We found, on our arrival at Padua, that the railroad was not open; so we

proceeded along the banks of the Brenta to Venice. Many a scene, which I

have since visited and admired, has faded in my mind, as a painting in

the Diorama melts away, and another struggles into the changing canvass;

but this road was as distinct in my mind as if traversed yesterday. I

will not here dwell on the sad circumstances that clouded my first visit

to Venice. Death hovered over the scene. Gathered into myself, with my

“mind’s eye” I saw those before me long departed; and I was agitated

again by emotions—by passions—and those the deepest a woman’s heart can

harbour—a dread to see her child even at that instant expire—which then

occupied me. It is a strange, but to any person who has suffered, a

familiar circumstance, that those who are enduring mental or corporeal

agony are strangely alive to immediate external objects, and their

imagination even exercises its wild power over them. Shakspeare knew

this, and the passionate grief of Queen Constance thence is endued with

fearful reality. Wordsworth, as many years ago I remember hearing

Coleridge remark, illustrates the same fact, when he makes an insane and

afflicted mother exclaim,—

“The breeze I see is in the tree;

It comes to cool my babe and me.”

Holcroft, who was a martyr to intense physical suffering, alludes to the

notice the soul takes of the objects presented to the eye in its hour of

agony, as a relief afforded by nature to permit the nerves to endure

pain. In both states I have experienced it; and the particular shape of

a room—the progress of shadows on a wall—the peculiar flickering of

trees—the exact succession of objects on a journey—have been indelibly

engraved in my memory, as marked in, and associated with, hours and

minutes when the nerves were strung to their utmost tension by the

endurance of pain, or the far severer infliction of mental anguish. Thus

the banks of the Brenta presented to me a moving scene; not a palace,

not a tree of which I did not recognise, as marked and recorded, at a

moment when life and death hung upon our speedy arrival at Venice.

And at Fusina, as then, I now beheld the domes and towers of the queen

of Ocean arise from the waves with a majesty unrivalled upon earth. We

were hailed by a storm of _gondolieri_; their vociferations were

something indescribable, so loud, so vehement, so reiterated; till we

had chosen our boat, and then all subsided into instant calm.

I confess that on this, my second entrance into Venice, the dilapidated

appearance of the palaces, their weather-worn and neglected appearance,

struck me forcibly, and diminished the beauty of the city in my eyes. We

proceeded at once to the Leone Bianco, on the Canale Grande; they asked

a very high price for their rooms, which rendered us eager, as we

intended to remain here a month, to make immediate arrangements for

removing elsewhere.

Our first act was to send our letters of introduction; the second, for

two of us to go out to look for lodgings. The account brought back by

our second dove from the ark was rather discouraging; but our first

brought better things. Count —— and Signor —— loved and respected too

sincerely the writer of our letters not to hasten on the instant to

acknowledge them. Signor —— at once perceived and entered into our

difficulty. I never saw such friendly zeal; nor was Count —— behind in

kindness, though, as a younger man, and not so conversant with the

perplexities of travellers, he could not be so efficient in his help.

The thing was soon settled. Signor —— remarked that if we took lodgings

we should want a cook, and that housekeeping in an unknown town, for a

short space of time, was fraught with annoyance. There was a new hotel

just established, which desired to be made known to the English, and

which therefore would be moderate in its charges. We went to see the

rooms. The Hotel d’Italia is situated in a canal, three oar-strokes from

the Canale Grande; so far we lost what is most to be coveted at

Venice—the view from our window of this ocean stream, with its bordering

palaces,—but we were within three minutes’ walk of the Place of Saint

Mark. Our rooms were on the second floor, a bed-room apiece, and a

_salon_, spacious, turned to the sun, and being but just furnished,

clean in the excess of newness. Many a palace had been spoiled of its

marble architraves and ornaments to decorate this new hotel. We made our

bargain; we calculated that, everything included, each of our party

would pay nine pounds a month for lodging and board.

This done, we returned with our kind friends to the Leone Bianco, as we

are not to remove till tomorrow. Evening has come, and the moon, so

often friendly to me, now at its full, rises over the city. Often, when

here before, I looked on this scene, at this hour, or later, for often I

expected S.’s return from Palazzo Mocenigo, till two or three in the

morning; I watched the glancing of the oars of the gondolas, and heard

the far song, and saw the palaces sleeping in the light of the moon,

which veils by its deep shadows all that grieved the eye and heart in

the decaying palaces of Venice. Then I saw, as now I see, the bridge of

the Rialto spanning the canal. All, all is the same; but as the Poet

says—

“The difference to me!”

LETTER VII.

The Ducal Palace.—The Academia delle Belle Arti.

VENICE, SEPTEMBER.

I miss greatly the view of the Canale Grande from my window; however,

the result, probably, of our being in a narrow canal will be, that I

shall see much more of Venice: for were we among its most noble palaces,

it would suffice and amply fill the hours, merely to loiter away the day

gazing on the scene before us. As it is, though singularly Venetian—the

wave-paved streets beneath, the bridge close at hand—the peep we get at

wider waters at the opening,—it is but a promise of what we may find

beyond, and tempts us to wander.

There is something so different in Venice from any other place in the

world, that you leave at once all accustomed habits and everyday sights

to enter enchanted ground. We live in a palace; though an inn, such it

is: and other palaces have been robbed of delicately-carved mouldings

and elegant marbles, to decorate the staircase and doorways. You know

the composition with which they floor the rooms here, resembling marble,

and called everywhere in Italy Terrazi Veneziani: this polished uniform

surface, whose colouring is agreeable to the eye, gives an air of

elegance to the rooms; then, when we go out, we descend a marble

staircase to a circular hall of splendid dimensions; and at the steps,

laved by the sea, the most luxurious carriage—a boat, invented by the

goddess of ease and mystery, receives us. Our gondolier, never mind his

worn-out jacket and ragged locks, has the gentleness and courtesy of an

attendant spirit, and his very dialect is a shred of romance; or, if you

like it better, of classic history: bringing home to us the language and

accents, they tell us, of old Rome. For Venice

“Has floated down, amid a thousand wrecks

Uninjured, from the Old World to the New.”[13]

With the world of Venice before us, whither shall we go? I would not

make my letter a catalogue of sights; yet I must speak of the objects

that occupy and delight me.

First, then, to the Ducal palace. A few strokes of the oar took us to

the noble quay, from whose pavement rises the Lion-crowned column, and

the tower of St. Mark. The piazzetta is, as it were, the vestibule to

the larger piazza.

But I spare description of a spot, of which there are so many

thousand—besides numerous pictures by Cannaletti and his imitators,

which tell all that can be told—show all that can be shown: to know

Venice, to feel the influence of its beauty and strangeness, is quite

another thing; perhaps the vignettes to Mr. Rogers’s Italy, by Turner,

better than any other description or representation, can impart this.

From the piazzetta we entered a grass-grown court, once the focus of

Venetian magnificence—for, at the top of that majestic flight of steps

which rises from it, the Doges were crowned. The _cortile_ is surrounded

by arcades, decorated by two magnificent bronze reservoirs, and adorned

by statues. The effect is light and elegant, even now that neglect has

drawn a veil over its splendour. Yet Nature here is not neglectful; her

ministrations may be said even to aid the work of the chisel and the

brush, so beautiful are they in their effects.

The Scala de’ Giganti was before us, guarded by two almost colossal

figures of Mars and Neptune, the size of whose statues gives the name to

the steps: ascending them, we found ourselves in the open gallery that

runs round three sides of the court, supported by the arcades. Yawning

before us was the fatal lion’s mouth, receiver of those anonymous

accusations, the terror of all, and destroyer of many of the citizens.

Ringing a bell, we were admitted into the palace.

We do not visit it once only; day after day we wander about these

magnificent, empty halls—sometimes going in by the hall of audience,

sometimes ascending the Scala d’Oro, we enter in by the library.

Sometimes we give ourselves up to minute view of the many frescoes,

which record the history, the glories, and even the legends of Venice.

At the dawn of the art, the more than royal government caused the walls

to be thus adorned by Gentile and Giovanni Bellini, and subsequently by

Titian: a fire unfortunately destroyed their work in 1577; and the

present paintings are by Tintoretto, Paul Veronese, and others. On an

easel in the library, is a picture in oil by Paul Veronese,—the Queen of

Cyprus, Catherine Cornaro, a daughter of Venice, resigning her crown to

the Doge—an iniquitous act enough on the part of the republic; as

others, heirs of Cyprus, with claims more legitimate than Catherine’s,

existed. There is the grace and dignity, characteristic of this painter,

in the various personages of the group. It is to be raffled for, and the

proceeds of the lottery are to be given to the infant schools; but the

tickets are sold slowly, and the time when they are to be drawn is yet

unfixed. There are marbles also, in this room, that deserve

attention,—some among them are relics of antiquity; for the Rape of

Ganymede is attributed to Phidias, and worthy of him. Sometimes we

wander about, content only with the recollections called up by the spot;

and we step out on the balconies which now command a view of the

piazzetta, now of the inner courts, with a liberty and leisure quite

delightful: and then again we pass on, from the more public rooms to the

chambers, sacred to a tyranny the most awful, the most silent of which

there is record in the world. The mystery and terror that once reigned,

seems still to linger on the walls; the chamber of the Council of Ten,

paved with black and white marble, is peculiarly impressive in its

aspect and decorations: near at hand was the chamber of torture, and a

door led to a dark staircase and the state dungeons.

The man who showed us the prisons was a character—he wanted at once to

prove that they were not so cruel as they were represented, and yet he

was proud of the sombre region over whose now stingless horrors he

reigned. A narrow corridor, with small double-grated windows that barely

admit light, but which the sound of the plashing waters beneath

penetrates, encloses a series of dungeons, whose only respiratories come

from this corridor, and in which the glimmering dubious day dies away in

“darkness visible.” Here the prisoners were confined who had still to be

examined by the Council. A door leads to the Ponte de’ Sospiri—now

walled up—for the prisons on the other side are in full use for

criminals: years ago I had traversed the narrow arch, through the open

work of whose stone covering the prisoners caught one last hasty glimpse

of the wide lagunes, crowded with busy life. Many, however, never passed

that bridge—never emerged again to light. One of the doors in the

corridor I have mentioned leads to a dark cell, in which is a small door

that opens on narrow winding stairs; below is the lagune; here the

prisoners were embarked on board the gondola, which took them to the

Canal Orfano, the drowning-place, where, summer or winter, it was

forbidden to the fishermen, on pain of death, to cast their nets. Our

guide, whom one might easily have mistaken for a gaoler, so did he enter

into the spirit of the place, and take pleasure in pointing out the

various power it once possessed of inspiring despair; this guide

insisted that the Pozzi and Piombi were fictions, and that these were

the only prisons. Of course, this ignorant assertion has no foundation

whatever in truth. From the court, as we left the palace, he pointed to

a large window at the top of the building, giving token that the room

within was airy and lightsome, and said with an air of triumph, _Ecco la

Prigione di Silvio Pellico!_—Was he to be pitied when he was promoted to

such a very enviable apartment, with such a very fine view? Turn to the

pages of Pellico, and you will find that, complaining of the cold of his

first dark cell, he was at midsummer transferred to this airy height,

where multitudinous gnats and dazzling unmitigated sunshine nearly drove

him mad. Truly he might regret even these annoyances when immured in the

dungeons of Spielburg, and placed under the immediate and _paternal_

care of the Emperor—whose endeavour was to break the spirit of his

_rebel children_ by destroying the flesh; whose sedulous study how to

discover means to torment and attenuate—to blight with disease and

subdue to despair—puts to shame the fly-killing pastime of Dioclesian.

Thanks to the noble hearts of the men who were his victims, he did not

succeed. Silvio Pellico bowed with resignation to the will of God—but he

still kept his foot upon the power of the tyrant.

Having visited every corner of the palace, and heard the name given for

every apartment, we asked for the private rooms in which the Doge slept

and ate, which his family occupied. There were none. A private covered

way led from these rooms to an adjoining palace, assigned for the

private residence of the Doge. The council were too jealous to allow him

to occupy the palace of the republic, except for the purposes of the

state.

At other times, turning to the right, when we leave our canal, we are

rowed up the Canale Grande to the Accademia delle Belle Arti, to feast

our eyes on the finest works of Titian. The picture usually considered

the _chef-d’œuvre_ of this artist, the Martyrdom of St. Peter the

Hermit, has, for the purpose of being copied, been removed from the dark

niche in which it is almost lost in the church of the Saints Giovanni

and Paolo, and is here. The subject is painful, but conceived with great

power. A deep forest, in which the holy man is overtaken by his

pursuers, sheds its gloom over the picture; his attendant flies, the

most living horror depicted on his face; the saint has fallen, cut down

by the sword of the soldier; an angel is descending from above, and,

opening heaven, sheds the only light that irradiates the scene. It is

very fine; but in spite of the celestial messenger, there is wanting

that connecting link with Heaven,—the rapture of faith in the sufferer’s

countenance, which alone makes pictures of martyrdom tolerable.

I was struck by the last picture painted by the venerable artist—Mary

visiting the Tomb of Jesus. I was told that I ought not to admire it;

yet I could not help doing so: there was something impressive in the

mingled awe and terror in Mary’s face, when she found the body of Jesus

gone.

The Marriage at Cana, by Paul Veronese, adorns these walls, removed from

the refectory of the suppressed Convent of San Giorgio Maggiore. It is

the finest specimen of the feasts which this artist delighted to paint;

bringing together, on a large scale, groups of high-born personages,

accompanied by attendants, and surrounded by a prodigality of objects of

architecture, dress, ornaments, and all the apparatus of Patrician

luxury. It is filled, Lanzi tells us, with portraits of princes and

illustrious men then living.

We turned from the splendour of the feast to the more noble beauty of

Titian’s Presentation of the Virgin—a picture I look at much oftener,

and with far greater pleasure, than at the more celebrated Martyrdom.

The Virgin, in her simplicity and youth; in the mingled dignity and

meekness of her mien, as she is about to ascend the steps towards the

High Priest, is quite lovely; the group of women looking at her, are

inimitably graceful: there is an old woman sitting at the foot of the

steps, marvellous from the vivacity and truth of her look and attitude.

In another large apartment is the Assumption of Titian. The upper part

is indeed glorious. The Virgin is rapt in a paradisiacal ecstacy as she

ascends, surrounded by a galaxy of radiant beings, whose faces are

beaming with love and joy, to live among whom were in itself Elysium.

Such a picture, and the “Paradiso” of Dante as a commentary, is the

sublimest achievement of Catholicism. Not, indeed, as a commentary did

Dante write, but as the originator of much we see. The Italian painters

drank deep at the inspiration of his verses when they sought to give a

visible image of Heaven and the beatitude of the saints, on their

canvass.

There are other and other rooms, all filled with paintings of merit. One

hall contains the earlier productions of Gentile and Giovanni Bellini.

The genius and the elevated piety of these painters give expression to

the countenances; but the dry colouring, the want of foreshortening, the

absence of grace everywhere except in the faces—which are often

touchingly beautiful—all exhibit the infancy of the art.

The Academy contains also a hall for statues; in which the glossy marble

of Canova’s Hebe looks, I am sorry to say, shrunk and artificial, beside

the mere plaster casts of the nobler works of the Ancients.

LETTER VIII.

Chiesa de’ Frari.—San Giorgio Maggiore.—Santa Maria della

Salute.—Lido.—The Giudecca.—The Fondamenti Nuovi.—The Islands.—The

Armenian Convent.

VENICE, SEPTEMBER.

There are three churches here in particular, which we have visited

several times, with interest; the most venerable, the Westminster Abbey

of Venice, is the church of Santa Maria de’ Frari, built in the middle

of the thirteenth century. Every portion of this vast and noble edifice

is filled with tombs and pictures, exciting respect and admiration. Many

a Doge is here buried; and many monuments, some mausoleums in size and

magnificence, some equestrian, some mere urns, Gothic or of the middle

ages, crowd the walls. With more veneration we looked on the unadorned

stone, inscribed with the honoured name of Titian. He died on the 9th

September, 1575, at the age of ninety-nine, of the plague, and the

visitation of this calamity caused the citizens to consign him hastily

to the grave, without thought of marking it by any monument or

inscription, so that the spot was almost forgotten. The mortuary

registers of the church of S. Tommaso prove that he then died, and was

here buried, and his name with a few words conjoined have been chiselled

in the pavement. The republic of Venice projected a monument, which the

troubled times and invasion of Napoleon prevented their accomplishing.

Canova made a model subsequently; but, dying before he could execute it,

the marble was entrusted to various sculptors, and is erected in his own

honour in this church on the side opposite to the spot where Titian

lies. There is something very impressive in the idea of this monument—a

procession of figures entering the half-opened door of a dark tomb.

There are several pleasing pictures in the church, chiefly by Salviati;

but its pride in painting is an altar-piece of Giovanni Bellini. He had

lived long and painted much in fresco, when, at more than sixty years of

age, he was initiated in oil painting by Antonello of Messina, and

executed his _chefs-d’œuvre_,—a picture in the church of San Pietro, on

the island of Murano, and that which we have looked at with interest and

delight in the sacristy of this church. “It presents,” says Mr. Rio,

“the imposing seriousness of a religious composition, in the figure of

the Virgin, and in that of the saints which surround the throne on which

she sits; in the faces of the angels it equals the most charming

miniatures for freshness of colour and ingenuousness of expression. A

foretaste of beatitude seems to have warmed the old man’s soul as he

worked—he has removed the cloud of melancholy with which he formerly

loved to cover the Virgin’s countenance; he no longer paints the Mother

of the seven sorrows, but rather the cause of our joy.”[14]

Exactly opposite our canal, at the entrance from the Quay to the Canale

Grande, is the church of San Giorgio Maggiore; it is built chiefly from

a model of Palladio, and is the noblest in Venice. Our gondola landed us

at the spacious marble platform before the church. Its situation is most

happy. Looked at from the Piazzetta, it is the most stately ornament of

Venice. Looking from it, a view is commanded of the towers, and domes,

and palaces, that illustrate the opposite shore. The church is immense,

and adorned by several pictures of Titian. A convent adjoined, now

destroyed; but as we rambled about, we found that they had kindly

retained, and left open for the visits of strangers, the celebrated

cloister, surrounded by an elegant colonnade of Ionic pillars, and the

staircase, which is one of the boasts of Venice.

Somewhat above, within the Canale Grande, is the church of Santa Maria

della Salute; this was built in 1631, a time when architecture had

degenerated, and a multiplicity of ornaments was preferred to that

simple harmonious style, whose perfection has to my eye the effect of

one of Handel’s airs on the ear—filling it with a sense of exalted

pleasure. Here was beauty, but it existed even in spite of the defects

of the building; it sprang from its situation, its steps laved by the

sea, its marble walls reflecting the prismatic colour of the waves, its

commanding a view of great architectural beauty; within also it contains

pictures of eminent merit.

The roof of the Sacristy possesses three Titians, which overpaid you for

twisting your neck to look at them. Methinks they ought to convert the

exclusive admirer of the mystic school, who would confine painting to

the expression of one, it is true, of the most exalted among the

passions—adoration, love, and contemplation of Divine perfection. These

paintings are, what surely pictures ought to be allowed to be, dramatic

in the highest sense; they tell a story; they represent scenes with

unsurpassed truth and vigour. The killing of Goliath by David, is

admirable. The countenance of the youthful hero, as he stands unarmed,

“with native honour clad,” is instinct with the glow of victory,

purified by his artless reliance on the God of his fathers. The

Sacrifice of Isaac, is the only representation of that tremendous act

that ever pleased me: generally it inspires pain—often disgust; a

father, unimpassioned and pitiless, about to cut the throat of his

innocent and frightened child. But Titian’s imagination allowed him to

conceive the feelings that must have actuated and supported both father

and son—that of unquestioning certainty that what God ordered was to be

obeyed, not only without a murmur, but with alacrity and a serene

conviction that good alone could be the result. In particular, the

countenance of Isaac is the most touching commentary on this story; it

displays awe of approaching death, without terror; it is solemn, and yet

lit up by that glance into eternity, and unquestioned resignation to a

will higher and better than his own, which alone could sanctify the

horror of the moment.

But, perhaps, surpassing these in power, is the Death of Abel. Usually,

you see a man striking his brother the death-blow, as it seems, with

cold-blooded brutality: here, you behold the wild frenzy that

transported the fratricide out of himself. I have seen the passion of

violent and terrible anger well expressed in two pictures only—this one,

and that at Berlin, where the Duke of Gueldres clenches his fist at his

father.

One day, in one of our many rambles, we tried to get into a church, but

it was at the worst hour for such a visit—between one and four—when the

churches are closed. We tried to find the sacristan, when a workman came

to us—“You cannot get in there,” he said; “but I will show you

something.” He took us to the building at which he was at work—a convent

for Dominicans. The French, during their rule, suppressed all the

convents; they are being revived, even in Lombardy, where, till lately,

there were none. There was nothing attractive in a modern house divided

off into narrow cells, two of which were windowless, and pointed out as

_luoghi di castigo_, by our guide; but it was curious (whether

satisfactory or not, I leave to others to decide,) to see this building,

narrow of dimensions, mean in its proportions, altogether insignificant

in size and aspect, replace the stately edifices in which monks of olden

time passed their fives.

The church of the Jesuits is in the ornate style dear to this order, and

is even in worse taste than usual. Before the high altar is spread the

imitation of a carpet, formed of party-coloured marbles. Even the

pictures—many of which are by Palma—that hang around, are robbed of

their beauty by their juxtaposition to heavy, inelegant ornaments.

We were glad to leave it, and to turn our steps to the church of the

Saints Giovanni and Paolo, a very large and majestic edifice; it is more

venerable than any other in Venice, and belongs to the middle ages; the

name of the architect is lost: an inscription under the organ only tells

us, that it was begun in 1246, and consecrated in 1430. It is filled

with magnificent tombs of the old Doges, and rich in pictures by

Bonifazio, Bassano, Bellini—the famous Martyrdom of Titian is taken

hence. We often wander about its vast and stately nave, reading, with

pleasure, the historical names on the tombs—taking delight in the many

remains of the middle ages—and filled more and more with veneration for

the energy, magnificence, and taste of the Venetians.

I cannot tell you of all we see, or it would take you as long to read my

letter as we shall be at Venice. As we remain a month, we do not crowd

our day with sights; our gondoliers come in the morning, and we pass our

time variously. Sometimes, after visiting a single church, we are rowed

over to Lido; and, crossing a narrow strip of sand, scattered with

Hebrew tombstones, find ourselves on the borders of the ocean; we look

out over the sea on vessels bound to the East, or watch the

fishing-boats return with a favourable wind, and glide, one after the

other, into port, their graceful lateen sails filled by the breeze. We

thus loiter hours away, especially on cold days, when we have been

chilled at home; but Lido has a heat of its own—its sands receiving and

retaining the sun’s rays—which we do not enjoy among the marbles and

pavements of Venice.

As the sun sinks behind the Euganean hills, we recross the lagune. Every

Monday of this month is a holiday for the Venetian shopkeepers and

common people; they repair in a multitude of gondolas to Lido, to

refresh themselves at the little inn—to meet in holiday trim, and make

merry on the sea-sands. We pass them in crowds as we return on that day.

Our way is, sometimes (according as the tide serves,) under the walls of

the madhouse, celebrated in Shelley’s poem of Julian and Maddalo—

“A windowless, deformed, and dreary pile.”

Yet not quite windowless; for there are grated, unglazed

apertures—against which the madmen cling—and gaze sullenly, or shout, or

laugh, or sing, as their wild mood dictates.

We often allow our gondolier to take us where he will; and we see a

church, and we say, what is that? and make him seek the sacristan, and

get out to look at something strange and unexpected. Thus we viewed the

church of St. Sebastian, which contains the _chef-d’œuvre_ of Paul

Veronese, the Martyrdom of St. Mark. There is something in the works of

this artist, which, without being ideal or sublime, is graceful and

dignified—according to the dignity of this world;—his groups are formed

of the high-born and high-bred, and all the concomitants of his pictures

are conceived in the same style of mundane but elegant magnificence.

Sometimes we walk: passing through the busy Merceria, we get entangled,

and lose ourselves in the _calle_ of Venice;—we see an open door and

peep in, and ask where we are from a passer by; and hear a name of

historic renown, and find ourselves viewing, by chance, one of the

wonders of the place. A favourite walk is straight across towards the

north, till we reach the Fondamenti Nuovi, a handsome quay, from which

we command a view of many of the smaller islands; and far distant, the

Julian Alps and the mountains of Friuli. It is to me a most exalted

pleasure to look on these heaven-climbing shapes.

Sometimes, if the morning be “kerchiefed in a comely cloud,” and it

feels chilly, we cross merely to the Canale della Giudecca, which is

almost a lagune, and being very much wider than the Canal Grande, is not

so convenient for common traffic; a handsome street or quay, turned to

the south, borders the water—which, receiving the noonday sun, forms a

pleasant and warm promenade.

Madame de Genlis exclaims, “Quelle triste ville que Venise!” For those

who love the confusion and clatter of carriages, the garish look of

smart shops, and a constant flux and reflux of passers-by, it is indeed

_dull_. There is no noise (except the church bells, of which there is

too much)—no dust; the waters sparkle silently at your feet; the marble

palaces catch their radiance and are dressed in prismatic colours,

reflected from the waves. It is a place where you may dream away your

life, quite forgetful of the rubs, thorns, and hard knocks of more

bustling cities.

But if Venice be tranquil, come with me beyond Venice, and tell me what

name to give to the superlative stillness that reigns when we cross the

lagunes to the islands—Murano, Mazzorbo, Burano Torcello. Little remains

on them, except the churches, built in the younger days of Venice;

several of these are magnificent in marbles, and interesting from their

pictures, painted in the infancy of the art. We rambled about, and our

very footsteps seemed unnaturally to invade the stillness that dwells on

these desert shores, beside the waveless lagune. For a time we might

fancy ourselves—

“The first that ever burst

Into that silent sea.”

We were pleased; but quiet became lethargy; and the dank grass and

marshy ground looked unhealthy. We were glad to be rowed back to Venice.

It was much pleasanter to visit the Armenian convent. This is the _beau

idéal_ of gentlemanly and clerical seclusion. Its peaceful library; its

cultivated and shady garden; the travelled tastes of its inmates, who

all come from the East, and are not imprisoned by their vows, but travel

on various missions, even as far as that _Ultima Thule_ which we

consider the centre of all busy life—the view of the domes and towers of

Venice; and further still, of the Euganean hills to the west, and of the

Alps to the north; the sight you caught of some white sails on the far

ocean;—all this gave promise of peace without ennui—a retreat—but not a

tomb.

Thus I dwell on the beauty, the majesty, the dreamy enjoyments of

Venice. I will now endeavour, though the time I stay is too short to

enable me to observe much, to tell you something of the Venetians.

LETTER IX.

Free Port.—Venetian Society.—Titles of the Nobility.—The Dotti.—Infant

School.

OCTOBER.

When I was here last, the duties on all imports to Venice were high,

living became expensive, and the city languished;—it is now a free port;

everything enters without paying the slightest toll, with the exception

of tobacco. The Emperor of Austria grows a wretched plant, to which he

gives this name, on his paternal acres, and will not allow his subjects

to smoke anything else. If that were the only misdeed of his government,

I should not quarrel with him, but only with the people, who do not

thereon forego the idle habit of cigars altogether.

The free port gives a far greater appearance of life and activity to the

city than it formerly had; and some luxuries—such as Turkish coffee,

and, indeed, all things from the East, are much better and cheaper than

with us. To the Venetians, coffee stands in lieu of wine, beer, spirits,

every exciting drink, and they obtain it in perfection at a very low

price. The Austrian is doing what he can to revive trade, so to increase

his store; for two thirds of the taxes of the Regno Lombardo-Veneto go

to Vienna. He desires that railroads should be made, and one is being

constructed from Milan to Venice. Nay, they are in the act of building a

bridge for the railroad carriages from Mestre to the centre of the city;

however convenient, it is impossible not to repine at this innovation;

the power, the commerce, the arts of Venice are gone, the bridge will

rob it of its romance.

With scarcely any exception, all the Venetians of the higher ranks are

at Villeggiatura at this season, so we have seen but very few of them.

The manner in which the upper class live is, I fancy, monotonous enough.

In the winter, the Viceroy comes from Milan to inhabit his palace, and

gives a few balls. Some ladies open their houses for _conversazioni_ in

the evening; but the usual style is for each lady to have her circle,

and the general drawing-room is the Opera-house; or they assemble in the

Piazza of San Marco. There is a plentiful supply of chairs before the

doors of the principal _caffès_, and they sit and converse. It is not

etiquette for a lady to enter a _caffè_, and they are shocked at the

English women, who do not perceive the difference between eating their

ice, or sipping their coffee, in the open Piazza, and entering the shop

itself. To sit or to walk, listening to the band, and exchanging visits

in this glorious drawing-room, lighted up by the mighty lamps of heaven,

is, especially to an unhacknied stranger, a very pleasant way of passing

a summer evening. The _caffè_ to which the noble Venetians resort, is

that of Suttil. Foreigners go next door to Florian, where Galignani is

taken in, which is an attraction to the English.

That reading does not flourish here, may be gathered from the fact that

there is no circulating library, nor any literary society, such as are

frequent in country towns in France and England, where people subscribe

among one another for the supply of books. The French Consul tried to

establish one, but did not succeed. I think it is Doctor Gregory who

says, reading novels is better than a total incapacity to take an

interest in books, since it enlarges the mind more than no reading at

all. It is sometimes alleged, that in a state of society where there is

no thought nor desire for the acquisition of knowledge, it is better not

to read, than to imbibe the opium or exciting cordials of the usual run

of novels. The question is, whether these works are not a step towards

awakening a desire for nobler and more useful mental culture. Meanwhile,

to live among a people who do not read—do not desire to learn—presents

to us a singular phasis of society. What can they do? Many things, it

may be said, remain for women in the discharge of their duties, without

becoming _blue_; but the fact is, that a desire for improvement is the

salt of the human intellect; that a wish to acquire knowledge is natural

to a well-conditioned mind, and ought especially to exist among

individuals of that class of society which enjoys uninterrupted leisure.

The Italians are delicately organised, and have intuitive taste in music

and most of the fine arts; but accomplishments, as they are called,

cannot be cultivated to any extent, nor can even a love of duty subsist

among the idle, which the Italians proverbially are.

Still, among the Venetians, as all over Italy, you must not suppose

because they are ignorant—because they live in a confined

routine—because to make love in their youth, and take care of their

money in later years, be the occupation of the greater number, that you

find the provincial tone of a French or English country town. Graceful

manners—accents modulated by the kindest courtesy—suavity that is all

gentleness, and a desire to do more than please, to be useful, is innate

among them—it reigns in every class of society, and wins irresistibly.

When I was last at Venice, many many years ago, I knew no Venetians, and

it so happened that the English whom I saw chose to erect themselves

into censors of this people, and to speak of them in unmeasured terms of

censure. New to Italy, we believed those who had lived there long.

Shelley, in his letters and poems, echoes these impressions. I cannot

pretend to say with what justice such opinions were formed: I do not

know whether the Venetians are improved. If a foreigner came to England,

and chose to associate with the most vicious of our country people, both

nobles and that worst race who live by the vices of the rich, he might

find as much to abhor as Lord B— represented as detestable at Venice.

But then there is another class among us,—and he declared there was no

other here. We know, indeed, generally speaking, that Italian morality

is not ours; but if it falls short in some things, perhaps in others, if

we knew them well, we should be obliged to confess its superiority.

The duties of husband and wife are in England observed with even more

sanctity than they obtain credit for. But in how many instances do our

affections and duties begin and end there—with the exception of those

exercised by the parents towards their _very young_ children. We all

know that when a son or daughter marries, they literally fulfil the

dictum of Adam, “therefore shall a man leave his father and mother, and

cleave unto his wife.” Our family affections centre in the small focus

of the married pair, and few and ineffectual are the radii that escape

and go beyond.

Now, it must be acknowledged that, however endearing at the outset,

however necessary and proper, to a certain extent, such a state of

things may be, it often degenerates after a little time into the most

sordid selfishness. The Italians are deficient in this self-dedication

to one, but they have wider extended family attachments, of a very warm

and faithful description. We who consider it a necessity of life to have

a _menage_ to ourselves—each couple in its nest—cannot understand the

harmony and affection nourished in a little republic, often consisting

of grandfather and grandmother, who may be said to have abdicated power,

and live in revered retirement—their days not counted and grudged, as

with us is too frequently the case: then comes father and mother,

respected and loved—and then brothers and sisters. If a sister marries,

she becomes a part of another family, and goes away. The son brings his

wife under his father’s roof; but the size of their houses renders them

independent in their daily life. The younger sons are not apt to marry,

because, in addition to their want of fortune, too many women,

essentially strangers, would thus be brought under one roof, and would

be the occasion of discord. We know how readily the human heart yields

to a law which it looks on as irrefragable; submitting to single life,

uncles learn to love their nephews and nieces as if they were their own

offspring, and a strong family chain is thus formed. A question may

arise as to how much of family tyranny turns these links into heavy

fetters. In the first place, their families are seldom as numerous as

with us. The necessities of their position fall lightly on the males.

All over the world younger sons seldom marry; or only do so to exchange

luxury for straitened circumstances; and younger sons who continue to

grow old under the paternal roof, sharing _by right_ the luxuries to

which they were born, and in which they were educated, are better off

than our younger sons, who are often thrust forth from the luxurious

home of their youth, to live on a bare pittance in a wretched lodging.

Unmarried women all over the Continent have so much the worst of it,

that few remain single. How they contrive to dispose of their girls, now

convents are in disuse, I cannot tell; but, as I have said, there are

not so many as with us, and they usually contrive to marry. At times you

may find a maiden aunt, given up to devotion, who sheds a gentle and

kindly influence over the house. It does not strike me that, as regards

daughters who survive their parents, things are much better managed with

us.

This family affection nurtures many virtues, and renders the manners

more malleable, more courteous, and deferential. For the rest, though I

cannot pretend to be behind the scenes—and though, as I have said, their

morality is confessedly not ours—I am sure there is much both to respect

as well as love among the Italians.

The great misfortune which the nobles labour under is, in the first

place, a bad education, and afterwards the want of a career. The schools

for children are as bad as they can be;—at their universities there is a

perpetual check at work, to prevent the students imbibing liberal

opinions; for as the governments of Italy consider that those who

dedicate themselves to study and reflection are sure to be inimical to

them, so do they look on such with jealousy and distrust, while sharp

watch is kept on the professors, to prevent their ranging beyond the

bounds of science, into the demesnes of philosophy.[15] Young men at

college, however, are all liberal, all ardent for the freedom of their

country, all full of the noblest, though too often the most

impracticable views for her regeneration. They leave college,—and what

is to become of them? If they have already distinguished themselves for

boldness of opinions, or even for great capacity and love of knowledge,

they are marked men; they are not permitted to travel;—in any case they

have no career, unless they give in at once their adherence to Austria;

and, certainly, however hopelessness or misfortune may tame and induce

them to do this in after times, at their first outset in life, an

Italian would feel as if, in so doing, he were a traitor to his country.

Some few there are—as many perhaps as with us—chosen spirits, who can

pursue their course, devoted to study, or the service of their fellow

creatures—abstracted from the frivolity or vices of society. But the

majority have either never felt the true touch of patriotism and a

desire for improvement, or find such incompatible with worldly pleasure.

There is little or no public employment; the marine is but a name; the

army, no true Italian would enter; if they did, they would be quartered

far away from their native country, in Hungary or Bohemia; they have

nothing to occupy their minds, and of course plunge into dissipation.

_Play_ is the whirlpool that engulphs most of them. As with us during

the middle of the last century—as among a certain set of our present

aristocracy—play is their amusement, their occupation, their ruin;—many

of the noblest Italian families are passing away, never more to be heard

of, the heirs of their wealth having lost all in play.—New men, mostly

of Jewish extraction, who have gained by banking, stock jobbing, and

money lending, what the others have lost by their extravagance, are

rising on their downfall.

A curious anomaly exists among the nobility of the north of Italy. It is

well known that titles in England are on a different footing from those

on the Continent, and hence are far more respected. In England, a peer

is an hereditary legislator, he is certain to possess a comparatively

large fortune; so that, to be a noble with us, is to be in the

possession of power and influence. His sons, except the eldest, enjoy

little of all this, and in the next generation they sink into untitled

gentry. In Italy, indeed every where abroad, the descendants of a noble

are also noble to the end of time. The individuals of this order, in

consequence, intermarry only among one another, and flourish as a

numerous class, wholly apart; but of course the respect in which titles

are held is greatly diminished, as power and fortune by no means

constantly attend them.

At present many of the most illustrious families of Venice and Lombardy

have lost their titles. Thus it happened. On Napoleon’s downfall, when

Venice and her territories and other parts of Northern Italy were ceded

to Austria, the kingdom Lombardo-Veneto was formed, and all those

persons who wished to become nobles of the new state, were ordered to

prove their titles by producing the diplomas and documents establishing

the same. The Venetians could easily have complied, since the names of

the nobility were, under the republic, inscribed in the _libro d’oro_;

for, although the original of this book was burnt by the republicans in

1797, several copies existed; and the Venetian nobles were informed,

that on presenting a petition to request leave, and paying the tax or

fees, they might retain the titles of their forefathers. Many who were

descended from families which had given doges to the state, refused to

petition.—“What is the house of Hapsberg,” they said, “that it should

pretend to ennoble the offspring of old Rome?” Nor would they deign to

request honours from the invaders of their country, who carried their

insolence so far as to demand proof of noble origin from those who, for

centuries, had illustrated the pages of history with their names.[16]

The nobility of Lombardy were also called upon to ask for the

confirmation of the titles which they already possessed, by producing

the documents that proved them. Very few were able to comply, as the

Jacobins had destroyed their papers when they seized on all public and

private archives, and burned them. Thus many of the most ancient and

illustrious families are deprived of the titles which, for centuries,

they enjoyed. These regulations concern that portion of Lombardy lately

incorporated in the Austrian kingdom. With regard to the Milanese

nobility, and that belonging to the states which Austria possessed

before the French Revolution, the edicts touched only the new nobility,

for which the Austrian government entertained an antipathy, and was

desirous of finding a pretence for depriving of rank; it was often

enabled to succeed by taking advantage of some flaw in their diplomas,

or in the manner in which they had fulfilled the conditions contained in

the article of the constitution which treats of feudal tenures. It also

forced the nobles of Lombardy, who had received additional rank, to

choose whether they would belong to the ancient nobility by their old

titles, or to the modern by their new. Litta and Visconti, who had been

made dukes, as well as others who had been advanced in rank, chose the

former, and thus, though of ancient race, belong to the new nobility.

But to return to the more important topic of the state of knowledge in

Italy—for this matter of titles is held by themselves in great contempt,

and only thought of as marking the desire of Austria to arrogate power

and to annoy. The Italians care very little for titles; and I have often

heard them say, that until they visited France or England, they scarcely

knew or cared whether they possessed any.

You must not suppose, from what I say, that Italy in no way shares in

the enlightenment of the present times. Moreover, the Emperor of Austria

admits the diffusion of _science_ in his dominions. Happy Italians, to

whom is conceded one path, on which their minds may proceed in the

journey _onwards_ for which God created man. The Austrian government is

aware that their own native subjects can go pottering on with theories

and science, without one aspiration to become men, in the free and noble

sense of self-government, stirring in their hearts: it supposes that it

will be the same in Italy; but the people of this country are made of

different clay; and it seems to me, that as Jehovah hardened the heart

of Pharaoh for his own destruction, so does he soften the heart of

Prince Metternich, thus to admit a system of improvement into Lombardy,

which will hereafter prove the instrument of the overthrow of his power.

Science is generally pursued by clever Italians as a mode of employing

their understandings, which does not excite the suspicion of government;

and scientific meetings, such as assemble with us at stated times in the

great provincial towns, take place yearly in Italy. This season the

learned met in Padua; and at the inn where we refreshed ourselves in

that city, we found tables spread for three hundred _Dotti_, as they are

called. A ridiculous story came to us the other day from across the

lagune. A student of the university looking over the bridge, and seeing

come up the river a barge full of pumpkins, cried out, “Vengono i

dotti—see, they have sent their heads before them!” _Testa di zucca_, or

pumpkin-head, answers to our phrase of blockhead. This, however, was

regarded as a serious insult, and the offender has been put under

arrest, and is to be imprisoned till the great men leave Padua.

There is another point for which the government shews toleration, on

condition that its own political catechism is taught—infant schools. I

visited one, and was much interested. It belongs to our district of

Venice, and is one among many. It was for both boys and girls under the

age of nine. I saw the girls’ room first. They learn according to the

system now prevalent everywhere for teaching the poor—Bell’s and

Lancaster’s, as it used to be called. There were some thirty or forty

girls; and I am sorry to say they did not shew so well as the boys; the

cause, _I trust_, being that the head-teacher, a priest, attended only

to the latter. I do not mean to detract from the governesses who

presided over both schools: they seemed sensible and zealous, and in

every way the whole thing was respectable. But the priest, a young man,

has a passion for arithmetic; he teaches it with ardour to his pupils,

who have a happy knack for the same; and the sums we witnessed brought

to a happy conclusion by these little fellows, all under nine years of

age, and one between seven and eight being the cleverest, were to me

quite prodigious. Once the master disputed a point; the boys insisted

they were right, and so it proved. We gave the stuns. As to the

correctness of the computation, we trusted a good deal to the honour of

the governesses and master; but in truth, to see the eager and

intelligent way in which the boys answered, was quite sufficient, for no

one could be so ready and glad unless he felt himself in the right.

These children were not pretty. I have often remarked, that handsome as

the Italian common people are, their children (probably from bad food)

are seldom good-looking.

Unfortunately, when the children leave the infant schools, their

education ends; they fall back on the habits of indolence and ignorance

indigenous here. How far their arithmetical studies may conduce to their

honesty, I cannot guess. I am not one of those who say,

“Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring.”

A little light is better than total darkness; especially in Italy, where

the cleverness of the people prevents their ever becoming stupid. They

must learn something; and a little good is better than all bad.

LETTER X.

Venetian Palaces.—Gondolieri.—Basilica of St. Mark.—Opera.—Illumination

of the Fenice.

VENICE, OCTOBER.

Many of the palaces of Venice still preserve their pictures, and shew,

in their numbers and beauty, the wealth and taste of the families in old

time. The Palazzo Manfrin contains, I think, the largest and most choice

collection. It has some incomparable pictures by Giorgione, the

contemporary, and rival, of Titian. He also was a pupil of Gian Bellini,

but invented a style of his own, and first painted with that richness

and grandeur of colouring which is the pride of the Venetian school. His

pictures in the Palazzo Manfrin are wonderfully beautiful. The

Deposition from the Cross, by Titian, is here: indeed, the collection is

in every respect magnificent, and deserves many visits. In the Palazzo

Mocenigo (which Lord Byron inhabited—there are two palaces Mocenigo: it

is one of the most illustrious families of Venice), there is the design

for the Paradiso of Tintoretto. In the Palazzo Pisani is an admirable

picture by Paul Veronese—the Family of Darius at the feet of Alexander.

It rises above his usual style of mere portraiture into the ideal. There

is the true chivalrous expression in the mien and countenance of the

youthful victor—the grandeur of habitual command, the dignity resulting

from noble ambition; at the same time, you see that his very soul is

touched by compassion for the fallen princesses, and the ingenuous shame

which a generous mind feels on beholding those lately placed so high

humiliate themselves before him, mantles in his face.

In the Barberigo Palace is the Maddalena Scapigliata of Titian. Her

eyes, swollen and red, are raised to heaven, and her face is disfigured

by much weeping. Her remorse, her vehemence of grief, differs wholly

from the tender sorrow, chastened and supported by faith, of Correggio’s

Magdalen. At first sight, the deformity of her features produced by

violent weeping, is almost repulsive; but the picture gains on you; the

real beauty of the countenance—a something of noble and soft, in spite

of passionate sorrow and self-abasement—is perceptible through her

tears.

We were taken to-day to see a modern picture painting for the Emperor.

It is on a large scale—Foscari taking leave of his Father; his mother is

fainting; the Doge, struggling with contending emotions, turns half

away. The best figure is that of the son: the feebleness arising from

physical suffering—veneration for his seemingly severe parent—grief,

tenderness, and resignation—are well expressed in his kneeling figure

and downcast face.

The Venetians are much interested at this moment by the restoration of

the Pala of the high altar of St. Mark’s. It required an order to view

it and the other precious objects preserved in the Treasury.

The Basilica of San Marco is the most singular among the edifices of

Venice. Its strange Arab architecture denotes its great antiquity. The

ancient chapel of St. Theodore (who, before the transfer of the body of

St. Mark, was the patron saint of the city), built in 552, was

incorporated in 828 in the ancient church of St. Mark, at the time when

the bones of the Saint arrived. These edifices being consumed by fire,

the foundations of the present were laid in 976, and completed in 1071;

but even until the middle of the last century its internal decorations

were not completed.

Every portion glistens with precious stones. Its walls are covered with

pictures in Mosaic: its pavement, and the five hundred columns that

adorn it, are composed of verde antique, jasper, porphyry, agate, and

the most precious marbles. Usually, one cares little for such things;

but here the barbaric magnificence—the Eastern aspect—the tombs of

heroes it contains, and its association with the glories of the

republic—combine to render the tribute of Mammon to Heaven interesting.

The high altar has two Pale: one covers the other. The internal one, a

curiosity from its richness, has been taken down to be repaired. It is

called the Pala d’oro, and is formed of enamel paintings on silver and

gold, encrusted with a profusion of gems; it was executed at

Constantinople by order of the Doge Piero Orseolo, under whose reign the

Basilica was finished. It now forms the delight of Venice, and many

noble ladies have contributed a quantity of gems, to replace those that

have been lost. It is a curious specimen of the state of the arts in the

middle ages, before it revived and received a soul from the great

painters of Tuscany and Umbria. It is all glitter and richness, and a

sort of barbaric elegance, without real taste.

The treasure of St. Mark once overflowed with wealth, in gems, pearls,

and worked gold, chiefly transferred from Constantinople; these have all

disappeared; the only objects that attract attention are an antique

porphyry vase, with letters carved on it, such as are found in

Persepolis—and a golden rose, one of those which it was the practice of

the popes to present on certain occasions to catholic sovereigns. This

had been presented to a doge of Venice; it was no meagre gift, being a

very large bough, bearing many roses, all formed of the precious metal.

Each day we grow more familiar with this delightful city—favourite of

Amphitrite and the Nereids; the little roots, generated by sympathy and

enjoyment, begin to strike out, and I shall feel the violence of

transplanting when forced to go. I look wistfully on some of the

palaces, thinking that here I might find a pleasant, peaceful home; nor

is the idea, though impracticable for me, wholly visionary. Several of

the palaces, bereft of their old possessors, are used for public

offices, or are let at a low rent. It is easy to obtain a house, whose

marble staircase, lofty halls, and elegant architecture, surpass

anything to be found in France or England. Several English gentlemen

have taken apartments, and fitted them up with old furniture, and find

themselves, at slight cost, surrounded by Venetian grandeur. No one can

spend much money in Venice:—a gondola is a very inexpensive carriage;

hiring one, as we do, costs four swanzikers a day—about four pounds a

month, with a _buona mano_ of half a swanziker a day to the gondolier,

on going away.

Of course, if settled, you must build your own gondola; and to be

_respectable_ you must have two _gondolieri_ in livery. The appearance

of the boatmen dressed like footmen is, to my eye, the only inharmonious

sight in Venice. These men used to be reserved only for the use of the

gondola and carrying messages; but in these poorer days, they serve as

domestics in the house; they are still, however, a race apart,

thoroughly acquainted with every nook and corner of the city;

intelligent, alert, zealous; ready (as we were told of old) to do any

bad errand; but with such having nothing to do, we know nothing. We have

two gondolas in our pay. One of the _gondolieri_ is a favourite, Beppo,

No. 303; the other, Marco, 307. We have no fault to find with either;

and they join intelligence to exactness. At first, we would not engage

Marco, because, accustomed to foreigners, he was proud of his scraps of

bad French. We made a bargain with him that he should always speak

Italian—Venetian we would not insist upon, for we should not understand

him. I am almost sorry to know nothing of Venetian; it was the first

dialect formed from Latin that was written. At the time when, in the

other cities of Italy, the annals were drawn up in barbarous Latin, the

Venetians made their records in their vernacular tongue, which remain to

this day in multitudinous volumes in the Library of St. Mark. It has

been averred that the first colonists from Padua brought this dialect of

the Latin with them, and that it is a remnant of the vernacular of Roman

Italy. Nine centuries later, the _lingua Toscana_ could scarcely be said

to exist; the language of Brunetto Latini, Dante’s master, being very

scant and inefficient. I am told that Dante himself hesitated whether to

write his “Divina Comedia” in Latin or Venetian, till fortunately he

became aware that the talk of the common people of Tuscany possessed all

the elements of expression; and he, collecting them with that

life-giving power proper to genius, “created a language, in itself

heroic and persuasive, out of a chaos of inharmonious barbarisms.”[17]

There is, I believe, even at this day, greater scope for wit and airy

grace in Venetian than in Tuscan.

The _gondolieri_ often sing at their oars; nor are the verses of Tasso

quite forgotten. One delicious calm moonlight evening, as we were

walking on the Piazzetta, an old _gondoliere_ challenged a younger one

to alternate with him the stanzas of the “Gerusalemme.” I have often

wished to hear them. It was a double pleasure that I did not do so by

command, but in the true old Venetian way, two challenging each other

voluntarily, and taking up alternate stanzas, till one can remember no

more, and the other comes off conqueror. We are told that the air to

which they sing is monotonous: so it is; yet well adapted to recitation.

The antagonists stood on the Piazzetta, at the verge of the laguna,

surrounded by other _gondolieri_—the whole scene lighted up by the moon.

They chanted the favourite passage, the death of Clorinda. I could only

follow the general sense, as they recite in Venetian; but the subject of

the verse, high and heroic, the associations called up—the beauty of the

spot—a sort of dignity in the gestures of the elder boatman, and nothing

harsh, though it might be monotonous, in their chaunt—the whole thing

gave me inexpressible pleasure—it was a Venetian scene, dressed in its

best; and the imagination was wrapped in perfect enjoyment.

The weeks pass away, and we are soon, I am sorry to say, about to leave

Venice. We have taken our sight-seeing quietly, and each day has had a

novel pleasure. It is one of our amusements to visit the piazza of San

Marco at two in the afternoon, when, on the striking of the hour on the

great clock, the pigeons come down to be fed. These birds are sacred to

Saint Mark, and it is penal to kill any. They lead a happy life, petted

by all the citizens. Now and then they may be served up at the dinner of

a poor man; but they are too many not to spare, without grudging, an

individual or two for the good of their maintainers.

We have visited the arsenal, a monument of the glory and commerce of

Venice; silent, empty, useless. One poor brig lies in the harbour; it

served during the late war in the East; and the young officer, who

kindly acted as cicerone, had captured a Turkish flag, which showed

fresh among ancient Venetian trophies. It seemed only a pretty

compliment when I told him, that it gave me more pleasure than all the

curiosities he was showing us; but I spoke the simple truth. Anything

that demonstrates the valour and spirit of the present race of Italians,

is more satisfactory to behold, than all the cobwebbed glories of old

times.

No good opera is going on here. The Fenice, the large theatre, is only

open during carnival. The most popular amusement is the _famiglia

Vianesi_, about half a dozen children, who sing the _Barbiere di

Seviglia_ and the _Elisir d’Amore_. It was very wonderful, but not

pleasing. There is a young and pretty prima donna—a mezzo

soprano—Gazzaniga, who takes the part of Romeo in the _Montecchi e

Capuletti_, and sings it very nicely; and there is an amusing buffo.

A grand opera was got up at Padua during the visit of the _Dotti_, and

even Taglioni was engaged. There was a talk of her coming to Venice, but

it fell to the ground. However, after the learned had dispersed, the

operatic company crossed the lagune, bringing the decorations of _Robert

le Diable_. The Italians do not understand German music. They bring it

out because it has been praised; but they do not like it; and alter it,

and try to make it coincide with their taste, and spoil it completely.

The Emperor Ferdinand’s uncle, and the heir presumptive of the imperial

crown, is come to spend a day here, and it is thought proper to mark his

visit by a festival. The Piazza di San Marco has been illuminated—only

with a mezza illuminazione, but still it was very beautiful; nor can

anything be otherwise in the magnificent theatre of this stately square.

In addition they opened the opera-house of the Fenice, and lighted it

up. An illuminara in one of the great opera-houses is almost a national

event in an Italian town: I never witnessed one before, and now could

understand the excitement that it occasions. The price of boxes was very

high, some sixty swanzikers and more. Signor —— kindly brought me the

keys of a very good box, opposite that occupied by the royal party. We

went early; the whole house was full; the passages and corridors, all

brilliantly lighted, were filled with the common people—admitted without

paying. Nothing could be more animated, more gay. Our gondolier, one of

whose offices this is, paid for us, and showed us the way to our box.

When the door opened we were dazzled: it was like a scene in fairy land.

Accustomed to our few wax candles, and the deforming, sombre light of

gas, the innumerable lights that shed more than day over the whole

house, produced an effect of brilliancy and elegance quite

indescribable.

There had been much debating as to the opera, Gazzaniga wished to have

the _Montecchi e Capuletti_, as she shone in the part of Romeo; but the

primo buffo did not like to be excluded from singing before H. R. I. H.

Accordingly, the opera of _Chi dura Vince_ was fixed on, in which

Gazzaniga had a prominent serio-comic part. The story of the play is

similar to that of our _Honeymoon_; and the way in which she acted the

angry, deluded bride was very amusing. This opera is by Ricci, and has a

few agreeable airs in it—though nothing rising above mediocrity. The

Archduke went away before the opera was over. Royal personages labour so

very hard; and the Archduke was to leave Venice at four the following

morning. He went in a steamer to view the sea-wall building at

Malamocco, and thence is to proceed by steam to Trieste. Another steamer

accompanied him; and the first people of Venice, and all strangers, were

invited, as for a party of pleasure. I had a sort of fore-feeling I

should not like it; for though I was assured the steamer would make the

voyage in the lagune on this side Lido, I did not quite believe that to

be possible. So it proved—the steamers took to the open sea, which was

rather rough; and though plenty was provided to refresh and entertain

the guests, very little was eaten.

LETTER XI.

Journey to Florence.—Cold and rainy Season.—Excursion to Vallombrosa.

OCTOBER 30TH.

We have taken flight, over plain, river, and mountain, and are arrived

in the beautiful city of Italy—Firenze la Bella. We parted excellent

friends with the host of l’Hôtel d’Italie, who had shown himself anxious

to please, and fair in his dealings. A _vetturino_ journey is always

somewhat tedious, and the deep roads neighbouring the Po, having been

damaged by rain and flood, our progress was more than usually slow. We

were drawn by two admirable little horses, and their avaricious master

taxed their strength to the utmost. He had demanded more from us,

alleging the necessity of extra horses, but grudged the price asked, and

went on merely with his own. The stinginess of this fellow had its

reward in riches, for he told us he was called Il Miliorino. This it is

that makes avarice an incurable vice. It can never be satiated, for it

ever wants more; and it is seldom disappointed, for it gains its ends

more passively than actively, and its success depends on self, not on

others; but this it is also that renders it so despicable. “Tell him his

soul lives in an alley,” said Ben Jonson, when Charles I. sent him a

niggard gift. The souls of the avaricious live in the narrowest of all

alleys; they are shut up in the dreariest solitary confinement, from

which they have not the spirit to escape.

We contrived to peep at a few pictures. At Padua, we paid a hurried

visit to one or two churches adorned by frescoes by some of the earlier

masters, admirable for the artless gesture—the earnest, rapt

expression—the power of shewing the soul breathing in the face. Every

painter who aims at the ideal—at expressing the purer and higher

emotions of the soul, ought to make a particular study of these early

Christian paintings; they must not imitate them—true genius, indeed,

cannot imitate. He can catch the light which the labours of his

predecessors throw over his path; but he will proceed on one shaped out

by himself. To imitate Perugino would be to write poetry in the obsolete

language of Chaucer. Yet every English writer ought to be familiar with

the pathos, sweetness, and delicate truth of one of our greatest poets.

I was sorry not to spend more time at Ferrara; and in particular not to

revisit the galleries, and palaces, and churches of Bologna. To have

seen these once was no excuse for not seeing them again; but I could

not.

I cannot say why, but the impression left on my mind of the passage of

the Appenines had been unfavourable, and I was agreeably surprised to

find the scenery far more varied—richer in wood, and more picturesque

than I expected. The mountain inns are all much improved since I last

crossed. Evening closed as the valley in which Florence is situated

opened before us; the descent is rapid, ending almost at the gate of the

city itself. We traversed it at its greatest length, from the Porta San

Gallo to Schneiderff’s Hotel, where very uncomfortable rooms were

assigned to us.

This, and the expense of the hotel, made us eager to take apartments. I

was instantly employed in the wearisome task of finding them. There are

a great many, but still it was difficult to find such as we wanted.

There were several numerous and handsome suites of rooms at a high

price, and a great number of narrow and uncomfortable ones tolerably

cheap. Neither suited us. We at last fixed on a second floor, on the

Lungo l’Arno. The rooms are nearly all turned to the south, and look

over the river: they are not large, but they are clean and neat. We are

sure of the sun whenever he shines; which is a great desideratum,

especially in an Italian winter, when the presence of sunshine often

admits of an absence of fire. We have engaged our rooms for four months.

It is very cold—as cold as it can be in England.

NOVEMBER.

To cold has succeeded rain, with a few sunny days to break the

dreariness of the season; but I believe you in England are enjoying fine

weather, and, strange to say, we hear that in Rome and Naples the rain

is still more continuous and chill. Walking is out of the question; and

driving,——how I at once envy and despise the happy rich who have

carriages, and who use them only to drive every afternoon in the

Cascine—the Hyde Park of Florence. If I could, I would visit every spot

mentioned in Florentine history—visit its towns of old renown; and

ramble amid scenes familiar to Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarch, and

Macchiavelli.

The fault of Florence is, that it is built in a basin, too entirely and

too closely shut in by mountains, which collect the clouds, and render

the air stagnant; so that it is hot in summer; and in winter, when there

is snow on the Appenines, sharply cold. Now that there is no snow, the

season being mild, we have the other alternative of rain and mist.

Sometimes the Arno rises so high that it threatens a flood: on these

occasions, it is watched and guarded like a wild beast, and every inch,

as it rises, is proclaimed. I like to hear it, roaring and rushing in

its course—

“Per aver pace co’ seguaci sui,”

as Dante says of the Po; and any one witnessing the turbulence of these

tideless Italian rivers when swollen by rains; who views their

precipitate speed, and listens to their thunder, as the mountain

torrents, named by the poet their pursuers, come dashing after, to

augment their fury—whoso sees this, is conscious that in this passage

Dante displays his peculiar and high power of putting a sentient soul

into nature, and representing it to our minds by images suggested by a

quick and poetic feeling of her vitality.

During the intervals between the rainy days, the mists hang as dense and

low over the city as they used to rest over the valley of Dolgelly

during last year’s wintry summer. But when the sun does shine, and when

the smiles of Nature call me forth, I cross the Ponte alle Grazie—I

leave the town by the gate of San Miniato, and ascend the steep hill to

the platform before the little elegant church (San Miniato fuore delle

mura) on which Michael Angelo delighted to fix his eyes, calling it “_La

bella villanella_.” From the height, you command a view of the city,

crowned by dome and tower, of the Appenine that slopes down to cradle it

in its green lap; and of the Arno, that, having forced its way among the

mountains, now hurries on towards the marine plain. This view, and the

climate also of Florence, was injured not many years ago, when the

forests, that clothed the mountain sides, were cut down, to be replaced

by the olive—a more profitable growth. But the removal of the forests

opened the gullies of the hills; took away the check formerly opposed to

the violent tramontana; which collects its strength on the snowy peaks,

and rushes down the bared sides with mightier power.

I look on those glorious hills, and turn to a map of Italy, and long to

lose myself in their depths, and to visit every portion of Tuscany;

every smaller town and secluded nook of which, is illustrious through

historical association. It is my dream to set out some day on this

ramble, and see places untrod by the usual tourist; but now I cannot.

However, we could not resist the temptation of visiting Vallombrosa. It

is true this is not the season for excursions, autumn being too far

advanced; but a fine day gave us promise, we hoped, for the same on the

morrow: so we hired a _vettura_ and set out.

The road skirts the river, and winds up the Valdarno, the slopes of

whose inclosing hills are thickly studded with country seats. It was a

showery day; but the sun shone at intervals, and brightened the stream

and mountain sides. The road is new and good. At about one o’clock we

reached a small town where a cattle fair was going on.[18] After some

little delay, however, we got ponies and a guide, and proceeded. We now

fell upon a true mountain path, winding up the hill beside a brawling

torrent; the crags rose high above, and the branches of noble

forest-trees were spread over our path—truly they were in the sear and

yellow leaf; but the place was the more consonant with Milton’s verse—

“Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks

In Vallombrosa, where th’ Etrurian shades

High, over-arched embower.”

As we climbed higher, a shower of sleet came on, and we arrived wet

through at the Convent. No women are admitted within these sacred walls,

but a _forestiera_ is built adjoining for our accommodation.

The grassy plain, or platform, before the Convent is at the head of a

huge gully or ravine, which slopes down towards the valley of the Arno.

A mist hung over the scene; but in summer-time it must be—what it is

named—Paradise.

Vallombrosa is situated on the verge of the mountainous region of the

Casentino. This district is little known; it vies with Switzerland or

the Tyrol in beauty; covered by forests, resonant with streams, the

valleys that intervene are green and fertile. Cortona is its capital.

Its nobility is of high antiquity, and the peasantry are attached to it

with a sort of feudal sense of vassalage.

We arrived wet through. The lay-brother made a good fire, and asked us

what refreshment we would have. We had already dined, so he brought us

some excellent coffee, and a _chasse_ of _rosolio_, such as is only to

be found distilled by the Monks of this Convent.

The rain made the scene dreary; but it ceased at last, and we mounted

our ponies. The sun broke out as we descended; and the sparkling torrent

murmured softly as it danced along. I hailed it with delight, as one of—

“Li ruscelletti, che de’ verdi colli

Del Casentin discendon giuso in Arno,

Facendo i lor canali e freddi e molli;”—

Verses are these that might refresh a thirsty wanderer in a hot sandy

desert. There is scarcely a spot in Tuscany, and those parts of the

North of Italy, which he visited, that Dante has not described in poetry

that brings the very spot before your eyes, adorned with graces missed

by the prosaic eye, and yet which are exact and in perfect harmony with

the scene.

There are three convents, Vallombrosa, Calmaldoli, and Laverna, situated

in the depths of the district of the Casentino, of which visitors make

the tour. Monks of old were wise to choose spots of extreme beauty,

however solitary, for their life of seclusion, peace, and praise.

LETTER XII.

Art at Florence.—Cosimo Rosselli.—Ghirlandajo.—Beato Fra

Angelico.—Poccetti.—Later Florentine School.

JANUARY, 1843.

Florence contains a multitude of various paintings, which to describe,

or even to classify, would demand a volume, and would require a

knowledge of the art, the elements even of which I do not possess. I

have not the remotest pretension to being a connoisseur; nor do I say,

as some have done, “I do not know what is called good, but I know what

pleases me”—giving it to be understood, by these words, that they have

an untaught instinct, transcending culture of the student. I believe, in

all matters of art, good taste results from natural powers joined to

familiarity with the best productions. To read sublime poetry, to hear

excellent music, to view the finest pictures, the most admirable

statues, and harmonious and stately architecture, is the best school in

which to learn to appreciate what approaches nearest to perfection in

each.

M. Rio satisfactorily proves that the modern art of painting resulted

from the piety of the age in which it had birth. The adoration of

images—or, if that expression be too strong, the having recourse to

images for the purpose of concentrating, vivifying, and exalting the

faith of the worshippers—created a demand (to use a phrase of the day)

for pictures on religious subjects. At first this was satisfied by

paintings of the Byzantine school, to which custom gave sanctity. But

when men of eminent piety, gifted with pictorial powers, turned their

talents to representing bodily to the eye, the Saviour of the world, the

chaste sinless mother of God, or saints, who through their faith form a

portion of the hierarchy of heaven, and are admitted by the Judge to

mediate for their fellow-creatures, they depicted all that their souls

could conceive of sublime and holy in the face of man, seeking to

present

“Of good, wise, just, the perfect shape.”[19]

It is with extreme delight that I have viewed some of the works of the

elder Florentine painters, who excelled in pourtraying the human

countenance lighted up by the nobler passions. Simplicity and innocence;

rapt enthusiasm, or dignified repose, characterise their various

productions. It has been remarked that Shakspeare’s personages speak the

very words which we may imagine that _our noble selves_ would say under

the suggestions of certain passions, dispositions, and circumstances. So

it may be said that every figure painted by these higher artists looks

an individual chosen among our species for nobility of bearing and

beauty of countenance, and that their attitude and look strictly belong

to them. There is nothing theatrical nor affected, which is the

Charybdis—nor anything constrained or inane, which may be termed the

Scylla of the art.

Among the compositions eminent for the conjunction of the truth of

nature and ideal beauty, is the fresco of Cosimo Rosselli, in the church

of Saint Ambrosio. The subject is the translation of the miraculous

chalice to the episcopal palace. It is replete with figures of various

aspect, but all expressive of the sentiment of worship and admiration

proper to the occasion. There is a group of women in particular, which,

if such lived and assembled in the churches of Florence, show that

personal beauty and graceful dignity then existed among the sex in a

degree unparalleled elsewhere. But these evidently are not mere

portraits; and the painter, though accustomed to associate with a race

occupied by nobler thoughts and desires than now for the most part

harbour in the brain and heart of women, yet idealised his actual

experiences.

There is another picture of this age, which to see, is to feel the

happiness which the soul receives from objects presented to the eye,

that kindle and elevate the imagination. It represents the Adoration of

the Magi, by Ghirlandajo, in the chapel of an hospital in the Piazza

della Annunziata. There is one of the Kings standing on one side of the

Virgin, which might (as the Apollo Belvidere is said to have done),

create a passion in a woman’s heart. Where on earth find a man so full

of majesty, gentleness, and feeling? There is a charming accessory to

this picture. In the back-ground is represented the Murder of the

Innocents, in all its terror; but immediately in the foreground, on each

side of the Virgin, kneel two children—the souls of the Innocents who

died for Christ, and are redeemed by him. The attitude of these babes,

especially of one, has that inexpressible charm of innocence which words

cannot convey, and which since the creation of man, the pencil has

seldom been able to depict.

Led by the admiration which this picture excited, I visited every other

in Florence by Ghirlandajo; they mostly bear the stamp of the power I

have mentioned. Vasari, albeit of a different school, praises him

highly, but chiefly for the naturalness and truth with which he

pourtrayed the feelings; and speaks of the wonder excited by those

effects, and the pleasure they produced in the beholders. Describing one

of the paintings in a chapel of the Church of the Santa Trinità, at

Florence, representing the Death of St. Francis, and the grief of the

monks, he says, “there is one friar who kisses his hand; and it is not

possible, in painting, better to pourtray the expression; and there is

besides a bishop, with spectacles on, who is singing vespers, not

hearing whom is the only testimony that it is a mere painting.”

Lanzi speaks of his perfection of outline, grace of attitude, truth of

ideas, and of his facility and rare diligence. He was the master of

Michael Angelo; and, it is said, envying the talents his pupil

displayed, contrived that he should quit painting for sculpture. But

this, I have no doubt, is a calumny. He is one of the most prolific

among the early Florentine painters; but, among his many pictures, I

liked none so well as the Adoration of the Magi I before mentioned, and

the Life of St. Francis, in a chapel dedicated to this Saint, in the

Church of the Santa Trinità.

The Beato Fra Angelico surpasses all his contemporaries in the celestial

sweetness he infuses into the countenances of his saints and angels. We

may believe ourselves regarding the blessed in the kingdom of heaven, as

we look at these creations of a mind cradled in love, charity, and

devotion. Fra Giovanni, of Fiesole, known as the blessed Fra Angelico,

presents in his life the very type of a Christian ecclesiastic. He gave

himself wholly up to piety and good works. His humility was such, that

when Pope Nicholas V. desired to make him Archbishop of Florence, he

represented to his Holiness that he did not feel himself formed to

govern the many, and implored him to name another more worthy in his

stead. “It appears, from this holy man,” says Vasari, “that the monks of

his time did not desire to obtain those burthensome honours which they

did not think that they could worthily fulfil, and were ready to yield

them to others whom they judged more capable—as did this truly angelic

father, who spent his life in the service of God, and in benefiting the

world and his neighbour; and what more can be desired by man than by

living holily to attain the kingdom of heaven, and acting worthily to

acquire eternal fame on earth.” Fra Angelico was no lazy priest—besides

his works elsewhere, Florence abounds with lovely images whose serene

and blessed faces breathe the virtues of their author. The delicacy and

softness for which he is remarkable never degenerates into insipidity.

His pure taste made him conceive the highest beauty, his faith gave him

a foretaste of beatitude, and he adorned with these attributes the

beings whom alone he consented to represent, the saints and angels of

Paradise.[20]

We had a curious scene in the sacristy of the church of Santa Maria

Novella, whither we went to hunt for one of the works of this angelic

artist; the reliquaries mentioned by M. Rio; consisting of two tablets

painted with a series of miniatures, representing the Life of Jesus

Christ; the Last Judgment, in which the beatitude of the elect appears

in all its living ecstasy, and St. Thomas Aquinas and Albert the Great,

surrounded by their disciples. For a long time the keys could not be

found of the closet in which these reliquaries were deposited; and a

most active hunt after them was made. At length they came to light, and

the tablets were brought out. The Dominican, who took every pains to

find them for us, had lately arrived from Rome, and had never seen them.

His almost childish delight, as he regarded the inexpressible loveliness

of these exquisite miniatures, was highly amusing. Whenever you have to

do with an Italian, you do not encounter the doltish ignorance of an

English clown, nor the dogged sullenness of a German. He takes pleasure

in your pleasure, and interests himself in the objects which are

exciting your interest, in a manner at once gratifying to us and

honourable to himself.

Of a later age is Poccetti, unnamed by Vasari, because, when he wrote,

he had not painted the pictures which render him one of the most

admirable fresco painters in the world: Florence is full of his works,

and every one may be visited with pleasure and profit, for he depicts

Nature in her truth and yet in her elegance;—if that word denotes the

power of displaying in the demeanour and attitude, and countenances of

men, their souls defecated of every meaner quality—dignified through

unaffected self-forgetfulness—animated by charity—beaming with

faith.—One of his most renowned works is a series of frescos in the

cloister of the convent of the Santissima Annunziata: they represent the

conversion, holy life, and death, of seven Florentine gentlemen, who

dedicated themselves to religion under the name of Servi di Maria. The

aspect and bearing of these holy men mark them as gentlemen in the best

sense of the word. Men, “generous, brave, and gentle;” and, in addition,

animated by earnest benevolence towards their fellow-creatures, and

lively faith towards the divinity. Perhaps, however, the most admirable

of his works is the cupola of a chapel, belonging to the church and

convent of Santa Maria degli Angioli. It is painted in fresco, and

represents the Saints of the Old and New Testament; the more beautiful

portion is the congregation of female saints—Saint Cecilia, the

musician; Saint Clara, the nun; Saint Catherine, the bride of Christ,

&c. The foreshortening is admirable, the spirit and grace of the

attitudes worthy of the highest masters of the art.[21]

Such is the spirit that animates the earlier school of Florence. But as

painting became more of an art, and grew to represent domestic scenes

and portraits, artists broke from the confinement of mere religious

subjects, or treated them in a mundane manner. Then it was that their

imagination so degenerated, that they had recourse to portraits to

represent Christ, the Virgin, and the Saints; some of them even fell so

far from the ideal of sinless chastity, as to paint their mistresses and

women of unworthy life; offering to the worship of the pious, the image

of mere physical beauty, without the superior grandeur of moral

excellence.

I must confess, that any rules (except the immutable laws of moral

rectitude) that tend to limit the objects on which man is to exercise

his faculty of the imagination, appear to me contrary to the scope of

our creation. We are so far from being all born possessed of equal

powers of mind, that since the world began there has been scarcely a

hundred among us capable of the higher flights of the intellect. How few

possess, in any degree, the capacity of becoming painters, and far fewer

are those who are able to rise to an exalted order of art. We ought to

know what the highest is,—that those who feel the power should endeavour

to elevate themselves to it; but beauty may be found elsewhere, and must

not be rejected. Bigotry is ever to be eschewed in all that pertains to

man; to confine painters to one class of pictures, is to turn some who

would be great, if allowed to originate subjects of a lower grade, into

tame copyists, and humble, lifeless imitators of the thoughts of others.

As well insist that all poets should write hymns and heroic poetry, as

that painters should confine the pencil to the delineation of the

conceptions of religious mysticism.

The genuine school of Christian idealism is, for the present, come to an

end. And I confess, as far as I may be allowed to judge, that it strikes

me that the Germans of the present day, who are endeavouring to revive

it, fall into the same mistake as our sculptors, who employ themselves

in imitating the ancients;—they are good copyists, but are never

original. And what appears to prove this is, that the Germans are not

content with endeavouring to reproduce that composed and severe

expression which the earlier painters yet knew how to ally to vitality

in its highest sense, but they return to the dry colouring and meagre

composition, which is the chief defect of the infancy of painting.

Still, there can be no question that in poetry, music, or the plastic

arts, the ideal must rank above the merely imitative. Those painters who

can embody ideas conceived in their purest and most elevated

contemplations, far removed from vulgar and trivial reality, are the

greatest. Artists, however, are men formed by nature with the peculiar

eye to see and represent form and colour; and it is not strange that the

majority among them should turn to the study of these, and view in the

perfection of representing the one or the other, the aim of their

labours. Thus the study of nature succeeded to the ideal; art fell lower

afterwards, and became the copyist of art; and ancient statues grew to

be the models from which modern painters strove to gain inspiration,

till the uniformity, stiffness, and even deformity thus produced,

induced others, who perceived these faults and their cause, to have

again recourse to nature.

But these remarks tend beyond the limits of my knowledge, or even powers

of observation. I have mentioned pictures not much visited except by the

curious, just to shew the way towards, not to guide you (for I cannot),

in your search after pictorial excellence: nor will I long detain you in

the more beaten road of the public galleries.

LETTER XIII.

The Gallery.—Palazzo Pitti.—Le Belle Arti.—Portrait of Dante.—The

Churches.

With slow steps my feet almost unwillingly first moved to the collection

in the Reali Uffizi. As I entered the Tribune I felt a crowd of

associations rise up around me, gifted with painful vitality. I was long

lost in tears. But novelty seems all in all to us weak mortals; and when

I revisited these rooms, these saddest ghosts were laid; the affliction

calmed, and my mind was free to receive new impressions.

The Tribune is adorned with the selected _chefs-d’œuvre_ of the best

artists of every school, in addition to some of the finest ancient

sculpture in the world. The matchless statue of the Queen of Beauty

reigns over the whole—Venus, majestic in her bending softness, which

once to see does not reveal its perfection. There is here one of the

most beautiful of Raphael’s Madonnas—one of the eight which M. Rio

mentions as among the _chefs-d’œuvre_ that Raphael executed in the short

interval of two years, during which he especially dedicated himself to

multiplying representations of the Virgin, for whom from childhood he

had felt an especial devotion.[22]

Here is the master-piece of Andrea del Sarto, a painter of very high,

though not the highest, merit. He wants warmth of colouring, fire of

expression, and variety of invention; while he has been named _Andrea

senza Errori_, from the purity of his outlines, the graceful decorum of

his personages, and the faultless completeness of every portion of his

pictures.

Perfection in drawing, of which Michael Angelo was the great master, is

the leading merit of the subsequent Florentine school. It has not the

glowing colouring of the Venetian, nor possesses artists to compare with

Raphael, Correggio, or Leonardo da Vinci. Michael Angelo was its most

glorious example—a man whom I do not dare criticize; whom I will wait to

mention till I have seen the Sistine Chapel, at Rome; to whose majestic

powers of conception every connoisseur bears testimony, while still

there is something of extravagant—something which is not absolute

beauty—in most of his works at Florence. The glorious Medicean

monuments,—

“Where the gigantic shapes of Night and Day,

Turned into stone, rest everlastingly;

Yet still are breathing.”[23]

—in spite of the magic art which makes them for ever sit and sleep, yet

jar with the sense of harmony in form. His love of the naked was carried

to a curious excess. In the Tribune, is a Holy Family, into which he has

introduced a variety of naked figures in different attitudes, that have

not the smallest connection with the subject of the picture, but intrude

impertinently to mar its effect.

A charming Madonna of Correggio, kneeling beside the divine infant,

adorns the Tribune; there is also the portrait termed the Fornarina of

Raphael; certainly it is not the Fornarina, for it does not at all

resemble her undoubted portraits, and it has been doubted whether the

picture be by Raphael. From the Tribune, which, as a focus, collects the

rarest and brightest rays of art, branch off several rooms, divided into

schools. One of the most interesting is that containing the portraits of

painters, by themselves. There is a stately chamber, dedicated to the

Niobe and her children, whose maternal, remediless grief sheds a solemn

sadness around. The Florentine school possesses specimens of its worst

style, the inane, expressionless nudities of Vasari and his imitators.

In the room of bronzes is the model of the Perseus of Benvenuto Cellini,

and there is something more spirited and graceful in his attitude than

in the larger bronze in the Piazza. There is the model of the glorious

statue of John of Bologna, which Shakspeare we might think had seen when

he spoke of the “herald Mercury;” and a David of Donatello, neither

imitated from ancient sculpture, nor conceived under their inspiration.

There is all the verve of an original idea; the youthful hero is neither

Mars nor Hercules; he is the inspired Hebrew shepherd boy, who derived

his victory from his faith. The galleries which run round three sides of

the square, from which open the various rooms, are hung with many

pictures, and adorned by a series of the busts of the Roman Emperors,

and by a number of statues. Just below the cornice is a range of highly

interesting portraits. Paul Jovius had made a vast collection of

original portraits of all the illustrious personages of his time, and

placed them in the palace of the Conte Giovio at Como. Cosimo I. sent a

painter, celebrated for his portraits, Cristofaro dell’ Altissimo, to

make copies, and these are here hung up.