victory, and this the death of the
hero. I feel like Johnson--'far far from me and my friends be
that frigid philosophy which can make us pass unmoved over any
scenes which have been consecrated by virtue, by valour, or by
wisdom'--and I strained the eyes of my imagination to see all the
tumult of this famous battle, in which Bonaparte had been
actually defeated, yet (one can hardly now tell how) was in the
end completely victorious. This pillar might have been left, too,
as a striking memorial of the rapid vicissitudes of fortune: the
removal of it has been here so quick, and at Rossbach so tardy, a
reparation of national honour.
[5] The battle of Rossbach was gained by Frederick the
Great over the French and Austrians in 1757.
[Page Head: PALACES AND CHURCHES OF GENOA]
The Apennines are nothing after the Alps, but the descent to
Genoa is very pretty, and Genoa itself exceeds everything I ever
saw in point of beauty and magnificence.
How boldly doth it front us, how majestically--
Like a luxurious vineyard: the hill-side
Is hung with marble fabrics, line o'er line,
Terrace o'er terrace, nearer still and nearer
To the blue heavens, here bright and sumptuous palaces
With cool and verdant garden interspersed.
* * * * * *
While over all hangs the rich purple eve.
MILMAN's _Fall of Jerusalem_.
I passed the whole day after I got here in looking into the
palaces and gardens and admiring the prospect on every side. You
are met at every turn by vestiges of the old Republic; in fact,
the town has undergone very little alteration for hundreds of
years, and there is an air of gaiety and bustling activity which,
with the graceful costume of the men and women, make it a most
delightful picture. Genoa appears to be a city of palaces, and
although many of the largest are now converted to humbler uses,
and many fallen to decay, there are ample remains to show the
former grandeur of the princely merchants who were once the lords
of the ocean. Everything bespeaks solidity, durability, and
magnificence. There are stupendous works which were done at the
expense of individuals. In every part of the town are paintings
and frescoes, which, in spite of constant exposure to the
atmosphere, have retained much of their brilliancy and freshness.
The palaces of Doria are the most interesting; but why the Senate
gave him that which bears still the inscription denoting its
being their gift it is difficult to say, when his own is so
superior and in a more agreeable situation. The old palace of
Andrew is now let for lodgings, and the Pamfili Doria live at
Rome. The walls are covered with inscriptions, and I stopped to
read two on stone slabs on the spot where the houses of
malefactors had formerly stood, monuments of the vindictive laws
of the Republic, which not only punished the criminal himself,
but consigned his children to infamy and his habitation to
destruction; though they stand together they are not of the same
date. There is no temptation to violate the decree by building
again on the spot, for they are in a narrow, dirty court, to
which light can scarcely find access. The Ducal Palace now
belongs to the Governor. It has been modernised, but in the dark
alleys adjoining there are remains demonstrative of its former
extent--pictures of the different Doges in fresco on the walls
half erased, and little bridges extending from the windows (or
doors) of the palace to the public prisons and other adjoining
buildings. The view from my _albergo_ (_della villa_) is the
gayest imaginable, looking over the harbour, which is crowded
with sailors and boats full of animation.
[Page Head: PALACES AND CHURCHES OF GENOA]
_Evening._--Passed the whole day seeing sights. Called on Madame
Durazzo, and went with her and her niece, Madame Ferrari, to the
King's palace, formerly a Durazzo palace. Like the others, a fine
house, full of painting and gilding, and with a terrace of black
and white marble commanding a view of the sea. The finest picture
is a Paul Veronese of a Magdalen with our Saviour. The King and
Queen sleep together, and on each side of the royal bed there is
an assortment of ivory palms, crucifixes, boxes for holy water,
and other spiritual guards for their souls. For the comfort of
their bodies he has had a machine made like a car, which is drawn
up by a chain from the bottom to the top of the house; it holds
about six people, who can be at pleasure elevated to any storey,
and at each landing-place there is a contrivance to let them in
and out. From thence to the Brignole Palace (called the Palazzo
Rosso), where I met M. and Madame de Brignole, who were very
civil and ordered a scientific footman to show us the pictures.
They are numerous and excellent, but we could only take a cursory
look at them; the best are the Vandykes, particularly a Christ
and a portrait of one of the Brignoles on horseback, and a
beautiful Carlo Dolce, a small bleeding Christ. I saw the
churches--San Stefano, Annunziata, the Duomo, San Ambrosio, San
Cyro. There are two splendid pictures in the Ambrosio, a Guido
and a Rubens; the Martyrdom in the San Stefano, by Julio Romano
and Raphael, went to Paris and was brought back in 1814. The
churches have a profusion of marble, and gilding, and frescoes;
the Duomo is of black and white marble, of mixed architecture,
and highly ornamented--all stinking to a degree that was
perfectly intolerable, and the same thing whether empty or full;
it is the smell of stale incense mixed with garlic and human
odour, horrible combination of poisonous exhalations. I must say,
as everybody has before remarked, that there is something highly
edifying in the appearance of devotion which belongs to the
Catholic religion; the churches are always open, and, go into
them when you will, you see men and women kneeling and praying
before this or that altar, absorbed in their occupation, and who
must have been led there by some devotional feeling. This seems
more accordant with the spirit and essence of religion than to
have the churches, as ours are, opened like theatres at stated
hours and days for the performance of a long service, at the end
of which the audience is turned out and the doors are locked till
the next representation. Then the Catholic religion makes no
distinctions between poverty and wealth--no pews for the
aristocracy well warmed and furnished, or seats set apart for the
rich and well dressed; here the church is open to all, and the
beggar in rags comes and takes his place by the side of the lady
in silks, and both, kneel on the same pavement, for the moment at
least and in that place reduced to the same level.
I saw the Ducal Palace, where there are two very fine halls,[6]
the old Hall of Audience and the Hall of Council, the latter 150
by 57 feet; and the Doria Palace, delightfully situated with a
garden and fine fountain, and a curious old gallery opening upon
a marble terrace, richly painted, gilt and carved, though, now
decayed. Here the Emperor Napoleon lived when he was at Genoa,
preferring Andrew Doria's palace to a better lodging: he had some
poetry in his ambition after all. Lastly to the Albergo dei
Poveri,[7] a noble institution, built by a Brignole and enriched
by repeated benefactions; like all the edifices of the old
Genoese, vast and of fine proportions. The great staircase and
hall are adorned with colossal statues of its benefactors (among
whom are many Durazzos), and the sums that they gave or
bequeathed are commemorated on the pedestals. In the chapel is a
piece of sculpture by Michael Angelo, a dead Christ and Virgin
(only heads), and an altarpiece by Puget. Branching out from the
chapel are two vast chambers, lofty, airy, and light, one for the
men, the other for the women. About 800 men and 1,200 or 1,300
women are supported here. Many of the nobles are said to be
rich--Ferrari, Brignole, Durazzo, and Pallavicini particularly. I
forgot to mention the chapel and tomb of Andrew Doria; the chapel
he built himself; his body, arrayed in princely robes, lies in
the vault. There is a Latin inscription on the chapel, signifying
that he stood by the country in the days of her affliction. It is
a pretty little chapel full of painting and gilding. In the early
part of the Revolution the tomb narrowly escaped destruction, but
it was saved by the solidity of its materials. I gave the man who
showed me this tomb a franc, and he kissed my hand in a transport
of gratitude.
[6] They are left just in the state in which they were in
the time of the Republic; the balustrade still
surrounds the elevated platform on which the throne of
the Doge was placed.
[7] The Albergo dei Poveri and the Scoghetti Gardens
pleased me more than anything I saw in Genoa. I am
sorry I did not see the Sordi e Muti, which is
admirably conducted, and where the pupils by all
accounts perform wonders. The Albergo is managed by a
committee consisting of the principal nobles in the
town. The Scoghetti Gardens are delightfully laid out;
there is a shrubbery of evergreens with a cascade, and
a summer-house paved with tiles--two or three rooms in
it, and a hot and cold bath. It is astonishing how they
cherish the memory of 'Lord Bentinck.'[7a] I heard of him in
various parts of the town, particularly here, as he
lived in the house when first he came to Genoa. The
Gardens command a fine view of the city, the sea, and
the mountains. The saloon in the Serra is only a very
splendid room, glittering with glass, and gold, and
lapis lazuli; by no means deserves to be called, as it
is by Forsyth, the finest saloon in Europe. It is not
very large, and not much more gilt than Crockford's
drawing-room, but looks cleaner, though it has been
done these seventy years or more.
[7a] [Lord William Bentinck was Mr. Greville's uncle.]
[Page Head: SESTRI AND PISA]
Florence, March 21st, 1830 {p.296}
Arrived here at seven o'clock. Left Genoa on the 19th (having
previously gone to see the Scoghetti Gardens and the Serra
Palace), and went to Sestri to pass that evening and the next
morning with William Ponsonby, who was staying there. The road
from Genoa to Chiavari is one continual course of magnificent
scenery, winding along the side of the mountains and hanging over
the sea, the mountains studded with villages, villas, and
cottages which appear like white specks at a distance, till on
near approach they swell into life and activity. The villas are
generally painted as at Genoa; the orange trees were in full
bloom, and the gardens often slope down to the very margin of the
sea. Every turn in the road and each fresh ascent supplies a new
prospect, and the parting view of Genoa, with the ocean before
and the Apennines behind, cannot be imagined by those who have
not seen it. 'Si quod vere natura nobis dedit spectaculum in hac
tellure vere gratum et philosopho dignum, id semel, mihi
contigisse arbitror, cum ex celsissimâ rupe speculabundus ad oram
maris mediterranei, hinc aequor caeruleum, illinc tractus Alpinos
prospexi, nihil quidem magis dispar aut dissimile nec in suo
genere magis egregium et singulare.'[8]
[8] Burnet's 'Theory of the Earth.'
Chiavari and Sestri are both beautiful, especially the latter, in
a little bay with a jutting promontory, a rocky hill covered with
evergreens, and shrubs, and heather, and affording grand and
various prospects of the still blue sea and the white and shining
coast with the dark mountains behind--
A sunny bay
Where the salt sea innocuously breaks
And the sea breeze as innocently breathes
On Sestri's leafy shores--a sheltered hold
In a soft clime encouraging the soil
To a luxuriant beauty.
[Page Head: FLORENCE]
The mountain road from Chiavari to La Spezzia presents the same
scenery as far as Massa and Carrara, which I unfortunately lost
by travelling in the night. I crossed the river in the boat by
candle-light, which was picturesque enough, the scanty light
gleaming upon the rough figures who escorted me and plied the
enormous poles by which they move the ferry-boat. Got to Pisa to
breakfast (without stopping at Lucca), and passed three hours
looking at the Cathedral, Leaning Tower, Baptistry, and Campo
Santo, the last of which alone would take up the whole day to be
seen as it ought. The Cathedral is under repair; the pictures
have been covered up or taken down, and the whole church was full
of rubbish and scaffolding; but in this state I could see how
fine it is, and admire the columns which Forsyth praises, and the
roof and many of the marbles. The Grand Duke has ordered it all
to be cleaned, and very little of it to be altered. One
alteration, however, is in very bad taste; he has taken away the
old confessionals of carved wood, and substituted others of
marble, fixed in the wall, which are exactly like modern
chimney-pieces, and have the worst effect amidst the surrounding
antiquities. The exterior is rather fantastic, but the columns
are beautiful, and John of Bologna's bronze doors admirable. The
Campo Santo is full of ancient tombs, frescoes, modern busts, and
morsels of sculpture of all ages and descriptions. The Leaning
Tower[9] is 190 feet high, and there are 293 steps to the top of
it, which I climbed up to view the surrounding country, but it
was not clear enough to see the sea and Elba. Here is the finest
aqueduct I have seen, which continues to pour water into the
town. Part of the old wall[10] with its towers is still standing.
These pugnacious republics, who were always squabbling with each
other and wasting their strength in civil broils, erected very
massive defences. The Pisans are proud of their ancient exploits.
The San Stefano or Chiesa dei Cavalieri is full of standards
taken from the Turks, and the man who showed me the Campo Santo
said that a magnificent Grecian vase which is there had been
brought from Genoa by the Pisans before the foundation of Rome.
There are Egyptian, Etruscan, Roman, and Grecian remains, which
have been plundered, or conquered, or purchased by patriotic
Pisans to enrich their native city. The frescoes are greatly
damaged. I went to look at the celebrated house 'Alla Giornata,'
a white marble palace on the Arno; the chains still hang over the
door, and there is an inscription above them which looks modern.
My _laquais de place_ told me what I suppose is the tradition of
the place--that the son of the family was taken by the Turks, and
that they had captured a Turk, who was put in chains; that an
exchange was agreed upon, and the prisoners on either side
released, and that the chains were hung up and the inscription
added, signifying that the Turk was at liberty to go again into
the light of day. But it was a lame and improbable story, and I
prefer the mystery to the explanation.
[9] There was another leaning edifice, but the Grand Duke
had it pulled down; it was thought dangerous.
[10] It had been destroyed, but was restored by the Medici
or the present family.
Much as I was charmed with the mountains, I was not sorry, for a
change, to get into the rich, broad plain of Tuscany, full of
vineyards and habitations along the banks of the Arno. The voice
and aspect of cheerfulness is refreshing after a course of rugged
and barren grandeur; the road is excellent and the travelling
rapid. Yesterday being a holiday, and to-day Sunday, the whole
population in their best dresses have been out on the road, and
very good-looking they generally are. There are not more beggars
than in France, and certainly a far greater appearance of
prosperity throughout the north of Italy than in any part of
France I have seen, although there are the same complaints of
distress and poverty here that are heard both there and in
England. Thorwaldsen, the sculptor, is in this inn, and the King
of Bavaria left it this morning. The book of strangers is rather
amusing; the entries are sometimes remarkable or ridiculous. I
found 'La Duchesse de Saint-Leu et le Prince Louis-Napoléon; Lord
and Lady Shrewsbury and family; Miss Caroline Grinwell, of New
York; the King of Bavaria (not down in the book though);
Thorwaldsen'. Tuscany seems to be flourishing and contented; the
Government is absolute but mild, the Grand Duke enormously rich.
March 23rd, 1830 {p.299}
Yesterday morning breakfasted with Lord Normanby, who has got a
house extending 200 feet in front, court, garden, and stables for
about £280 a year, everything else cheap in proportion, and upon
£2,000 a year a man may live luxuriously. His house was
originally fitted up for the Pretender, and C. R.'s are still to
be seen all over the place. Called on Lord Burghersh,[11] who was
at breakfast--the table covered with manuscript music, a
pianoforte, two fiddles, and a fiddler in the room. He was full
of composition and getting up his opera of 'Phaedra' for
to-morrow night. The Embassy is the seat of the Arts, for Lady
Burghersh has received the gift of painting as if by inspiration,
and she was in a brown robe in the midst of oils, and brushes,
and canvas; and a model was in attendance, some part of whose
person was to be introduced into a fancy piece. She copies
pictures in the Gallery, and really extraordinarily well if it be
true that till a year ago she had never had a brush in her hand,
and that she is still quite ignorant of drawing.
[11] [Lord Burghersh, afterwards Earl of Westmoreland, was
then British Minister at Florence.]
Went into two or three of the churches, then to the Gallery, and
sat for half an hour in the Tribune, but could not work myself
into a proper enthusiasm for the 'Venus,' whose head is too small
and ankles too thick, but they say the more I see her the more I
shall like her. I prefer the 'Wrestlers,' and the head of the
'Remontleur' is the only good _head_ I have seen, the only one
with expression. 'Niobe' is fine, but I can't bear her children,
except one. Then to the Casine on horseback to see the town and
the world: it seems a very enjoyable place. This morning again
dropped into some of the churches, after which I have always a
hankering, though there is great sameness in them, but I have a
childish liking for Catholic pomp. The fine things are lost
amidst a heap of rubbish, but there is no lack of marble, and
painting, and gilding in most of them. They are going on with the
Medici Chapel, on which millions have been wasted and more is
going after, for the Grand Duke is gradually finishing the work.
The profusion of marble is immense, and very fine and curious if
examined in detail; the precious stones are hardly seen, and when
they are, not to be recognised as such. To the Pitti Palace, of
which one part is under repair and not visible, but I saw most of
the best pictures. I like pictures better than statues. It is a
beautiful palace, and well furnished for show. Nobody knows what
Vandyke was without coming here. To the Gabinetto Fisico, and
saw all the wax-works, the progress of gestation, and the
representation of the plague, incomparably clever and well
executed. I saw nothing disgusting in the wax-works in the
museum, which many people are so squeamish about.
Before dinner yesterday called upon Thorwaldsen, who was in the
inn, to tell him Lord Gower likes his 'Ganymede.' He was mighty
polite, squeezed my hand, and reconducted me to my own door. At
night went to the Opera and heard David and Grisi in 'Ricciardo e
Zoraida.' She is like Pasta in face and figure, but much
handsomer, though with less expression. She is only eighteen. He
has lost much of his voice, and embroiders to make up for it, but
every now and then he appears to find it again, and his taste and
expression are exquisite. To-night at a child's ball at Lady
Williamson's, where I was introduced to Lord Cochrane, and had a
great deal of talk with him; told him I thought things would
explode at last in England, which he concurred in, and seemed to
like the idea of it, in which we differ, owing probably to the
difference of our positions; he has nothing, and I everything, to
lose by such an event.
[Page Head: FLORENCE]
March 25th, 1830 {p.301}
Went yesterday morning to Santa Croce to hear a Mass on the
completion of a monument which has been erected to Dante; very
crowded and the music indifferent. Afterwards to the Gallery and
saw all the cabinets, but we were hurried through them too
rapidly. I began to like the 'Venus' better, best of all the
statues. The 'Niobe'[12] cannot have been a group, nor the
children have belonged to the mother. Rode to Normanby's villa at
Sesto, five miles from Florence; a large and agreeable house,
gardens full of fountains, statues, busts, orange and lemon
trees, shrubs and flowers. He pays 600 dollars a year for it,
exclusive of the race-ground. In the evening to Burghersh's
opera, which was very well performed; pretty theatre, crowded to
suffocation. All the actors amateurs;[13] chorus composed of
divers ladies and gentlemen of Florence, principally English.
Here all the society of Florence was assembled in nearly equal
proportions of Italians, English, and other foreigners. Nothing
can be worse than it is, for there is no foundation of natives,
and the rest are generally the refuse of Europe, people who come
here from want of money or want of character. Everybody is
received without reference to their conduct, past or present,
with the exception, perhaps, of Englishwomen who have been
divorced, whose case is too notorious to allow the English
Minister's wife to present them at Court.
[12] The 'Niobe' is supposed to have been a group upon some
temple
[Illustration: Schematic of Temple Arch]
so, of which the mother was the centre figure; this
makes it more probable, but the difficulty to this
hypothesis is, that there do not appear to be the
necessary gradations in the size or altitude of the
other figures; the sons in the 'Laocoon' are certainly
little men.
[13] Phaedra Miss Williams Soprano.
Hippolytus Madame Vigano Contralto.
The Girl Madame de Bombelles Soprano.
Theseus Goretti Tenor.
Attendant Franceschini Bass.
March 26th, 1830 {p.302}
Yesterday morning to a Mass at the Annunziata, to which the Grand
Duke came in state, with his family and Court. The piazza was
lined with guards; seven coaches-and-six with his _guardia
nobile_ and running footmen; the Mass beautifully performed by
his band, Tacchinardi (father of Madame Persiani, I believe)
singing and Manielli directing. Then rode to Lord Cochrane's
villa, where we found them under a matted tent in the garden,
going to dinner. He talks of going to Algiers to see the French
attack it. He has made £100,000 by the Greek bonds. It is a pity
he ever got into a scrape; he is such a fine fellow, and so
shrewd and good-humoured. To the Certosa, on a hill two miles
from Florence; very large convent, formerly very rich, and had
near forty monks, now reduced to seven residents, though there
are a few more who belong to it, but who are absent. It is in
good repair, but looks desolate. There is an old monk, Don
Fortunatus by name, who understands English and speaks it
tolerably, delights in English people and books, received us in
his cell, which consists of two or three little apartments, not
uncomfortable and commanding a beautiful view; talked with great
pleasure of his English acquaintance, and showed all their cards,
which he treasured up. A very lively, good-humoured old friar.
Returned to ride in the Corso, which is a narrow street going
from the Duomo to the Annunziata, to drive up and down which is
one of the ceremonies of the day (Lady Day), as the people are
supposed to go and pay their respects to the Virgin. In the
evening to the Opera and heard David again.
[Page Head: ROME]
Rome, March 29th, 1830 {p.303}
Set off yesterday morning at half-past seven from Florence, and
arrived here at six this evening in a fine glowing sunset,
straining my eyes to catch interesting objects, and trying in
vain to make out the different hills. The last two days at
Florence I went to the Gallery and Pitti Palace again with the
Copleys. Half the rooms were shut up when I was at the Pitti
before, but we now saw them all, and probably the finest
collection of pictures in the world. The Raphaels, Rubens, Andrea
del Sartos, and Salvators I liked the best. On Saturday evening
went to Court and was presented to the Grand Duke, who is
vulgar-looking and has bad manners; but the whole thing is rather
handsome. Stopped at Siena to see the cathedral; very fine,
the ancient fount beautiful. The mutilated Graces I am not
connoisseur enough to appreciate, but the illuminated Missals of
the thirteenth century I thought admirable, both for the
colouring and the drawing, and as exquisitely finished as any
miniature. The entrance to Rome through the Porta del Popolo
appeared very fine, but I was disappointed in the first distant
view of the city from the hill above Viterbo. I passed Radicofani
in the dark, and saw little to admire in the Lake of Bolsena or
the surrounding country. The women throughout Italy appeared very
handsome, one quite beautiful at Siena.
March 30th, 1830 {p.303}
This morning I awoke very early, and could not rest till I had
seen St. Peter's; so set off in a hackney coach, drove by the
Piazza della Colonna and the Castle of St. Angelo (which burst
upon me unexpectedly as I turned on the bridge), and got out
as soon as St. Peter's was in sight. My first feeling was
disappointment, but as I advanced towards the obelisk, with the
fountains on each side, and found myself in that ocean of space
with all the grand objects around, delight and admiration
succeeded. As I walked along the piazza and then entered the
church, I felt that sort of breathless bewilderment which was
produced in some degree by the first sight of the Alps. Much as I
expected I was not disappointed. St. Peter's sets criticism at
defiance; nor can I conceive how anybody can do anything but
admire and wonder there, till time and familiarity with its
glories shall have subjected the imagination to the judgment. I
then came home and went with Morier to take a cursory view of the
city and blunt the edge of curiosity. In about five hours I
galloped over the Forum, Coliseum, Pantheon, St. John Lateran,
Santa Maria Maggiore, the Vatican, and several arches and
obelisks. I cannot tell which produced the greatest impression,
St. Peter's or the Coliseum; but if I might only have seen one it
should be the Coliseum, for there can be nothing of the same kind
besides.[14]
[14] Of the same kind there is, at Pompeii, but not near so
fine; more perfect as a specimen, far less beautiful as
an object. And the amphitheatre at Verona, but that is
very inferior.
[Page Head: SIGHTS OF ROME]
They only who have seen Rome can have an idea of the grandeur of
it and of the wonders it contains, the treasures of art and the
records of antiquity. Of course I had the same general idea of
there being much to see that others have, but was far from being
prepared for the reality, which exceeds my most sanguine
expectations. The Vatican alone would require years to be
examined as it deserves. It is remarkable, however, how the
pleasure of the imagination arising from antiquities depends upon
their accidents. The busts, statues, columns, tombs, and
fragments of all sorts are heaped together in such profusion
at the Vatican that the eyes ache at them, the senses are
bewildered, and we regard them (with some exceptions) almost
exclusively as objects of art, and do not feel the interest
which, separately, they might inspire by their connection with
remote ages, whereas there is scarcely one of those, if it were
now to be discovered, that would not excite the greatest
curiosity, and be, in the midst of the ruins to which it belongs,
an object of far greater interest than a finer production which
had taken its splendid but frigid position in this collection. We
went to the Sistine Chapel, and saw Michael Angelo's frescoes,
which Sir Joshua Reynolds says are the finest paintings in the
world, and which the unlearned call great rude daubs. I do not
pretend to the capacity of appreciating their merits, but was
very much struck with the ease, and grace, and majesty of some of
the figures; it was, however, too dark to see the 'Last
Judgment.' I ended by St. Peter's again, where there were many
devout Catholics praying round the illuminated tomb of the
Apostle, and many foolish English poking into it to stare and ask
questions, the answers to which they did not understand. I have
but one fault to find, and that is with the Glory, a miserable
transparency in the great window opposite the entrance, throwing
a yellow light upon the Dove, which has the most paltry effect,
and is utterly unworthy of the grandeur of such a place.
April 1st, 1830 {p.305}
Yesterday morning at nine o'clock went with Edward Cheney and
George Hamilton to Frascati to dine with Henry Fox, who has got a
villa there. As soon as we arrived Cheney and I walked over to
Grotta Ferrata to see Domenichino's frescoes. The convent is
about a mile and a half off, large, formerly rich, full of monks,
and a fortress; also the scene of various miracles performed by
St. Nilo, the founder and patron saint; now tenanted by a few
beggarly friars, and part of it let to Prince Gagarin, the
Russian Minister, as a villa. Domenichino sought and found an
asylum there in consequence of some crime he had committed or
debt he had incurred; he stayed there two years, and in return
for the hospitality of the monks adorned their chapel with (some
think) the finest frescoes in the world. They are splendid
pictures, and all painted by his own hand.
At dinner we had Hortense, the ex-Queen of Holland, her son,
Prince Louis Napoleon, her lady in waiting, Lady Sandwich and her
daughter, Cheney, Hamilton, Lord Lovaine, and Fordwich. We
dined in the garden, but there was too much wind for a _fête
champêtre_. Hortense is not near so ugly as I expected, very
unaffected and gay, and gives herself no royal airs. The only
difference between her and anybody else was that, after dinner,
when she rose from table, her own servant presented her with a
finger-glass and water, which nobody else had. She is called
Madame.
We returned by moonlight, and though I did not go into the
Coliseum, because the moon was not full enough, it looked fine,
and the light shining through the lower arches had a beautiful
effect. This morning went a long round of sights--Caesar's
Palace, of which there are no remains but fragments of walls; it
really does 'grovel on earth in indistinct decay.' Caracalla's
Baths, which are stupendous; the _custode_ showed us a room in
which were heaped up bits of marble of all sorts and sizes,
fragments of columns and friezes; and he told us that they never
excavated without finding something. And Titus's Baths, less
magnificent but equally curious, because they contain the remains
of the Golden House of Nero, on which Titus built his Thermae.
The ruins are, in fact, part of the Golden House, for the Thermae
have been altogether destroyed. Then to the Capitol, Forum,
Temple of Vesta, Fortuna Virilis, and other places with Morier.
The Capitol contains an interesting collection of busts and
statues of all the Emperors, most famous characters of ancient
Rome and Greece together, with various magnificent objects of
art. By dint of repeatedly seeing their effigies, one becomes
acquainted with the faces of these worthies. These tastes grow
upon one strangely at Rome, and there is a sort of elevation
arising from this silent intercourse with the 'great of old.'
Proud names, who once the reins of empire held,
In arms who triumphed, or in arts excell'd,
Chiefs graced with scars, and prodigal of blood,
Stern patriots who for sacred freedom stood,
Just men by whom impartial laws were given,
And saints who taught, and led the way to heaven.
TICKELL.
There has been a wrangle about the Borghese Gardens which the
Prince ordered to be shut up; the Government remonstrated, and a
correspondence ensued which ended in their being reopened to the
public, whom he has no right to exclude. Paul V. gave the
Borghese Gardens to his nephew (Aldobrandini) with a condition
that they should always be open to the public, which they have
been from then till now. They were a part of the Cenci property,
which was immense, and confiscated by an enormous piece of
injustice.
[Page Head: SIGHTS OF ROME]
April 3rd, 1830 {p.307}
Went on Thursday to Lady Mary Deerhurst's and the Duchess
Torlonia's, where all the English in Rome (or rather all the most
vulgar) were assembled. Yesterday morning to the Colonna Palace,
Museum of the Capitol, Baths of Diocletian, now Church of Santa
Maria degli Angeli, which are very remarkable because built on
the baths, of which it has preserved the form; San Pietro in
Vincoli, San Bernardo, all built on the site and amidst the ruins
of Titus's and Vespasian's Baths; in various parts the old
pavement is preserved, which shows how magnificent they must have
been, for it is all of giallo, verd antique, porphyry, &c. To the
garden of the Maronite Convent to see the Coliseum, whence there
is the finest view of it in Rome. Then to the Coliseum, and
walked all over the ruins while a parcel of friars with covered
faces were chanting and praying at each of the altars in
succession round the circle below (called the Via Crucis).
I called yesterday morning on M. de la Ferronays, the French
Ambassador, who was very civil and obliging. Dined in the evening
with Lord Haddington, Lovaine, Morier, Prince Gagarin the Russian
Minister, Cheney, and M. Dedel. After dinner George Hamilton came
in and said that Lady Northampton had died suddenly at five
o'clock. I never saw her, but they say she was a very good sort
of woman, and remarkably clever, which good sort of women seldom
are. She had written a poem full of genius and imagination. Lord
Northampton was absent at a _scavo_ he has forty miles off.
There has been no rain here for two months, and the clouds of
dust are insupportable; as it is the town in Europe best supplied
with water (there are three aqueducts; the ancients had sixteen)
so it is the worst watered. The excavations which are going on
(though languidly) are always producing something. Two busts,
said to be fine, were found the day before yesterday at the
Borghese Villa at Frascati.
I saw yesterday at San Pietro in Vincoli Michael Angelo's famous
Moses. It may be very fine, but to my eye is merely a colossal
statue; the two horns are meant to represent rays of light; but
how can rays of light be represented in marble, any more than the
breath? It is impossible to make marble imitate that which is
impalpable. The beard is ropy and unnatural; it is, however, an
imposing sort of figure. But I am more sensible to painting than
to sculpture. I delight in almost everything of Domenichino's,
who is only inferior (if inferior) to Raphael. As to Michael
Angelo, he speaks a language the unlearned do not understand; his
merit, acknowledged to be transcendent as it is by all artists,
cannot be questioned; but he must serve as a model to form future
excellence, and not be expected to produce present delight,
except to those who, by long study, have learnt to comprehend and
appreciate him.
_Evening._--This morning to the tomb of the Scipios, Catacombs,
Cecilia Metella (from which I wonder they don't take the
battlements), the Circus of Maxentius, Temple of Bacchus, the
Fountain of Egeria, San Stefano Rotondo, Temple of Pallas, Arches
of Drusus and Dollabella, and the Borghese Villa and Gardens. The
ruins of the Gaetani Castle are rather picturesque, but they
spoil the tomb, which would be far finer without its turrets. The
Circus is as curious as anything I have seen, for it looks like a
fresh ruin. Old Torlonia furbished it up at his own expense,
and brought to light the inscription which proved it to be
Maxentius's instead of Caracalla's Circus. The remains are so
perfect that it is easy to trace the whole arrangement of the
ancient games. Forsyth says very truly that the Fountain of
Egeria is a mere trough; but everybody praises the water, which
is delicious, and it falls with a murmur which invites to
idleness and contemplation. This fountain has been beautifully
sung, but it is a miserable ruin, ill deserving of such strains.
In vallum Egeriae descendimus et speluncas
Dissimiles veris--quanto praestantius esset
Numen aquae, viridi si margine clauderet undas
Herba, nec ingenuum violarent marmora tophum.
JUVENAL.
A little wood of firs, and pines, and ilexes about thirty or
forty years old is pointed out as the grove in which Numa used to
meet the nymph. In all the views on one side Soracte is a
striking object, as it
From out the plain
Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break
And on the curl hangs pausing.
I like this side of Rome, where the aqueducts stride over the
Campagna, and the ruins of the mighty Claudian tower over the
pigmy arches of the Pope, like the genius of ancient over that of
modern Rome. The Borghese is the _beau idéal_ of a villa; lofty,
spacious apartments, adorned with statues, busts, and marbles,
painting and gilding, and magnificent gardens; but deserted by
its owner, who has only been there once in the last thirty years,
and untenable in the summer from malaria, which is very
unaccountable, for it is close to Rome, high, and full of trees;
but nobody knows anything about the malaria. The Gardens are the
fashionable lounge, but after June nobody can walk there. Though
the Prince never comes here he has just bought a large piece of
ground between the Porta del Popolo and the Gardens, and is
making a handsome entrance, has already built gates and some ugly
Egyptian imitations, and is making a waterfall. I dined with Lady
William Russell, and set off to go to Queen Hortense in the
evening, but found so few carriages in the court that we would
not go in.
[Page Head: THE SISTINE CHAPEL]
April 4th, 1830 {p.309}
To the Sistine Chapel for the ceremonies of Palm Sunday; we got
into the body of the chapel, not without difficulty; but we saw
M. de la Ferronays in his box, and he let us in (Morier and me).
It was only on a third attempt I could get there, for twice the
Papal halberdiers thrust me back, and I find since it is lucky
they did not do worse; for upon some occasion one of them knocked
a cardinal's eye out, and when he found who he was, begged his
pardon, and said he had taken him for a bishop. Here I had a fine
opportunity of seeing the frescoes, but they are covered
with dirt, the 'Last Judgment' neither distinguishable nor
intelligible to me. The figures on the ceiling and walls are very
grand even to my ignorance. The music (all vocal) beautiful, the
service harmoniously chanted, and the responsive bursts of the
chorus sublime. The cardinals appeared a wretched set of old
twaddlers, all but about three in extreme decrepitude--
Odescalchi, who is young and a good preacher, Gregorio, Capellari
[afterwards Pope Gregory XVI.]. On seeing them, and knowing that
the sovereign is elected by and from them, nobody can wonder that
the country is so miserably governed. These old creatures, on the
demise of a Pope, are as full of ambition and intrigue as in the
high and palmy days of the Papal power. Rome and its territory
are certainly worth possessing, though the Pontifical authority
is so shorn of its beams; but the fact is that the man who is
elected does not always govern the country,[15] and he is
condemned to a life of privation and seclusion. An able or
influential cardinal is seldom elected. The parties in the
Conclave usually end by a compromise, and agree to elect some
cardinal without weight or influence, and there are not now any
Sixtus the Fifths to make such an arrangement hazardous. Austria,
Spain, and France have all vetos, and Portugal claims and
exercises one when she can. To this degradation Rome is now
obliged to submit. The most influential of the cardinals is
Albani.[16] At the last election the Papal crown was offered to
Cardinal Caprara, but Albani stipulated that he should make him
Secretary of State; Caprara refused to promise, and Albani
procured the election of the present Pope (who did not desire or
expect the elevation), became Secretary of State (being eighty),
and governs the country. He is rich and stingy. The great Powers
still watch the proceedings of the Conclave with jealousy; and
though it is difficult to conceive how the Pope can assist any
one of them to the detriment of another, an Ambassador will put
his veto upon any cardinal whom he thinks unfavourable to his
nation; this produces all sorts of trickery, for when the
Conclave want to elect a man who is obnoxious to Austria, for
example, they choose another whom they think is equally so (but
whom they do not really wish to elect), that the veto may be
expended upon him, for each Government has one veto only. The
last veto absolutely put was on Cardinal ----, who was elected on
the death of Pius VII. He had behaved very rudely to the Empress
Maria Louisa when she took refuge in the north of Italy after the
downfall of Napoleon, thinking it was a good moment to bully the
abdicated Emperor's wife. She complained to her father, who
promised her the Cardinal never should be Pope. He was a young
and ambitious man, and the veto killed him with vexation and
disappointment.
[15] This, from what I have heard since, was not true of the
last Pope, Leo XII., who was an odious, tyrannical
bigot, but a man of activity, talent, and strength of
mind, a good man of business, and his own Minister. He
was detested here, and there are many stories of his
violent exertions of authority. He was a sort of
bastard Sixtus V., but at an immense distance from that
great man, 'following him of old, with steps unequal.'
He used, however, to interfere with the private
transactions of society, and banish and imprison
people, even of high rank, for immorality.
[16] Albani holds the Austrian veto, and is supported by her
authority. But I have heard that since Clement XI., who
was an Albani, there has always been a powerful Albani
faction in the Conclave. This cardinal is enormously
rich and the head of his house. The Duke of Modena is
his nephew, and it is generally thought will be his
heir.
Went and walked about St. Peter's, and was surprised to find how
very little longer it is than St. Paul's. To the Farnese Palace,
built by Paul III. out of the ruins of the Coliseum, which now,
with all the Farnese property, belongs to the King of Naples, and
is consequently going to decay. It got into his hands by the
marriage of a King of Naples with the last heiress of the house
of Farnese. The Neapolitan property here consists of the Farnese
and Farnesina Palaces, the Orti Farnesiani, and the Villa Madama,
all in a wretched state; and the Orti, in which there are
probably great remains, they will not allow to be excavated. Many
of the fine things are gone to Naples, but a few remain, most of
which came out of the Thermae of Caracalla, and originally from
the Villa of Adrian. These two, principally the one through the
other, have been the great mines from which the existing
treasures of art were drawn. The frescoes in this palace are
beautiful--a gallery by Annibal and Agostino Caracci, with a few
pictures by Domenichino, Guido, and Lanfranco. Annibal Caracci's
are as fine as any I have seen; also a little cabinet picture
painted entirely by Annibal, which is exquisite.
[Page Head: A DEAD CARDINAL]
As we were going to this palace we drove by the Cancellaria
(which was likewise built out of the Coliseum), and heard by
accident that a dead cardinal (Somaglia) was lying in state
there. Somaglia was Secretary of State in Leo's time. Having seen
all the living cardinals, we thought we might as well complete
our view of the Sacred College with the dead one, and went up.
After a great deal of knocking we were admitted to a private view
half an hour before the public was let in. He had been embalmed,
and lay on a bed under a canopy on an inclined plane, full
dressed in cardinal's robes, new shoes on, his face and hands
uncovered, the former looking very fresh (I believe he was
rouged), his fingers black, but on one of them was an emerald
ring, candles burning before the bed, and the window curtains
drawn. He was 87 years old, but did not look so much, and had a
healthier appearance in death than half the old walking mummies
we had seen with palms in their hands in the morning.
Took a look at Pasquin, who had nothing but advertisements pasted
upon him. I had seen Marphorius in the Capitol; there has long
been an end to the witty dialogues of the days of Sixtus V., so
quaintly told by Leti; they are so little 'birds of a feather'
(for Pasquin is a mutilated fragment, Marphorius a colossal
statue of the ocean) that, residing as they did at different
parts of the town, it is difficult to understand how they ever
came to converse with each other at all. I remember one of the
best of his stories. Sixtus V. made his sister a princess, and
she had been a washerwoman. The next day Pasquin appeared with a
dirty shirt on. Marphorius asks him 'why he wears such foul
linen;' and he answers 'that his washerwoman has been made a
princess, and he can't get it washed.'
To the Farnesina: Raphael's frescoes, the famous Galatea, and the
great head which Michael Angelo painted on the wall, as it is
said as a hint to Raphael that he was too minute. There it is
just as he left it. Here Raphael painted the Transfiguration, and
here the Fornarina was shut up with him that he might not run
away from his work. It might be thought that to shut up his
mistress with him was not the way to keep him to his work. Be
that as it may, the plan was a good one which produced these
frescoes and the Transfiguration.
[Page Head: POMPEY'S STATUE]
I very nearly forgot to mention the Palazzo Spada, where we went
to see the famous statue of Pompey, which was found on the spot
where the Senate House formerly stood, and which is (as certainly
as these things can be certain) the identical statue at the foot
of which Caesar fell.
Muffling his face within his robe
Ev'n at the base of Pompey's statue,
Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell.
People doubt this statue, because it is not like his busts. There
is certainly no resemblance to the bust I have seen, which
represents Pompey as a fat, vulgar-looking man with a great
double chin. It is impossible for the coldest imagination to look
at this statue without interest, for it calls up a host of
recollections and associations, standing before you unchanged
from the hour when Caesar folded his robe round him and
'consented to death' at its base. Those who cannot feel this had
better not come to Rome. Cardinal Spada was Secretary of State
when this statue was found, and Julius III. (Giocchi del Monti,
1550) made him a present of it.
The Temple of Bacchus is one of the most remarkable objects in
Rome; it is not in the least altered, merely turned into a
Christian church, and some saints, &c., painted on the walls. The
mosaic ceiling and the pavement are just the same as when it was
devoted to the worship of the jolly god. The mosaics are
beautiful, and perfect models of that sort of ceiling. The
pavement is covered with names and other scribblings cut out upon
it, all ancient Roman. Not a column has been removed or
mutilated. The fact is, Rome possesses several complete specimens
of places of heathen worship; this temple, the Pantheon, and San
Stefano Rotondo are perfect in the inside, the Pantheon within
and without, Vesta and Fortuna Virilis perfect on the outside.
[Page Head: A CAPUCHIN CHARNEL-HOUSE]
In the Rospigliosi Palace is the famous Aurora of Guido. It is in
excellent preservation, and three artists were copying it in
oils. One copy was just finished, and admirably done, for which
the painter asked forty louis. I begin to like frescoes better
than oils; there is such a life and brilliancy about them. At the
Quirinal, which was fitted up for the King of Rome and inhabited
by the Emperor of Austria, we saw everything but the Pope's
apartments. It is a delightful house, and commands a charming
view of Rome. The Pope always goes there the last day of the Holy
Week, and stays there all the summer. Nothing can be more
melancholy than his life as described by the _custode_; he gets
up very early, lives entirely alone and with the greatest
simplicity. In short, it shows what a strange thing ambition is,
which will sacrifice the substantial pleasures of life for the
miserable shadow of grandeur. Coming home we stopped by accident
at the Capuchins, and looked in to see Guido's St. Michael, with
which I was disappointed till I looked at it from a distance. We
then went to their catacombs, the most curious place I ever saw.
There are a series of chapels in the cloisters, or rather
compartments of one chapel, entirely fitted up with human bones
arranged symmetrically and with all sorts of devices. They are
laid out in niches, and each niche is occupied by the skeleton of
a friar in the robes of his order; a label is attached to it with
the name of the skeleton and the date of his death. Beneath are
mounds of earth, each tenanted by a dead friar with similar
labels. When a friar dies, the oldest buried friar, or rather his
skeleton, is taken up and promoted to a niche, and the newly
defunct takes possession of his grave; and so they go on in
succession. I was so struck by this strange sight that, when I
came home at night, I ventured on the following description of
it:--
_THE CATACOMBS IN THE CAPUCHIN CONVENT._
In yonder chapel's melancholy shade,
Through which no wandering rays of daylight peep,
In strange and awful cemetery laid,
The ancient Fathers of the convent sleep.
No storied marble with monastic pride
Records the actions of their tranquil life,
Or tells how, fighting for their faith, they died
Unconquer'd martyrs of religious strife.
They are not laid in decent shroud and pall,
To wait, commingling with their kindred earth,
Th' Archangel's trumpet, whose dread blast shall call
The whole creation to a second birth.
But midst the mouldering relics of the dead
In shapes fantastic, which the brethren rear,
Profaned by heretic's unhallowed tread,
The monkish skeletons erect appear.
The cowl is drawn each ghastly skull around,
Each fleshless form's arrayed in sable vest,
About their hollow loins the cord is bound,
Like living Fathers of the Order drest.
And as the monk around this scene of gloom
The flick'ring lustre of his taper throws,
He says, 'Such, stranger, is my destined tomb;
Here, and with these, shall be my last repose.'
At night I went with a party of English to see the Coliseum, but
the moon was as English as the party, and gave a faint and feeble
light. Still, with this dim moon it was inconceivably grand. The
exquisite symmetry of the building appears better, and its vast
dimensions are more developed by night. I long to see it with an
Italian sky and full moon; but not with a parcel of chattering
girls, who only 'flout the ruins grey.'
[Page Head: THE HOLY WEEK AT ROME]
April 9th, 1830 {p.315}
On Wednesday called on Bunsen, the Prussian Minister, who lives
at the top of the Tarpeian Rock, in a house commanding one of the
best views of Rome. He has devoted himself to the study of Roman
history and antiquities, and has the whole subject at his
fingers' ends. He is really luminous, and his conversation
equally amusing and instructive. He is about to publish a book
about ancient and modern Rome, which, from what I hear, will be
too minute and prolix. I then went to look at the Tarpeian Rock,
but the accumulation of earth has diminished its height--there is
the Rock, but in a very obscure hole. It was probably twice as
high as it is now. I think it is now about forty feet. Bunsen
says that though the antiquaries pretend to point out the course
of the ancient triumphal way, he does not think it can ever be
ascertained. The only remains (only bits of foundations) of the
temple of the Capitoline Jupiter, to which the conquerors
ascended, are in the garden under his windows. He thinks the
population of ancient Rome may be taken at two millions at its
most flourishing period. It is curious that there are hardly any
houses on the hills on which ancient Rome was built, and that
there were none formerly where modern Rome stands--no private
houses, only public buildings and temples.
To the Mamertine Prisons, probably not a stone of which has been
changed from the time that Jugurtha was starved in them. The
tradition about St. Peter and the well of course is not to be
believed; but it is very odd there should be a well there when
there are so few in Rome. To the Sistine Chapel with M. de la
Ferronays, and very much disappointed with the music, which was
not so good as on Sunday; nor was the ceremony accompanying the
Miserere at all imposing. Yesterday morning to the Sistine again;
prodigious crowd, music moderate. As soon as it was over we set
off to see the benediction; and, after fighting, jostling, and
squeezing through an enormous crowd, we reached the _loggia_ over
one side of the colonnade. The Piazza of St. Peter's is so
magnificent that the sight was of necessity fine, but not near so
much so as I had fancied. The people below were not numerous or
full of reverence. Till the Pope appears the bands play and the
bells ring, when suddenly there is a profound silence; the
feathers are seen waving in the balcony, and he is borne in on
his throne; he rises, stretches out his hands, blesses the
people--URBI ET ORBI--and is borne out again. A couple of
indulgences were tossed out, for which there is a scramble, and
so it ends. Off we scampered, and, by dint of tremendous
exertions, reached the hall in which the feet of the pilgrims are
washed. The Pope could not attend, so the Cardinal Deacon
officiated. No ceremony can be less imposing, but none more
clean. Thirteen men are ranged on a bench--the thirteenth
represents the angel who once joined the party--dressed in new
white caps, gowns, and shoes; each holds out his foot in
succession; an attendant pours a few drops of water on it from a
golden jug which another receives in a golden basin; the cardinal
wipes it with a towel, kisses the foot, and then gives the towel,
a nosegay, and a piece of money to the pilgrim--the whole thing
takes up about five minutes--certain prayers are said, and it is
over. Then off we scampered again through the long galleries of
the Vatican to another hall where the pilgrims dine. The
arrangements for the accommodation of the Ambassadors and
strangers were so bad that all these passages were successive
scenes of uproar, scrambling, screaming, confusion, and danger,
and, considering that the ceremonies were all religious, really
disgraceful. We got with infinite difficulty to another box,
raised aloft in the hall, and saw a long table at which the
thirteen pilgrims seated themselves; a cardinal in the corner
read some prayers, which nobody listened to, and another handed
the dishes to the pilgrims, who looked neither to the right nor
the left, but applied themselves with becoming gravity to the
enjoyment of a very substantial dinner. The whole hall was filled
with people, all with their hats on, chattering and jostling, and
more like a ring of blacklegs and blackguards at Tattersall's
than respectable company at a religious ceremony in the palace of
the Pope. There remained the cardinals' dinner, but I had had
more than enough, and came away hot, jaded, and disgusted with
the whole affair.
[Page Head: THE GRAND PENITENTIARY]
In the evening I went to St. Peter's, when I was amply
recompensed for the disappointment and bore of the morning. The
church was crowded; there was a Miserere in the chapel, which was
divine, far more beautiful than anything I have heard in the
Sistine, and it was the more effective because at the close it
really was night. The lamps were extinguished at the shrine of
the Apostle, but one altar--the altar of the Holy Sepulchre--was
brilliantly illuminated. Presently the Grand Penitentiary,
Cardinal Gregorio, with his train entered, went and paid his
devotions at this shrine, and then seated himself on the chair of
the Great Confessional, took a golden wand, and touched all those
who knelt before him. Then came a procession of pilgrims bearing
muffled crosses; penitents with faces covered, in white, with
tapers and crosses; and one long procession of men headed by
these muffled figures, and another of women accompanied by
ladies, a lady walking between every two pilgrims. The cross in
the procession of women was carried by the Princess Orsini, one
of the greatest ladies in Rome. They attended them to the church
(the Trinità delle Pellegrine) and washed their feet and fed
them. A real washing of dirty feet. Both the men and the women
seemed of the lowest class, but their appearance and dresses were
very picturesque. These processions entered St. Peter's, walked
all round the church, knelt at the altars, and retired in the
same order, filing along the piazza till they were lost behind
the arches of the colonnades. As the shades of night fell upon
the vast expanse of this wonderful building it became really
sublime; 'the dim religious light' glimmering from a distant
altar, or cast by the passing torches of the procession, the
voices of the choir as they sang the Miserere swelling from the
chapel, which was veiled in dusk, and with no light but that of
the high taper half hid behind the altar, with the crowds of
figures assembled round the chapel moving about in the obscurity
of the aisles and columns, produced the most striking effect I
ever beheld. It was curious, interesting, and inspiring--little
of mummery and much of solemnity. The night here brings out fresh
beauties, but of the most majestic character. There is a colour
in an Italian twilight that I have never seen in England, so
soft, and beautiful, and grey, and the moon rises 'not as in
northern climes obscurely bright,' but with far-spreading rays
around her. The figures, costume, and attitudes that you see in
the churches are wonderfully picturesque. I went afterwards to
the Jesù, where there was a tiresome service (the Tre Ore), and
heard a Jesuit preaching with much passion and emphasis, but
could not understand a word he said. So then I called on Cheney
and saw his mother's illustrations of Milton, which are
admirable, full of genius.
_At night._--To St. Peter's, where the Miserere was not so good
as last night. It was reported that the Pope was coming to St.
Peter's, and the Swiss Guards lined the nave, but he did not
arrive. Formerly, when the Cross was illuminated, he used to come
with all the cardinals to adore it. Now the cardinals (or rather
some of them) came and adored the Cross and the relics belonging
to the church, which were exhibited in succession from one of the
balconies--a bit of the true Cross, Santa Veronica's bloody
handkerchief, and others. There were, as the night before,
several fraternities of penitents, some in black, others in white
or brown, all disguised by long hoods, but there was to-night one
of the most striking and remarkable exhibitions I ever beheld.
The Grand Penitentiary, Cardinal Gregorio, again took his seat in
the chair of the Great Confessional. All those who have been
absolved after confession by their priest, and who present
themselves before him, are touched with his golden wand, in token
of confirmation of the absolution, and here again that quality
which I have so often remarked as one of the peculiar characteristics
of the Catholic religion is very striking. Men and women, beggars
and princesses, present themselves indiscriminately; they all
kneel in a row, and he touches them in succession. In the
churches there seem to be no distinctions of rank; no one,
however great or rich, is contaminated by the approximation of
poverty and rags. But to return to the Confessional. There are
some crimes of such enormity that absolution for them can only be
granted by the Pope himself, who delegates his power to the Grand
Penitentiary, and he receives such confessions in the chair in
which he was seated to-day. They are, however, very rare; but
this evening, after he had finished touching the people, a man,
dressed like a peasant in a loose brown frock, worsted stockings,
and brogues, apparently of the lowest order, dark, ill-looking,
and squalid, approached the Confessional to reveal some great
crime. The confession was very long, so was the admonition of the
Cardinal which followed it. The appearance of the Cardinal is
particularly dignified and noble, and, as he bent down his head,
joining it to that of this ruffian-like figure, listening with
extreme patience and attention, and occasionally speaking to him
with excessive earnestness, while the whole surrounding multitude
stood silently gazing at the scene, all conscious that some great
criminal was before them, but none knowing the nature of the
crime, it was impossible not to be deeply interested and
impressed with such a spectacle. Nothing could exceed the
patience of the Cardinal and the intensity with which he seemed
absorbed in the tale of the penitent. When it was over he wiped
his face, as if he had been agitated by what he heard. It was
impossible not to feel that be the balance for or against
confession (which is a difficult question to decide, though I am
inclined to think the balance is against) it is productive of
some good effects, and, though susceptible of enormous abuses, is
a powerful instrument of good when properly used. I have no doubt
it is largely abused, but it is the most powerful weapon of the
Romish Church, the one, I believe, by which it principally lives,
moves, and has its being. That penitence must be real, and of a
nature to be worked upon, which can induce a man to come forward
in the face of multitudes and exhibit himself as the perpetrator
of some atrocious though unknown crime.
[Page Head: PILGRIMS AT SUPPER]
At night I went to the Trinità dei Pellegrini to see the pilgrims
at supper. The washing of the feet was over; a cardinal performs
it with the men, and ladies with the women, but it is no mere
ceremony as at the Vatican; they really do wash and scrub the
dirty feet perhaps of about a dozen of them each night. I saw the
room in which they were just clearing away the apparatus and
collecting piles of dirty towels. The pilgrims sit on benches;
under their feet are a number of small wooden tubs, with cocks to
turn the water into them, and there they are washed. Afterwards
they go to supper, and then to bed. The men sup in a very long
hall--most curious figures, and natives of half the world. The
Cardinal Camerlengo[17] says grace and cuts the meat. They are
waited upon by gentlemen and priests, and have a very substantial
meal. The women are treated in the same way.[18] No men are
admitted to their hall, but we contrived to get to the door and
saw it all. The Princess Orsini and a number of Roman ladies were
there (who had been washing feet) with aprons on, waiting upon
them at supper. Their dormitories were spacious, clean, and
sweet, though the beds were crowded together. The pilgrims are
kept there from Palm Sunday to Easter Sunday, when they are
dismissed. Their numbers are generally about 250 or 300. The
funds of the establishment are supplied by private subscriptions,
legacies, and donations, the names of the benefactors, with the
amount of their contributions, being recorded on boards hung up
in the hall. There were a great many spectators, but the whole
ceremony was ordered with regularity and decency, which is more
than can be said for those of the Vatican. I walked to-night to
St. Peter's, to look at it by moonlight. From every point of view
it is magnificent; the stillness of the night is broken only by
the waters of the fountains, which glitter in the moonbeams like
sheets of molten silver. The obelisk, the façade, the cupola, and
the columns all contribute to the grandeur and harmony of the
scene: but everything at Rome should be seen at night. The Castle
of St. Angelo, the Tiber, and the Bridge are all wonderfully fine
in these bright nights.
[17] Minister of the Interior and Chamberlain; but Gonsalvi
deprived the Camerlengo of his Ministerial functions,
and joined them to the Secretaryship of State, and so
it has since remained.
[18] I met Lady ----, a very tiresome woman, a day or two
after, who had been to see this ceremony, and was most
devoutly edified by the humility and charity of the
ladies. She told me a very old woman put out her foot
to her, thinking she was one of them, and begged her to
be very careful, as she had got some sores produced by
the itch; but as it formed no part of her Protestant
duty, she turned her over to the Princess Orsini, who
handled this horrid old leg with great tenderness; and
afterwards, when the same Princess was handed into the
other apartment to see the male pilgrims at supper, by
an attendant in the livery which they all wore, this
attendant turned out to be Prince Corsini. It sounds
very fine, but after all I don't think there is much in
it. It is ostentatious charity and humility, and though
rather disgusting and disagreeable, it is the fashion,
and those who do it are set up in a capital stock of
piety and virtue. It _may be_ both cause and effect of
great moral excellence, but I think it questionable.
[Page Head: PROTESTANT BURIAL GROUND]
April 10th, 1830 {p.322}
In the morning to St. John Lateran, where, as my _laquais de
place_ said, 'converted Jews, or Turks, or _Lutherans_' were
baptised; got too late for the baptism, which I believe is a
farce regularly got up, but heard the High Mass. The churches
were crowded all this week with pilgrims, whose appearance is
always very picturesque. Went into the cloisters, and was shown
by the monk or priest (whichever he was) some very remarkable
articles that they possess--a bit of the column on which the cock
stood when he crowed after Peter's three denials; a slab showing
the exact height of Jesus Christ, as he could just stand under
it,[19] and two halves which had once been a whole column, but
which was broken when the veil of the Temple was rent on the
death of Christ. The column is adorned with sculpture, which they
say is Jewish, and was brought to Rome with the Holy Stairs. Then
to Santa Croce in Gerusalemme, where they were performing High
Mass, with many assistants and a full choir, but without a
congregation; there were not six people in the church. To Minerva
Medica, a questionable and uninteresting ruin, and besides
falling to pieces. To the Barberini Palace, where there is little
besides the Cenci, which is worth going any distance to see. To
the Doria, a magnificent palace, with an immense number of
pictures, and some very fine ones, which I was hurried through.
To the Pyramid of Caius Cestius, which is in the middle of the
wall of Aurelian, and forms the back of a very pretty Protestant
burial ground, the greatest number of those who have been buried
there being of course English. It is on the side of a hill with
high, turreted walls behind it. There are two rows of white
marble tombs, whose diminutive proportions form a contrast with
the enormous sepulchre of the Roman. Round some of the tombstones
rose-trees and other shrubs have been planted, and all but one
adorned with epitaphs and inscriptions in Latin, English, German,
and Italian. That one is the tomb of the pretty Miss Bathurst who
was drowned in the Tiber. Her mother was to have returned to Rome
and supply the epitaph, but she has never come, and it has not
even her name inscribed upon it. I copied the following, which
are apparently intended for Latin verses, from one of the tombs--
of Frederica Ursulina Arabella de Montmorency, by her father,
Colonel Raymond Henry de Montmorency, whose feelings set quantity
at defiance:--
Frederica quae Claris fueram praelata puellis
Illa ego hoc brevi condita sum tumulo;
Cui formam pulcherrimam, charites tribuere decoram
Quam Deus cunctis artibus erudiit.
[19] He must have been just six feet high.
Clambered up Monte Testaccio, from which the view is beautiful,
and then went on to the ruins of San Paolo fuori le Mure. The
church, which was the finest in Rome except St. Peter's, was
entirely destroyed by fire; but although it is near three miles
from the gates, and not the least wanted, and that there are
hundreds of churches, half of which seldom or never have
congregations to fill them, they are already rebuilding this at
an enormous cost, and the priest told me, to my great disgust,
that they had got all the materials ready, and in ten years they
expected the work to be finished. There are plenty of fools found
to contribute to the expense, the greatest part of which,
however, is supplied by the Government. It is to be built just as
it was before, but they cannot replace the enormous marble
columns which were its principal ornament. To a church to hear
the Armenian Mass. The priests arrived in splendid oriental
dresses, but I did not stay it out. Walked to the Borghese
Gardens, the fine weather being something of which no description
can convey an idea, and in it the beauty of Rome and its gardens
and environs are equally indescribable. Groups of pilgrims in
their odd dresses, with staves, and great bundles on their heads,
were lounging about, or lying under the trees. At night to the
Coliseum (but the moon never will shine properly), and back by
the Forum and the Capitol. The columns in the Forum look
beautiful, but St. Peter's gains at least as much as the ancient
ruins by the light of the moon. The views from different hills,
and sunset from the Pincian in such weather as this, and with
spring bursting in every direction, are things never to be
forgotten.
Sunday. {p.324}
High Mass in St. Peter's, which was crowded. I walked about the
church to see the groups and the extraordinary and picturesque
figures moving through the vast space. They are to the last
degree interesting: in one place hundreds prostrate before an
altar--pilgrims, soldiers, beggars, ladies, gentlemen, old and
young in every variety of attitude, costume, and occupation. The
benediction was much finer than on Thursday, the day magnificent,
the whole piazza filled with a countless multitude, all in their
holiday dresses, and carriages in the back-ground to the very
end. The troops forming a brilliant square in the middle, the
immense population and variety of costume, the weather, and the
glorious locality certainly made as fine a spectacle as can
possibly be seen. The Pope is dressed in white, with the triple
crown on his head; two great fans of feathers, exactly like those
of the Great Mogul, are carried on each side of him. He sits
aloft on his throne, and is slowly borne to the front of the
balcony. The moment he appears there is a dead silence, and every
head is bared. When he rises, the soldiers all fall on their
knees, and some, but only a few, of the spectators. The distance
is so great that he looks like a puppet, and you just see him
move his hands and make some signs. When he gives the blessing--
the sign of the cross--the cannon fires. He blesses the people
twice, remains perhaps five minutes in the balcony, and is
carried out as he came in.
The numbers who come to the benediction are taken as a test of
the popularity of the Pope, though I suppose the weather has a
good deal to do with it. Leo XII. was very unpopular from his
austerity, and particularly his shutting up the wine shops. The
first time he gave the benediction after that measure hardly
anybody came to be blessed.
[Page Head: ILLUMINATION OF ST. PETER'S]
_At night._--The illumination of St. Peter's is as fine as I was
told it was, and that is saying everything. I saw it from the
Pincian, from the windows of the French Academy and Horace
Vernet's room. He is established in the Villa Medici; a very
lively little fellow, and making a great deal of money as
director of the Academy and by his paintings. His daughter is
very pretty. Here I met Savary, the Duc de Rovigo, a tall, stout,
vulgar-looking man. We were introduced and conversed on French
politics. Afterwards drove down to the piazza and round it. The
illumination is more effective at a distance, but I think it
looks best from the entrance to the piazza and the Bridge of St.
Angelo; the blaze of light, the crowd, and the fountains, covered
with a red glare, made altogether the most splendid sight in the
world. (One poor devil was killed, and there is almost always
some accident.) Eight hundred men are employed in illuminating
St. Peter's; the first pale and subdued light, which covers the
whole church, is brought out by the darkness of night, the little
lamps being lit in the day-time. The blazing lights which succeed
are made by large pots of grease with wicks in them; there is one
man to every two lamps. On a given signal, each man touches his
two lamps as quick as possible, so that the whole building bursts
into light at once by a process the effect of which is quite
magical--literally, as the Rejected Addresses say, 'starts into
light, and makes the lighter start.'
April 12th, 1830 {p.325}
At night at Torlonia's to see the girandola, which is as fine as
fireworks can be, but nothing will do after the illumination of
St. Peter's. All the world was there at an assembly after the
ceremony, at which I was introduced to Don Michele Gaetani, said
to be the cleverest man in Rome, and I had a long conversation
with Monsignore Spada, who is a young layman with ecclesiastical
rank and costume, and a judge. A Monsignore holds ecclesiastical
rank at Rome, as a Lady of the Bedchamber at St. Petersburg holds
military rank, where she is a major-general; there is no other.
He is free to marry, and I presume to do anything else, but he
must preserve a certain orthodox gravity of dress and conduct; he
is a curious nondescript, about an equal mixture of the cardinal
and the dandy. This Monsignore is a very clever, agreeable man,
and gave me some information about the administration of law in
this country. There seems to be a good deal of laxity in it, for
a man was condemned for stabbing another (with premeditation) a
little while ago to six months' imprisonment, or more perhaps;
and having been George Hamilton's _laquais de place_, his family
came to him and begged him to try and get him off. He applied to
Spada, and got the punishment commuted to some trifling
imprisonment, and when he got out he came, with all his family,
to kiss Hamilton's hand.
[Page Head: BUNSEN ON THE FORUM]
April 13th, 1830 {p.326}
Breakfasted with Bunsen at the Capitol; Lovaine, Morier,
Haddington, Hamilton, Kestner, Falck, G. Fitzclarence, Sir W. Gell,
a little Italian servant, and Mr. Hall, Bunsen's brother-in-law.
Haddington told the story of Canning's sending to Bagot a despatch
in cipher, containing these lines:--
In matters of commerce the fault of the Dutch
Is giving too little and asking too much;
With equal protection the French are content:
So we'll lay on Dutch bottoms just twenty per cent.
_Chorus of Officers._--We'll lay, &c.
_Chorus of Douaniers._--Nous frapperons Falck
avec Twenty per cent.
He received the despatch at dinner, and sent it to be deciphered.
After some hours they brought him word they did not know what to
make of it, for it seemed to be in verse, when he at once saw
there was a joke.
Went to see the excavations in the Via Triumphalis and the Temple
of Concord, and heard Bunsen's theory of the Forum. Bunsen gives
different names to the remains of the temples in the Forum from
those which have been usually given, and by which they are known,
and on very plausible grounds, drawn chiefly from accounts in
different Roman authors and peculiarities in the buildings
themselves. The Temple of Fortune he thinks was the Basilica of
Augustus, and the Temple of Jupiter Tonans the Temple of Saturn;
but all his reasons I need not put down if I could remember them,
for are they not written in the voluminous work he is going to
publish in four or six volumes octavo?
Bunsen's history is rather curious. He was a poor German student
destined for the Church; came to Rome, and got employed by
Niebuhr, from whom he first got a taste for antiquities. The King
of Prussia came to Rome and saw him; he was struck with his
knowledge and the character he heard of him, and consulted him
about a new Liturgy he wished to introduce into Prussia. Bunsen
gave him so much satisfaction in that matter, as well as in some
others which were entrusted to him, that on Niebuhr's return to
Prussia he was appointed to succeed him, and has been at Rome
ever since--thirteen years. Some say he is not a profound man,
and that his speculations about the ruins are all wrong. He talks
English, French, and Italian like his own language.
[Page Head: SIGHTS OF ROME]
The part of the triumphal road was discovered by accident in
digging for a drain; and an attempt is being made to procure the
permission of the Government to excavate all that can be found of
it, and ascertain its exact course. It was in the Temple of
Concord that Cicero assembled the Senate and pronounced one of
his orations against Catiline. The building must have been large
and magnificent, from the remains now visible, which are of the
finest marble. The pavement is in a state of considerable
preservation. Then we went to the old Tabularium, standing on the
Intermontium, an undoubted work of the Republic. This was the
place where the records of the Senate were kept. It is very
perfect. Nibby, the great authority here, differs, however, about
this place; the antiquaries are at daggers drawn upon the subject
of the ruins, remains, and discoveries. They have all different
systems, which they support with great vehemence and obstinacy,
and perhaps ingenuity, but the ignorant and curious traveller is
only perplexed with their noisy and discordant assertions. They
will insist upon knowing everything, whereas there are many
things here which are so doubtful, that they can only conjecture
about them; but when once they have published a theory they will
not hear of its being erroneous, and oppose any fresh discovery
likely to throw discredit upon it. After his lecture in the Forum
we went to San Nicolo in Cercera, an old church built on three
old temples, or two and a prison, but not much to see. The prison
of San Nicolo in Cercera is said to be the scene of the story of
the Roman daughter, which it probably is not. Over the Bridge of
Fabricius to the Basilica of Saint Bartholomew and Temple of
Esculapius; small remains, but curious; and very pretty view of
the Tiber and Temple of Vesta. To the Villa Lanti, a delicious
villa belonging to Prince Borghese, who never goes there, and
will neither let nor lend it. One of the finest views of Rome is
from the terrace, and Julio Romano's frescoes adorn the ceilings.
When Raphael was painting the Vatican, he and Julio Romano used
to retire every night to the Villa Lanti, and the ceilings are
covered with frescoes painted by both of them. Just below is a
terrace, and on it a beautiful tree called Tasso's Oak, because
under it he used to sit and compose when he lived in the Convent
of San Onofrio, which is close by, and where he died. This
convent is remarkably clean, airy, and spacious. In the library
is a bust of Tasso, a mask taken from his face just after he
died; in the chapel his tomb.
And Tasso is their glory--
Hark to his strain and then survey his cell.
BYRON.
In the cloister are some frescoes of the universal Domenichino. I
like the Convent of San Onofrio. To Santa Maria in Trastevere, a
very fine church; splendid ceiling with a Domenichino in the
middle. Immense granite columns of various orders taken from God
knows what temples, and mosaic floor rich to a degree. Large
pieces of porphyry and verd antique eternally trodden by the
Trasteverine mob, and never even cleaned. It is a basilica, and
at the end is an ancient stone chair, which, was evidently the
old justice-seat, though they of the Church do not know it.
April 14th, 1830 {p.329}
Set off early to make up an arrear of churches. First to Santa
Maria sopra Minerva, and lit upon the funeral of a cardinal
(Bertazzoli), which I was obliged to see instead of Michael
Angelo's Christ. All the cardinals attended; the church hung with
black and gold; guards, tapers, mob, &c. Then to the SS.
Apostoli, Araceli (built where the Citadel stood, and is a
corruption of Arx, but with a legend); a curious church enough,
with some fine frescoes of Pintoriccio, and the Chapel of the
Virgin with hundreds of ex voto's hang round it, almost all
wretched daubs of pictures, and principally representing
accidents in gigs, carriages, or carts, broken heads or limbs. To
Santa Anastasia, Santa Maria in Cosmedin, Santa Sabina. Santa
Maria in Cosmedin, or the Bocca della Verità, built in and on the
ruins of an old temple (di Pudicizia), is one of the best worth
seeing in Rome; the columns, if freed from the modern church,
would present as perfect a front as the temples in the Forum. To
Monte Aventino to see the view of Rome and the Chapel of the
Order of Malta, where Cardinal Zurla as Grand Prior has a most
agreeable residence. The garden contains immense orange-trees and
a very large palm. To San Gregorio to see the famous rival
frescoes of Guido and Domenichino, which are much impaired. I
began by liking Guido's and ended by liking the other best. The
view of the Palatine from this convent is magnificent. To San
Gregorio and San Paolo, and saw the ruins, which must have
belonged to the Coliseum, for the architecture is exactly
similar, and they have every appearance of having been the
Vivarium from their shape. To the Corsini Palace, containing one
of the best collections of pictures, of which the finest are two
portraits of cardinals by Raphael and Domenichino. The palace is
very fine, and the villa joins it on the opposite hill of the
Janiculum, but both are affected by the malaria. Then to the
Vatican and saw all the frescoes and pictures; the collection of
pictures is very small, but they are all masterpieces. To the
gallery below to see the mosaics and the process of copying the
great pictures. The coloured bits are numbered, and though there
are not above six or seven colours, the sub-divisions of various
shades amount to 18,000. This art is in a great degree mechanical,
but requires ingenuity, attention, and some knowledge of
painting. On the large pictures, such as those which are in
St. Peter's, several men are employed at the same time, but on
the lesser only one. It is very tedious, requiring years to copy
one of the largest size. All the pictures in St. Peter's are in
mosaic, except one, and they are at work on one which is to
replace this single oil-piece. The studio appeared in good order,
but there were only two men at work, as the Government spends
very little money upon it at present. From one of the open
galleries we (Morier and I) saw a thunderstorm, with gusts of
wind, flashes of lightning, and rain. It was amazingly grand from
that place as it swept over the city and made us 'sharers in its
fierce delight.' Then to the Borghese Gardens, and back to one of
those sunsets from the Pincian which will long be remembered
among the smoke and fogs in which I am destined to live.