It was a conviction, a superstition, nourished by the church, that this

fatal epidemic would spare the Holy City, and the arguments urged to

prove its exemption were absurd, and yet horrible to hear. When the

great heats of August set in, and a few cases began to be mentioned, the

government, grown frantic through mingled terror and folly, thought only

of convincing the people that Rome would be spared. The pest might be

said to have been welcomed by illuminations and processions, and its

virulence propagated and fixed by the poor people being encouraged to go

about barefoot, while their last coin was drained from them to buy oil

for lamps to burn in the churches. The stench and heat in these edifices

became of itself pestilential, for the summer was more sultry even than

usual, and the crowds that filled them were tremendous. Groups of

persons were to be seen in the streets and churches, standing barefoot

before the Madonnas and crucifixes, expecting to see the images open

their eyes and shed blood, both of which miracles, it was averred, had

taken place. But this absurd buffoonery sunk into insignificance

compared with the dreadful ideas purposely put into the people’s minds

about poison; in the early stage of the epidemic, several persons fell

victims to the frenzy thus occasioned.

In the middle of August the most splendid illuminations had place all

over Rome,—a thanksgiving to God for sparing the city. On the 15th, the

Pope set out in procession to accompany a famous black Madonna from the

Church of Santa Maria Maggiore to St. Peter’s. Thrice he was stopped by

storms. People crowded in to join from all the towns and villages in a

circuit of many miles. The vast concourse, the excitement of the

procession, and the violent rains to which they were exposed, barefoot

and bareheaded, tended only to exasperate the power of the epidemic. On

that day many persons died: the illusion vanished—it was admitted that

the cholera was in Rome. Strangers and nobles fled, and for two months

the most fearful scenes had place. The dead-cart went all night—people

fell down in the streets, convulsed by the frightful spasms of that

terrible disease; 15,000 persons (about one in ten of the whole

population, 150,000) died at Rome.

The Pope shut himself up in the Quirinal. Every one who entered the

palace was obliged to undergo fumigation—a thing abhorrent to the

Romans, who detest every kind of perfume. An imperative order was issued

that the cardinals, the heads of government, and various _employés_,

should not quit the city—but it was very ill obeyed—government was

indeed paralysed, and great fears were entertained, especially at first,

of the violence of the ignorant and wretchedly misguided people. “If you

were to imagine the _devil insane_,” wrote an English gentleman, “it

might give you some notion of the state of things, and they already talk

of sending for some Austrian troops.” As the epidemic pursued its

course, the people grew at first familiar with it, and then cowed. Their

state was most horrible. I have heard, from one who was on the spot,

that it was greatly to be doubted whether all who were borne nightly in

the dead-carts to hideous, unhonoured sepulture, really died of cholera.

There was reason to believe that many were victims of a virulent typhus,

brought on by acts of superstition and excessive fear—and, worse still,

that numbers died of starvation. The administrators of government having

for the most part fled or shut themselves up—a strict cordon being drawn

round the city, and the neighbourhood struck with inconceivable

panic—food grew scarce, and the poor wretches who had spent their last

in propitiating Heaven by lamps and candles, without money and without

succour, died of want.

Yet there was not absent many redeeming touches in the dark picture of

the times. The regular clergy fulfilled their duties unshrinkingly; and

the conduct of the Jesuits was particularly admirable. They visited

every corner of the city, watching by death-beds with unwearied zeal.

They were seen taking, with gentle care, babes from the sides of their

mothers, who lay dead in the streets, wrapping them tenderly in their

black gowns, and carrying them to places appointed for their refuge. The

confraternities also did not desert their post. A Roman told me he was

one of three brothers; they removed their aged father to a safe place,

at a distance from contagion, and remained themselves: they were

employed at different quarters of the city. “I never felt happier,” said

my informant; “our father was in safety; we had no fears for ourselves.

All day we were busied among the sick, and when we met in the evening,

it was with light hearts; the employment gave us something to do and to

think about; the dangers we might be supposed to run, endeared us to

each other. I remember now with regret the sort of exhilaration with

which we met, thanked God for our preservation, and then again went to

our task, not only without fear, but with a feeling of gladness superior

to every other happiness.” The few English, also, who remained,

displayed unshrinking courage. Lord C——, in particular, a Catholic

nobleman, acted with a heroism that shamed the Cardinals and heads of

the state. He earnestly strove to prove how erroneous was the fear of

contagion; the succour he brought, and the example he displayed, were of

the utmost utility, and saved many, many lives.

The country round Rome, each town and village within its cordon, was

left pretty much to itself. No disturbances occurred, and the people

showed themselves much more capable than could have been supposed, of

self-government. One English family took refuge at Olèvano, a small

town, some fifteen miles from Rome. They went thither without the

intention of remaining; they took very little money with them, and could

get nothing from Rome: the people of this little place showed them a

kindness at once singular and touching. They not only provided them with

provisions, but exerted themselves to please and amuse them. Each day

some little fête was given by the mere country people for their

diversion; so that they seemed, like the personages of the Decameron, to

have escaped from a city of the pest, to enjoy the innocent pleasures of

life with the greater zest.

Such is the amiable and courteous disposition of this people, except

when their violent passions urge them to crimes, which they scarcely

look on as wicked; for they are taught (for heresy, read any sin against

the ordinances of the church)

“Il gran peccato è l’eresia! che gli altri

Pesan men d’una piuma, e se ne vanno

Con un segno di croce.”[37]

Where men’s wants are few and easily supplied, where a benignant climate

clothes the earth in abundance, and nature is the indulgent mother

instead of the stern overseer of our species, men have leisure, and, if

they are idle, they become vicious. The air of Rome inspires lassitude,

and renders the inhabitants inert. The Romans who live in the healthy

parts of the city are all inclined to grow fat; their language,

unidiomatic, and, so to speak, long-winded in its expressions, is

pronounced with a grace of accent, a slow and melodious emphasis, that

renders it more agreeable than any other Italian to the ears of

strangers, and is strangely in harmony with the dreamy contentment of

their minds. Accustomed to receive and to gain by foreigners, they are

courteous, amiable, and ready to serve; there is among them an air of

easy indolence, which, though it militates against our notions of manly

energy, yet is never brutalized into stupidity. The women are among the

most beautiful of the Italians. You feel as if all lived under a spell;

and so they do; for, troubled and unquiet as is the rest of the papal

dominions, Rome and its immediate neighbourhood remains in a sort of

hazy apathy. The Pope appreciates highly their passive submission, and

does all he can to keep them from communicating with the discontented

districts. For this reason he is opposed to the construction of

railroads; that, as he says, his revolutionary subjects of the East may

not corrupt his obedient children of the West.

To the outward eye, the papal government pays a slight tribute to the

increased demands of the times. There is more decency in the lives of

the clergy; there is more done for the poor. But it is not eleemosynary

charity that is needed—it is the spirit of improvement, just laws and an

upright administration—none of these exist; and even scientific

knowledge, encouraged in other parts of the peninsula, is forbidden.

Meanwhile, penal laws are slight, and seldom enforced. There is, some

fifteen miles from the city, a miserable collection of huts, in the

middle of a tract of country, the peculiar haunt of mal’ aria; it is

called Campo Morto, and is an asylum of the Church. All criminals, who

fear being taken, fly hither. The spot, consecrated as an asylum, is

watched by soldiers. The fugitive who once enters the fatal bounds,

never dares leave them. Three years is the extent to which a man can

drag out existence in this pestilential atmosphere. So here the hardened

criminal comes to die, in his desire to escape from death. He is soon

struck by fever, grows feeble and emaciated; and at his appointed hour

is gathered to the grave.

The papal government is considered the worst in Italy; and the temporal

rule of the Church is looked upon as the chief source of the nation’s

misfortunes. This is no novel assertion. You may remember Dante’s

apostrophe:—

“Ahi, Costantin, di quanto mal fu matre,

Non la tua conversion, ma quella dote,

Che da te prese il primo ricco patre.”

In the middle ages the temporal power of the Popes urged them on to many

acts of unjustifiable aggression; yet, as the faith of nations in those

days made them strong, the people were, for the most part, their

friends; kings, their enemies—and often they made the latter tremble on

their thrones, while they showed themselves the protectors of the

former. The Popes were then Guelphs, and watched over civil liberty,

till attachment to temporal riches turned them into Ghibellines, and led

them to support the pretensions of sovereigns to absolute power.

Savanorola denounced this unholy alliance as subversive of the purity,

and even existence, of the Church. As faith decayed, and reform grew

imminent, the compact between the head of a religion that preached

equality, and the sovereigns who aimed at despotism, was sealed: while

as the revenues of the Church, so lately swollen by tributes from all

the Christian world, decreased, the pontiffs clung more tenaciously to

the few miles of territory which they claimed as their own.[38]

Before the first French Revolution, English travellers denounced the

temporal rule of the Popes as corrupt and odious; it subsists now as it

did then—only things are worse—partly, because all that does not improve

must deteriorate; partly, that the uses and end of government are better

understood, and abuses become more torturing and intolerable; and

partly, because the checks and restraints which time and custom opposed

to their tyranny are now all swept away.

The Pope and his prelates, alone, are invested with political,

legislative, and administrative authority, and constitute the State.

From education and from system they are despotic, and repel every

liberal notion, every social progress. The people pay and obey: all the

offices, all the employments, great and small, are in the hands of the

clergy. From the Pope to the lowest priestly magistrate, all live on the

public revenues, whence springs a system of clients, which existing

principally in Rome, yet extends over the whole of the papal dominions,

and creates a crowd of dependants devoted to the clergy. Corruption is

the mainspring of the State, which rests on the cupidity which the

absence of all incentive to, or compensation for, honest labour

inspires: yet nearly all are poor, and poorest is the Head of the whole;

who, shrinking from all improvement, fearful if the closed valves were

opened, he should admit in one rushing stream, with industry and

knowledge, rebellion, yet finds that the fresh burthens which his

necessities cause him to impose on the people fail to increase his

revenue.

The Romans, themselves, submit without repining, their state has

existed, such as it is, for centuries; the abode of the Pope and

concourse of strangers enrich—the Church ceremonies amuse them. But out

of Rome the cry has been loud, and will be repeated again and again. The

Marches bordering the Adriatic, Romagna and the four legations, (four

cities, each governed by a Cardinal legate), suffer evils comparatively

new to them; and the memory of better days incites them to endeavour to

recover their former independence. These states formed, it is true, a

portion of the pontifical dominions before the French revolution; but

they existed then on a different footing, and enjoyed privileges of

which they are now deprived. Bologna in especial considers herself

aggrieved.

During the reign of Pope Nicholas V., driven by the political

necessities of the times, Bologna placed itself under the protection of

the papal government. The city engaged to pay an annual tribute, and to

acknowledge the sovereignty of the Pontiff, while he, on the other hand,

guaranteed its independence, and a representative senate to rule the

state. Such was its position till the French invasion of 1796. The

Congress of Vienna, in 1814, among its other misdeeds, made over the

four legations to the Pope. They became a part of the patrimony of St.

Peter; their municipal rights were abolished, and, contrary to every

stipulation, they were reduced to the same condition as the ancient

subjects of the Pope. At first the Pontiffs thought it necessary to take

some steps to reconcile them to the loss of their ancient privileges.

They promised them laws in accordance with the improved notions of the

times; and that the code of Napoleon should continue in force. These

promises were never fulfilled, and a farrago of laws was imposed

impossible to be understood, and for ever changing; as each new Pope,

supported by his infallibility, makes new ones at pleasure, while the

corrupt mode in which they are administered increases the vexation of

the people. A diminution of their burthens was also promised, but they

continued as high as ever, without those attendant circumstances, that,

in the time of the French, compensated for heavy taxations. Money was

then spent in constructing roads and other useful public works; now the

whole treasure is employed to pension the clergy, and to support in

splendour the state and luxury of the Cardinals.

LETTER XXI.

Insurrection of 1831.—Occupation of Ancona by the French.

If a revolutionary spark is lighted up any where in Europe, the fire

bursts forth in Italy. The misgovernment above mentioned is the cause

that latterly Romagna has been the centre of these insurrectionary

movements, but there has never been sufficient union or strength to

secure success. When the French revolution of 1830 occurred, the

surviving Carbonari and the heads of other secret societies believed

that the moment was propitious to their designs. The government of

Louis-Philippe, desirous of drawing away from France the storm that

brooded over her from Russia and Austria, excited two unfortunate

enslaved countries, Poland and Italy, to rebel. It proclaimed the

principle of non-intervention. Marshal Soult exclaimed in the Chamber of

Peers:—“The principle of non-intervention shall henceforth be ours; but

on condition that it shall be respected by others.” These solemn

declarations satisfied the Italian conspirators. Central Italy, that is,

the northern pontifical states in chief, with the duchy of Modena, was

to be the focus of their movement, and the chiefs believed that they

would be strong enough, at least in Romagna, to cope with the armies of

their sovereign, if Austria were not permitted to pour its tens of

thousands beyond the boundaries of Lombardy.

I have asked Italians for some account of the troubles of those times.

“I fear,” was the reply, “that it will be difficult to tell any thing

worthy to be recorded. Horrible disasters, acts of incredible bravery,

admirable instances of self-devotion, were found side by side with

atrocious crimes; but all so scattered and individual, that it is

scarcely possible to group the events together so as to form a

narrative.”

Discontent, particularly among the upper classes, was general all over

Italy; yet few were willing to risk life and fortune for a cause of

which they despaired. The actual revolt was therefore confined to the

heads of the secret societies—many of them in exile, and a few thousand

young men. The want of talent in some, and of honesty in others among

the leaders, led to every disaster. They roused and gathered together

bands of ardent youths, holding out to them false hopes of a judicious

and wellregulated insurrection, aided by the power of France. Five

thousand lads, chiefly of good birth, taken from their boyish studies,

withdrawn from the caresses of their mothers, from the pleasures of

their homes, without experience, without forethought, who had scarcely

reached the threshold of life—rash and untaught, embarked on the

difficult and dangerous path of revolt. Their only tie in common was the

desire of driving the stranger from their country. They had none to

counsel, none to encourage, none to lead; they entrusted the conduct of

their attempt to men who, either from timidity or treachery, hung back

when they ought to have shewn boldness, and neutralised the small power

of aggression which they possessed. They were confronted by a hundred

thousand Imperialists, veteran soldiers, supported by all the material

of war.

The result was such as might have been expected. As soon as

Louis-Philippe felt secure on his throne, he was eager to see an end put

to the commotions excited by the revolution of thirty. He deserted the

Italian cause. The leaders had no boldness, no military skill—the youths

whom they commanded showed bravery, but were too inefficient, few, and

ill-armed, to cope with a large, disciplined, and veteran army. The end

was defeat and surrender; then came the violation of treaties, death,

and exile. It would strike with pity the coldest heart to draw but a

slight sketch of the various misery that befel individuals. Many a

domestic drama of harrowing tragic interest convulsed families, deprived

of their noblest offspring; and whether the bereaved parents were base

enough to disclaim and cast them forth, or whether they mourned in

bitterness over their fate, the misery was the same. It is not yet

ended: England and France still swarm with unfortunate exiles—the better

portion of the insurgents, who sigh to return to their country, but who

will not in hardship and banishment, make those sacrifices of principle

which would at once restore them to rank and wealth.

The occupation of Ancona by the French is an event quite distinct from

the insurrection of Romagna, though our vague recollections confuse them

together. Abandoned by the French, hemmed in by an Austrian army, the

insurgents had surrendered, and the pontifical flag again waved over the

citadel of Ancona. Still Romagna was full of commotions, occasioned by

their desire for some amelioration of the laws. The five Powers of

Europe interfered to prevail on the Pope to yield in some degree to the

desires of his subjects. His answer was an edict that overthrew all

hope, and confirmed the worst abuses—the superiority of the

ecclesiastical courts over the civil, the minor punishments for the

clergy compared with the laity, and the continuation of the Inquisition.

To enforce these edicts the Pope, helped by Austria, transacted a loan,

and declared his intention of sending troops to occupy the four

legations.

The account of this military occupation is one of the most frightful

passages of modern history. The papal regiments were recruited from the

prisons, and formed of bands of San Fedisti—the name of troops half

brigands, half soldiers, formed by the priests in opposition to the

Carbonari, whose frightful history you may find in the pages of Coletta.

This soldiery committed every excess: whether they met with resistance,

or, hoping to disarm their ferocity, they were welcomed in the towns as

friends, the result was the same—outrage, rapine, massacre. The spirit

of the people was roused, and Cardinal Albani’s army, stained by

multiplied acts of barbarity, no longer sufficed for the mastery of the

whole of Romagna. Succour was requested from Austria, and promptly

afforded. Six thousand Austrians, dragging with them the five thousand

brigands rather than troops, under the pay of the Head of the Catholic

Church, entered Bologna a second time. The severest discipline was

enjoined to the German soldiers, and strictly observed. Prince

Metternich was praised for his interference; the result showed his

secret intentions. The Italian populace compared the discipline and

moderation of the Germans with the recent excesses of the papal

soldiery, and it was hoped that an impression would be made of the

preference that ought to be given to the Austrian over the pontifical

sway, which hereafter might serve the former in good stead.

When the Pope declared his intention of a military occupation of the

discontented provinces, the five Powers, whose ambassadors had just been

urging milder measures, with one exception only, approved. England,

represented by Sir George Seymour, expressed dissent, and her minister

withdrew from the councils of the other diplomatic agents. On the other

hand, France expressed her approbation in emphatic terms. The second

occupation of Bologna by the Austrians, and the dexterity shown by

Prince Metternich, however, made a deep impression on Casimir Perrier,

then Minister for Foreign Affairs. This was a step in advance made by

the Austrian under cover of friendship; but if Romagna was to be lost to

the Pope, he saw no reason why the French should not divide the spoil,

and he suddenly resolved to occupy Ancona. A ship and two frigates

received orders to sail for that city, and carry thither eleven hundred

men, under the command of a naval captain Gallois, and of Colonel

Combes. General Cubières was named commander-in-chief of the expedition.

He set out for Rome, by way of Leghorn, for the purpose of communicating

with the Pope with regard to this seizure of one of his principal

cities. The French government calculated that General Cubières would

have time to see the Pope, and obtain his consent, and reach Ancona

before Captain Gallois and Colonel Combes could arrive; but contrary

winds delayed Cubières, while on the other hand, the little French fleet

doubled the coasts of Italy with an expedition that could not be

foreseen, and which indeed excited general surprise; so that when

Cubières arrived at Rome he found the French ambassador in a violent

rage; the tidings of the occupation of Ancona having reached Rome a few

hours before; the Pontiff also was inexpressibly indignant.

Ancona was taken in the night of the 22–23d February, 1832. On their

arrival, Colonel Combes and Captain Gallois did not find Cubières. He

held the instructions of government, without which, strictly speaking,

they could not commence the attack. They did not, however, hesitate to

assume the responsibility of the assault—a resolution which they

regarded due to the honour of their flag. The fleet cast anchor three

miles distant from the city. A portion of the French soldiers

disembarked without impediment, and in a short time, by a hurried march,

they arrived under the walls. The gates were closed; the papal troops

would not open them. The sappers of the 66th regt. broke one open with

furious blows of the axe, and were aided in the work by some of the

populace. The French dispersed themselves quickly in the city, disarming

the posts. Colonel Lazzarini was made prisoner in his bed before he

awoke; and thus, by a _coup-de-main_, the French possessed themselves of

the city. At daybreak the rest of the troops were disembarked. Colonel

Combes, at the head of a battalion, marched against the citadel. The

pontifical troops, frightened, yielded immediately; the French were

received as friends into the fortress, and the tri-coloured flag was

hoisted. The people of Ancona co-operated actively with the French, and

not a drop of blood was shed; the inhabitants looked on the occupation

as the beginning of liberty, and rejoicing and gladness everywhere

prevailed. The Italian tricolor floated in all the streets, and over

every square. The French raised the cry of _Vive la liberté!_ which was

responded to by the Italians with tumults of joy. The governor of the

province and the commandant of the piazza were made prisoners, but

afterwards set at liberty; they left Ancona. The state prisons were

thrown open, and several chiefs of the insurgents liberated. The city

was that night illuminated, and the theatres resounded with patriotic

songs. A staff officer got upon a bench in one of the principal cafés,

and brandishing a naked sword, declared that the regiment occupying

Ancona was merely a vanguard, which announced the liberty of Italy.

All Europe was astonished by this event. Austria, in its first movement

of surprise, demanded categorical explanations; at the same time that

the general of the Austrian troops stationed at Bologna, published a

proclamation, in which he declared that the French had occupied Ancona

through the same motives, and for the same ends, which had guided the

Austrians in Romagna. The Pope gave immediate orders that his troops

should retire from Ancona, and that the provincial government should be

removed to Osimo: but this anger on the part of the Vatican was of short

duration; it listened to the declarations and protestations of the

French government, which had in truth no notion of favouring Italian

liberty, but intended simply to check Austria, or at least obtain a part

of the spoils, if the Pope lost Romagna. Sad were the conditions upon

which the French were permitted to prolong their sojourn at Ancona. The

part they filled afterwards redounded to their shame in the eyes of the

Italians. They averred that the French soldiers, until the evacuation,

only served as sbirri of the papal power. And while the government of

France held language openly that made Europe believe that Ancona, while

in their possession, was a place of refuge for the liberals, it by its

acts proved to the various cabinets, that its views were in unison with

those of Austria, Prussia, and Russia. A few years ago Ancona was made

over again to the Pontiff, the French saving their credit by having the

reputation of obtaining in exchange the pardon of some of the exiles of

Lombardy; which, in fact, Austria only wanted a pretext and a fair

occasion to grant.

At present the spirit of revolt is checked, but not quelled in the

pontifical states. A volcanic fire smoulders near the surface, ready at

every moment to burst forth in a flame. The whole of the country before

disturbed, the Marches, Romagna, the four legations, together with the

population of the mountains, are bound together by secret associations,

and wait impatiently for the favourable moment when to break their

chains. These secret societies, unfortunately, are bad means for seeking

a good result; and it is to be feared that the country will never attain

a high moral tone and a true feeling of independence, till the means

used by their leaders are changed.

Secret associations ought to be particularly eschewed by the Italians,

as tending to foster their principal defect—their cunning. The violence

of their passions, which they are so little taught to control, is the

source of much crime and unhappiness; but under better laws they would

be checked. The cowardice of which they are accused, I regard as a

mistake: mingled with other soldiers the Italians are as brave as

they—it is the want of leaders which has occasioned this low estimation

of their courage. No troops will hold together who have not confidence

in their generals. In all instances of their defeat it seems evident

that their disasters were not occasioned by cowardice in the soldiers,

but absence of military skill among those in command.

The habit of deception is the worst fault of the Italians; accustomed to

look on the dark side of human nature and to disbelieve in its virtues,

they are ever awake to ward off covert injury by astuteness; while the

purer virtues, stainless honour and unspotted truth, belong to few (yet

to a few they do belong), among them.

The evil has been fostered by the bad use to which the confessional has

been put during troubled times;[39] by the institution of a secret

police by the governments, and by the spread of secret societies. For

what is held mysterious, concealed by oaths, and carried on in the dark,

must use falsehood as a shield, and terror as a weapon.

Little good, I am afraid, has been operated by these associations on the

character of the people; and the real interests of the country must

result from the improvement of the moral sense. Meanwhile, they occasion

frequent and partial insurrections, that keep the sovereigns in alarm,

but do not advance their cause. It cannot be expected that Italy should

be able to liberate itself in a time of lethargic peace like the

present. And the attempts of the few who, from time to time, are driven

by indignation and shame to take up arms, are but the occasion of tears

and grief. They form a band of hidden and obscure victims, which each

year that power devours that holds them in slavery. It may even be

doubted whether an European commotion would give an occasion favourable

to Italy. We must not forget that the people are demoralised and

degenerate. The present affords no glimmering light by which we may

perceive how the regeneration of Italy will be effected. It is one of

the secrets of futurity at which it is vain to guess. Yet the hour must

and will come. For there are noble spirits who live only in this hope;

and every man of courage and genius throughout the country—and several

such exist—consecrates his moral and intellectual faculties to this end

only.

LETTER XXII.

Sorrento.—Capri.—Pompeii.

SORRENTO, JUNE 1.

It seems to me as if I had never before visited Italy—as if now, for the

first time, the charm of the country was revealed to me. At every moment

the senses, lapped in delight, whisper—this is Paradise. Here I find the

secret of Italian poetry: not of Dante; he belonged to Etruria and

Cisalpine Gaul: Tuscany and Lombardy are beautiful—they are an improved

France, an abundant, sunshiny England—but here only do we find another

earth and sky. Here the poets of Italy tasted the sweets of those

enchanted gardens which they describe in their poems—and we wonder at

their bright imaginations; but they drew only from reality—the reality

of Sorrento. Call to mind those stanzas of Tasso, those passages of

Berni and Ariosto, which have most vividly transported you into gardens

of delight, and in them you will find the best description of the charms

of this spot. I had visited Naples before, but that was in winter—and

beautiful as I thought it, I did not then guess what this land is in all

the glory of its summer dress.

Here is the house in which Tasso was born—what wonder that the gardens

of Armida convey to the mind the feeling that the poet had been carried

away by enchantment to an Elysium, whose balmy atmosphere hung about

him, and he wrote under its influence.—So indeed was it—here is the

radiance, here the delights which he describes—here he passed his

childhood; the fragrance of these bowers, the glory of this sky, haunted

him in the dark cell of the convent of St. Anna.

I know not whether I should prefer the view of the bay which his house

(now occupied as an hotel) commands, to our own from the Cocumella—the

scene from his windows is certainly completer; situated more in the bend

of the bay, turned northwards towards Vesuvius, he looked upon a circle

of mountain crags, embracing the sea; our view is more turned to the

west—it is less picturesque—perhaps more sublime.

The portion of the bay that belongs to Sorrento is singularly formed.

For the most part, steep cliffs rise from the water, with here and there

a break, where there intervenes a short space of sands, hedged round by

cliffs. The cliffs are perforated with caverns, some open to the air,

and clothed with luxuriant vegetation; others scooped deep in the face

of the rock. Many of them have been enlarged, and openings made for

ventilation, and passages cut down to the sands, and up to the gardens

above. Every house almost has one of these _calate_ or descents, down

from the heights above to the beach; some cut in the face of the

cliffs—corkscrew galleries—some communicating with the caverns; most of

them are walled up to prevent smuggling. I believe when the family to

whom the house belongs resides on the spot, at their request the

_calata_ belonging to them is opened. One of the royal family had been

staying at or near the Cocumella; the passage was opened for their

convenience, and the keys were left at our inn; so we had full command

of the descent from the garden of our house. Our _calata_ is considered

one of the best; it opens into a huge double cavern, which tradition or

imagination has appropriated to Polyphemus. It is large enough for him

and his flock, and within is an inner cave, where the giant-shepherd

stored his cheeses, and against whose rough surface the luckless

voyagers clung, hoping to escape: the rock he flung to sink the vessel

of Ulysses still lies a furlong from the mouth of the cavern. In the

morning nothing can be cooler than the sands shaded by the cliff; later

in the day the sun descending to set behind Ischia, strikes on the rocks

and beach, and they become burningly hot.

P—— has got a nice sailing-boat over from Naples; too small, but still a

wonderfully safe, good boat, considering its size, and we have a

_marinaro_ also from Naples, to whom it belongs; he takes care of it all

day, and sleeps in it at night. He is a young fellow, and certainly

never shows any signs of timidity, but considers his little skiff

charmed from danger within the bay; beyond, the seas are far heavier;

his father _ha timore_ and will not let him venture. He tries to

persuade us to go with him to Ischia and Capri. I am shy of this—the

boat is so small; but P—— and his friend often sail some miles from

shore, and run down to Castelamare; and on calm days I go on exploring

expeditions into the frequent and strange caves of the coast, or stretch

across to the Temple of Neptune, and roam about the ruin-strewed shore.

These caverns are mysterious recesses, which the fancy is excited to

people with a thousand fairy tales. As I have said, some are like ours

of the Cocumella, scooped out in the face of the rock—others, narrow

clefts in the rock, open to the sky. Into the strangest you enter by

narrow passages, just large enough to let the boat pass; they are

covered at top, and paved by the waves, which play flickering with a

turquoise tint quite peculiar and very beautiful.[40]

The plain of Sorrento, which is spread on the top of the cliffs that

overlook the sea, is shut in all round by a belt of hills—intersected

here and there by narrow ravines—clefts, as it were, in the soil,

thickly clothed with various trees and underwood. The plain itself is

planted with orange trees. These gardens being shut in by high walls,

the walks near us are not at all agreeable; therefore, when we leave our

terrace, and our beach, and our cavern, it is in a boat or on mules—the

rides are delightful. To Capo del Monte, which those who live nearer to

Sorrento than ourselves can reach by a walk, and therefore to live

nearer has advantages—but I like our greater retirement better; or to

the Calmaldoli, or to the Conti delle Fontanelle, a height whence we

command a view of the Gulf of Salerno, the rocks of the Syrens, and the

long line of coast that runs southward, on which Pæstum is situated; and

of Capri rising abrupt and dark. I can only compare the difference

between these enchanting scenes and those of other countries which have

heretofore delighted me, by saying, that in all others it was like

seeing a lovely countenance behind a dusky veil; here the veil is

withdrawn, and the senses ache with the effulgent beauty which is

revealed.

JUNE 3.

To-day we visited Capri. The winds here are so regular, that with the

exception of a scirocco which will sometimes intervene, you know exactly

in summer-time on what you may depend. At noon the Ponente rises—a west

wind, brisk and fresh, which crisps the sea into sparkling waves, that

dance beneath the sun. This wind goes on increasing till about five or

six in the afternoon, and then dies away; at about nine or ten an air

comes off from Vesuvius—a land wind, in fact—which lasts till morning.

Thus to go to Capri, it was necessary to set out early to profit by this

breeze, which wafted us southward to the island. I do not know anything

more striking than the manner in which, as we stretch out from our bay,

the island of Capri, with its two peaks and beetling cliffs, rises upon

us. As we ran down towards it, headland after headland opened, and

disclosed the bays between. In two hours we reached the island, and ran

into the little bay in which the town of Capri is situated. We then

transferred ourselves to two small boats, for the purpose of visiting

the Grotto Azzurro. We were rowed under the high, dark, bare,

perpendicular cliffs, and with anxious curiosity I looked for the

opening to the grotto. The mountains grew higher, the precipices more

abrupt and black, as we rowed slowly in the deep calm water beneath

their shadow. At length we came to a small opening; it was necessary to

sit at the bottom of the boat, as it shot through the narrow, low,

covered entrance; within, the strangest sight is revealed: we entered a

large cavern, formed by the sea; the hue resembles that which I

mentioned as belonging to the caves of the Sorrentine coast; only here

it is brighter—a turquoise, milky, pellucid, living azure. The white

roof and walls of the cave reflect the tints, and the shimmering motion

of the waves being also mirrored on the rock, the effect is more

fairy-like and strange than can be conceived. This cave was discovered

by two Englishmen, who went to swim under the cliffs, and penetrated by

chance its narrow opening. It deserves the renown it has gained. I

cannot explain from what effect of the laws of light this singular and

beautiful hue proceeds. Partly it is the natural azure of the waves of

this bright sea, which, entering, reflects the snow-white cavern, and is

turned as it were into transparent milk; another cause may be, that the

walls of the cavern do not reach deeper than the surface of the water;

they just touch it—and the sea flows beneath. The water is icy cold, and

the adventure would be perilous; but a good swimmer might be excited to

dive beneath the paving water, strike out under the cave, and seek for

wonders beyond.

After lingering some time in this favourite grotto of the Nereids, which

they have, since the creation till the present time, kept sacred from

our intrusion, we returned to Capri, and hired donkeys for our ascent to

the palace of Tiberius, which is situated on the summit of one of the

mountain-peaks of the island. We had several guides; the woman that

accompanied me attracted me by her extreme beauty. She had that noble

contour of countenance that I so particularly admire; a beauty at once

full of dignity and expression. The sun burnt bright above, and the way

was fatiguing. We clambered up through vineyards that clothe the

mountains’ sides, and _podere_, or small farms, sown with grain, and

prolific in the huge prickly pear, which grow as giants. We reached at

last the remains of the palace of Tiberius; a part of the walls and many

portions of mosaic pavement remain, as well as the relics of a way down

to the sea, of very solid yet elaborate workmanship. The view from the

summit, where a portion of the ruins has been turned into a little

church, is more grand than anything I ever saw, The Bay of Naples on one

side; that of Salerno on the other; with the coast on which Pæstum is

situated, bounding the eastern horizon. There is a peculiarity in the

way in which the steep promontories of the southern Italian coast abut

into the sea, and in the hues of ocean, as it embraces the rocky shores,

which those who have not visited the South cannot conceive; which I

never saw till I came here, but which satisfies the mind that this is

beauty; that here, God has let fall upon earth the mantle of glory which

otherwise is gathered up among the angels!

We had brought provisions with us, and dined on the sort of platform at

the summit; and here, in one of the ruined chambers, where the mosaic

pavement is entire, the peasants danced the Tarantella. On mainland,

this dance is forbidden, at least, for the two sexes to dance it

together;—why, I cannot guess: as far as we saw, it is more decent than

the waltz. The couples _set_ and turn round each other, but without

touching even each other’s hands, for these are occupied by the

castanets. Two or three of the women were handsome; but none so

attractive as the woman who was my guide.

As we descended, I talked to her. The wretched lot of these poor people

is very sad. In England we see and read of the squalid condition of the

poor; and when it is contrasted with the luxury of the rich, we feel

deeply, “That there is something rotten in the state.” But while we are

aware that our climate fearfully increases the sufferings of the poor,

we know that to keep out cold and hunger is costly, and the suffering

does not appear so causeless and arbitrary as in this fairy island;

here, where the sun in all his splendour kisses earth, which, well

cultivated and fertile, yields plenty; and where, moreover, the sea is

abundant in fish; the heart rebels yet more vehemently against the

hungry poverty of the hard-working peasants. Fish and meat they never

touch: all that is caught of the former is taken to Naples. Maccaroni

they get on festivals: at other times, they live on vegetables—nothing

so wholesome as the potato—the prickly pear chiefly. The better off

among them indulge now and then in _polenta_, the flour of Indian corn

made into porridge. They have no milk; weak sour wine, or water, is

their drink. One result of this bad fare is the mortality among the

children. My Juno-looking guide had had four children: one only

survived. Poor little fellow! he ran beside his mother; and she looked

on him with anxious fondness, for his complexion and figure all spoke

disease.

To suffer is a different thing under this sky. They have had food, they

work hard; but Nature is their friend; they are not pinched with cold

nor racked by rheumatic pains. Thus my poor woman, in whom I grew

interested, had nothing morose—scarcely anything plaintive—about her.

“_Sono sempre allegra_,” she said. “I am gay—we ought to be gay.”

“_Siamo come Dio vuole._” “We live as God pleases, and must not

complain. My heart aches when I remember my poor children now in

Paradise; I cry when I think of them; and that little fellow,” and she

cast an anxious, maternal glance on him—“he is not well” (heaven knows,

he was not). “_Ma, allegra, Signora_”—“the Virgin will help us;” and she

began, in a sweet voice, to sing a plaintive hymn to the Virgin. Poor

people! their religion is hung round with falsehood; but it is a great,

a real comfort, to them. Sickness and all evil comes from God, and must

be home, therefore, with patience; and the great duty is to be gay under

all, and to serve God with a cheerful, as well as a pure, heart. I

should have liked to have tried, at least, to have done some real good

to this woman, whose countenance, and voice, and conversation, gave her

distinction. Nothing could be more simple and unpretending than her

talk; but it had a stamp of heart, joined to that touch of the

imaginative, peculiar to the Italian peasantry.

English tourists get very angry at the perpetual demands made on their

purses during their excursions. “_Dammi qualche co’_,” salutes our ear

too often. But, poor people, who can wonder! I have told you how they

fare. At Sorrento oranges are the staple of the place—that and hewn

stones; the poor man who has a mule considers himself comparatively well

off; he and his mule carrying oranges and stones, support his family.

They often work all night, lading the boats going to Naples with

oranges, and by day they labour at the quarries. The nobles do not

reside on their estates, and there is no help for the poor; there are

many convents, but none among them are charitably disposed, so that,

except the archbishop, there is not a single individual or community

that turns a pitying eye on the ill-paid, over-worked labourers of the

soil; while the abundant riches that flow from this soil and from their

ceaseless industry, are drained away to Naples. The people are

particularly handsome; even the old are good-looking: they say there is

something in the soil and air particularly good for health and

comeliness. I have seen no _hags_. Old women, with happy-looking faces,

graced by the placid picturesque beauty of age, sit at their doors

spinning. No one can talk to them without perceiving latent, under

ignorance and superstition, great natural abilities, and that heartfelt

piety which springs (as our higher virtues do,) from the imagination

which warms and colours their faith. Poor people! how I long for a fairy

wand which would make them proprietors of the earth which they till, but

must not reap. How sad a thing is human society: yet it is comforting,

even where we find the laws by which it is said to be held together—but

which ought rather to be likened to an iron yoke, pressing it down and

depriving it of its native strength and elasticity—yet, I say, it warms

my heart when I find the individuals that compose a population, poor,

humble, ignorant, misguided, yet endowed with some of the brightest

gifts of our nature, and hearing in their faces the stamp of

intelligence and feeling. I never lived among a people I liked so well

as these Sorrentines. I hope I am not deceived: but Mr. Cooper, who

sojourned here a few months, and Mrs. Starke, who lived here for years,

evidently regard them with more liking and esteem than the poorer

classes usually inspire.

JUNE 15TH.

Our way of life is regular enough, as in hot countries it always must

be. The mornings are cool and pleasant: my bed-room window, with a

balcony, looks on the northern mountains; and the first opening of my

eyes is upon orange gardens, shadowy groves, and green mountain-tops,

with peeps of the sea between. At noon, when the sea-breeze rises, my

friends sail; sometimes, when the breeze is not too _stiff_, I join

them, and we stretch out till the whole of Capri opens on us. When I am

not there they venture further, and they bathe: the sea is so inviting,

that they spend an hour or two in the water. We dine (and our cook being

good and the viands excellent, we dine well) at two. At four or five we

either betake ourselves to the boat, and cross the bay to the Temple of

Neptune, which is at the point of the first headland—or the mules come

to the door, and we take various rides; or, if we at times repeat the

same, its beauty always seems new. We are shut out from walks in the

immediate vicinity—as to trudge between high stone walls is not

pleasant; but in our excursions we find plenty of occasion to clamber up

and down the steep mountain-paths. The hills are bright with the broom

in full flower, and the myrtle begins to show its stars among its

bright-pointed leaves. On the plains, which are often found near the

summits of the hills—the rocky crags rising higher round as a hedge and

shelter, wheat is sown, and flourishes. One of our favourite rides is to

the other side of the promontory, where a natural arch once stood,

resembling the Presbisch Thor of the Saxon Switzerland; it is now broken

and ruined. Once, going there, my friends thought that they could easily

reach the sands beneath and bathe, or find a boat to take them to the

rocks of the Syrens; but after a rough precipitous descent of some

length, they found the way grow on them: they were apparently as far off

as ever from the sea, and they returned.

I spend the evenings on our terrace. The nights here are wonderful; and

I am never weary of observing the loveliness of the skies. Twenty-four

o’clock, a moveable hour which is fixed for half an hour after sunset,

never, in this climate, falls later than half-past eight. By that time

it is night; but the extreme purity of the atmosphere gives to darkness

a sort of brilliancy, such as a black shining object has. The sea is

dark and bright at the same time; the high coast around does not assume

that gigantic, misty appearance, hills do in the North during dusk, but

they stand out as well defined as by day. If there be a moon, we see it

floating in mid-air. We perceive at once that it is not a shining shape,

plastered, as it were, against the sky; but a ball which, all bright, or

partly dusky, hangs pendant. Its light is painfully bright; the extreme

glittering whiteness fatigues the eye more than daylight. In the North,

we often repine that we have not two moons, so always to enjoy the use

of our eyes in the absence of the sun; in the South, the interlunar

nights are an agreeable change, at times almost a relief. By the

moonlight we can perceive the smoke ascend from the crater of Vesuvius;

if she desert the night, a lambent flame shoots up at intervals. I may

have wearied you by my various accounts of the evening hours which, to a

lover of nature, are so enchanting. In other places a sense of

tenderness, a softening influence, has fallen on my heart at that time;

but here, the glory of absolute immeasurable beauty mantles all things

at all times.

JUNE 20.

——Yet not so. Lo! a scirocco comes to blot the scene. Nothing can be

stranger than this scirocco: at its first breath, the sea grows dull,

leaden, slate-coloured—all its transparency is gone. The view of the

opposite shore is hidden in mist. The near mountains wear a deeper

green, but have lost all brightness and cast wierd shadows on the dull

waters. This wind coming from the south-east is with us a land wind. It

rolls huge waves on the beach of Naples; but beneath our cliffs the sea

is calm—such a calm!—it looks so treacherous, that even if you did not

hear of the true state of things, you would hesitate to trust yourself

to it. At a short distance from the shore the wind plays wild pranks;

here and there it seizes the water as a whirlwind, and you see circles

emerge from a centre, spread round and fade away. P—— went out in his

boat about a hundred yards from our cavern; even there, though in

apparent calm, the skiff was whirled round, and nothing but letting go

the sheet on the instant prevented her from being capsized.

The heat is excessive. Every one appears to be seized with feverish

illness: nobody wishes to eat or move. The early setting and late rising

of the sun in this high latitude, making the nights long, gives the

earth and atmosphere time to cool; and it is thus that the heat of

summer is often not so oppressive as in the North; otherwise it would be

intolerable. Imagine our Dresden length of day with a Neapolitan

temperature: no one could bear it and live. But our nights are cool; our

early mornings even chill, and thus nature is refreshed: only, this does

not occur during the periods of scirocco; then, night and day, the heat

lies like a heavy garment round our limbs. Fortunately, three days is

its utmost, one or two its usual, extent; it vanishes as it came, no one

knows how. Nature and our human spirits come forth as after an eclipse;

the world revived looks up and resumes its natural healthy appearance.

JUNE 23.

We have visited Pompeii. A greater extent of the city has been dug out

and laid open since I was there before, so that it has now much more the

appearance of a town of the dead. You may ramble about and lose yourself

in the many streets. Bulwer, too, has peopled its silence. I have been

reading his hook, and I have felt on visiting the place much more as if

_really_ it had been once full of stirring life, now that he has

attributed names and possessors to its houses, passengers to its

streets. Such is the power of the imagination. It can not only give “a

local habitation and a name” to the airy creations of the fancy and the

abstract ideas of the mind, but it can put a soul into stones, and hang

the vivid interest of our passions and our hopes upon objects otherwise

vacant of name or sympathy. Not indeed that Pompeii could be such, but

the account of its “Last Days” has cast over it a more familiar garb,

and peopled its desert streets with associations that greatly add to

their interest.

LETTER XXIII.

Excursion to Amalfi.

JULY 10TH.

I have always had a great desire to penetrate into the south of Italy,

which I believe to be the most beautiful country in the world; joining

the rich aspect of culture to the graces of nature,

“In all her wildness, all her majesty,

As in that elder time, ere man was made.”[41]

If I were a man, I know of no enterprise that would please my

imagination more than seeking, in this district, for the traces of lost

wealth, science, and civilisation. These blessings flourished in this

neighbourhood at two distinct periods, apparently widely separated from

each other; yet, if examined, we might find that the link had never been

broken. Magna Grecia was the mother of many philosophers, and the

richest portion of ancient Italy; and there is nothing violent in the

supposition, that Amalfi, hemmed in by mountains, and Salerno, almost

equally sheltered, should have preserved and extended, rather than

originated, the trade and science which rendered them famous at a time

when, all around, every effort of human enterprise was merged in

offensive and defensive wars.

Amalfi was the first republic of modern Italy. As the power of the Roman

Empire waxed weak, and the transplanting of the seat of empire to

Constantinople, placed Italy in the novel position of a distant

neglected province, frequently invaded by barbarians, the fabric of

national government fell to pieces, while municipal communities

remained. Two of these, from their happy position on the sea, and the

great traffic there carried on by means of the Mediterranean, were

eminently prosperous. One in the north, Venice, acquired power, and

preserved its independence for centuries; the other in the south,

Amalfi, was swallowed up by the kingdom of Naples, after having been

pillaged by the Pisans in 1137—for thus early did municipal rivalry, the

bane of Italy, begin to divide and ravage the peninsula. It seems to me

that sound knowledge of the results of political institutions might be

gathered from studying the state of society in a town whose citizens

were, when free, intelligent and courageous—whose maritime laws,

instituted at a time (the ninth century) when Europe was sunk in

barbarism, has served as a basis for every subsequent commercial

code—who covered the sea with their ships—who almost discovered the

mariner’s compass. What are they now?

Their intelligence, their capacities, I am sure remain; their affections

also must warm their hearts as kindly; must we not seek in their

political history for the causes wherefore superstition and vice have

replaced ardour for science and the virtues of industrious and brave

citizens?

Though I could not fulfil in any way a favourite design of visiting

Calabria, yet we have crept on as far as Amalfi. It had been my idea to

spend a month in this town, when I could have told you more of the

present state of its inhabitants. I was not able to do this; so, can

only mention the impression made by the visit of a day.[42]

We had secured a boat to be ready for us at the Marinella, on the other

side of the promontory, and set out on mules for the Scaricatojo, the

name given to the descent from the mountain that overhangs the eastern

sea. We reached the height which we had often before visited, whence a

view is commanded of the two seas. To the west the Bay of Naples,

landlocked, as we looked on it, by the islands of Ischia and Procida,

and the promontory of Misenum; while, more to the north, the shining

edifices of the city of Naples are distinctly visible, and in the depth

of the bay, Vesuvius rises up immediately from the shore. On the other

side, the eye plunged down from the height of the myrtle-clothed

mountain on which we stood, to the sea far below, gleaming at the foot

of the precipices—vexing itself against the rocks of the Syrens:

eastward, the coast that runs in a long line to the south; the lowlands

on which Pæstum is situated, with the back-ground of lofty mountains,

was this day—as it almost always is—hidden in mist.

The descent of the Scaricatojo is very steep, and long and fatiguing. At

first we made light of it; but as we went on under a burning sun, the

path grew more craggy and precipitous: sometimes it was formed only of a

rough sort of steps cut in the mountain side, or constructed of

shattered masses of rock; or of zigzags, which grew shorter, more

numerous, more precipitous, and more slippery, till we despaired of ever

reaching the beach.

But all things human end; and at last—most agreeable change!—we were

seated in a boat beneath the lofty inaccessible hills that rise almost

sheer from the water, with here and there a little break, where a brief

space of beach intervenes, and a town or village rises beside it. The

voyage was not quite as agreeable as it might have been, for there was a

swell of the sea, and our little boat was deeply laden with people. We

were glad to see Amalfi open on us. Salvator Rosa best represents the

peculiar beauty of the southern Italian coast; its steep promontories,

the varied breaks of its mountainous shores, all green with

forest-trees, adorned by isolated ruins, and clothed with a radiance

which is the peculiar gift of the atmosphere of this clime; encircled by

the lucid transparency of the tideless sea—for it was here that he often

retreated, leading, some have said, a bandit’s life,[43] but most surely

a lover and studier of nature; his landscapes are so many exquisite

views taken from this part of the country. Look at them, wherever you

can, and learn in what its loveliness consists. The landing-place of the

town is open, busy, and cheerful. There is a Capuchin convent most

beautifully situated near the sea; it was secularised by the French, and

long served for an hotel. The mother of the present King of Naples often

visited Amalfi, and slept at this inn. The expelled monks gathered round

her, and led her to consider it a matter of conscience that they should

be reinstated. She obtained this favour from her son before she died;

the Capuchins are come back; and travellers are turned out from what may

be fairly named the _most_ beautiful inn in the world. The present

house, however, is by no means bad, and overlooks the Marina. We

obtained good rooms and a tolerable dinner, being waited on by three

sons of the host—handy little fellows, from ten to fifteen, who

performed their duties promptly and quietly.

As soon as we had rested and were refreshed, we wished, though still

much fatigued, to see something of the place. We visited the cathedral,

an ancient edifice, built upon the site of a pagan temple, and rambled

about the town, which is busy. Though fallen from the commercial

prosperity it enjoyed twelve centuries ago, Amalfi carries on

considerable traffic, and its citizens are well to do. There is a large

manufacture of maccaroni, another of paper, another for working the iron

of Elba. Every one can find work, living is cheap, and want is happily

unknown.

The paper-mills are picturesquely situated in a ravine, shut in by lofty

mountains, beside a cascade; it was not so far but that we might visit

them during the evening. Two donkeys were brought to carry us thither.

Accustomed to the excellent mules of Sorrento, we were not prepared for

the poor little creatures, with things on their backs which it was

ridiculous to call saddles. However, I and a young lady who accompanied

me mounted. If you have the book, look at the vignette to “Italy” of

Amalfi; you will perceive its situation, and how just behind the town

the mountains are cloven and divided by a deep ravine—our way led up

this narrow pass, down which sped a torrent, whose “inland murmur,” or

rather dashing, was grateful to our ears, long accustomed only to the

roaring of the surges of the sea.

The scene was wholly different from anything near Sorrento. The valley

and the mountain sides were beautifully green and fresh—grassy uplands

shone between groves of forest-trees, and villages with their churches

here and there peeped out—while the torrent dashed over the rocks,

sparkling and foaming—and dressing its banks, which grew higher and more

rocky as we ascended the pass, in luxuriant and bright verdure. Our

first visit was to a paper-mill, whence a view of the ravine is

commanded—and then we clambered up the hill-side to the road above.

Golden evening gave a refreshing coolness to the air, and picturesque

shadows to the hills. It was a scene,—an hour,—when Nature imparts a

quick and living enjoyment akin to the transports of love and the

ecstacy of music—it touches a chord whose vibration is happiness. Faint

from excessive weariness, yet with regret I consented to return. Night

with her stars gathered round us, and with much difficulty our poor

little stumbling animals carried us back to the town.

This same evening we wished to prepare for our excursion on the morrow;

the plan of which was to visit Ravello, and then to descend the mountain

to the sea-shore—take boat, and sail to Salerno, and after dinner to

drive back to Sorrento.

Our evening’s experience showed that the poor little asses were not fit

for such an expedition—we must have recourse to the other alternative,

_portantini_,—arm-chairs placed on poles, borne by two men; we required

three, for the three ladies of the party. P——, and his friend, were to

walk.

We were told —— but, remember, I consider all that we heard as very

problematical as regards truth—we had no time to learn the real state of

things, and I relate the story more to show the sort of wild excuses the

Italians make when they want to carry a point profitable to

themselves—losing to us. We were told that the bearers of the

_portantini_ all belonged to a village, Vettici, some miles up the

mountain—that when these were wanted they were sent for the previous

evening—locked up all night at Amalfi, to prevent them from being

enticed away, I don’t why or by whom. We were told that we had arrived

too late to get these men; that we must engage some of the

town’s-people. We ought to have four bearers to each chair; thirty men

came forward to claim the employment—and the _polizia_ begged us to

choose twelve from among them. My friends went to the _polizia_ for this

purpose—the scene was highly comic. Thirty men vociferating, insisting,

supplicating—eager. Among these was the master of the boat who was to

take us to Salerno, and his three sons—they were evidently respectable

men, and at once selected—but among the rest who could choose? My

friends could only laugh; they pointed out a dozen as possessing the

best physiognomies.

We were to set out early, and therefore retired early. Night scarcely

veiled the sea. The quay had been busy all day, lading ships with grain;

several parties of men were still at work. It was a lively scene

compared with the quiet of the Cocumella, yet so unlike were the tiny

barks in the offing, and appearance of the men at work, lading and

unlading vessels, from anything one is accustomed to that the ancient

times of Magna Græcia, when the busy ports sent corn to Rome, occurred;

or rather, I confess, that with me another association was awakened.

When excited, the mind is apt to recur to the impressions of

childhood—like sympathetic ink exposed to fire—the covert but not

expunged pictures which the soul first received, revive and become

visible. _Les Aventures de Télémaque_ recurred to my mind. I was haunted

by the description therein given of the busy sea-ports of Tyre and

Crete. The broad luminous sea before, the jutting headlands, the not

inharmonious cries of the men at work, the frequent tread of their feet,

formed a sort of picture which it seemed to me I had seen in childhood

drawn by the pen of Fénelon. I went to sleep while it still flitted, as

it were, beneath my closed eyelids.

The morrow came, and with it our guide, our chairs, our bearers—such a

crowd. The thirty men had been disputing all night as to which among

them had been chosen; the conclusion they came to was, that they would

all go. Travellers often (I among the number) have had the whole

pleasure of an excursion marred by a struggle with guides, muleteers,

&c. It is often necessary to contest a thousand points, and to resist

exactions, and the temper gets soured, and the divine influence of

nature on the mind is marred. I was determined that I would not lose the

pleasure I might snatch during my hasty visit to the outskirts of

Calabria, by tormenting myself with these people; for being the one of

our party most conversant with Italian, the brunt of the battle must

fall upon me. I made up my mind at once that these fellows should have

their way, and I would be entertained instead of annoyed by exactions of

all kinds.

We had our guide—an erect old man, loquacious enough, with a very

amusing assumption of dignity towards the other men. We had our thirty

bearers, and in addition (recommended by the police, to keep so large a

band in order) two police-officers, with unloaded muskets and

cartouche-boxes innocent of ammunition. Eight men devoted themselves to

my chair—the best of the number, I believe; and away we went, up the

rocky path through the ravine, beside the torrent, beneath the chesnut

woods, climbing higher and higher up the mountain side, the bright

golden morning sun flinging long shadows from the hills.

The scenery is quite unlike Sorrento; as far as earth is concerned, it

is far more sublime. The mountains are loftier, and more picturesque,

parted by deeper and wider ravines, terminated in abrupter peaks, their

sides clothed by magnificent forest-trees; and when we reached a summit

and looked around—travellers visit Switzerland and speak of the sublime

works of creation among seas of ice and avalanches and towering Alps,

bare and craggy, crested with perpetual snow; there, nature is sublime,

but she shows the power and the will to harm; here she is gracious as

well as glorious; she is our friend, or rather our exalted and

munificent queen and benefactress.[44]

From the height of Ravello we gazed on a wide and various panorama of

vale and mountain, spread in picturesque and infinite variety around;

deep below was a sunny beach, shut in by steep headlands, and a placid,

widespread southern sea, basking in the noontide heat. The cathedral of

Ravello is an ancient, venerable edifice. In the sacristy were some old

paintings of what may be called the seraphic school, such as I had

admired at Florence. Saints, whose countenances show that they are

blessed; virgins, whose gentleness is full of majesty, whose humility is

that of one who, placing herself last, shall be first. Since those days

men have lost the power of portraying the passion of adoration in the

countenance. Either in venerable age or beautiful youth, what specimens

there are in the first painters of great and good beings absorbed by

grateful, joyful worship of the greatest and best of all. One of the

most charming of the pictures at Ravello was an Annunciation;—the

beaming sweetness of the angel, the chaste joy of Mary, spread a halo

over the canvas. They told us that an Englishman had wished to buy these

pictures, but the Bishop had very properly refused to commit the

sacrilege of selling them.

The unclouded sun shone hotly above; there was a breeze, however, and

the landscape showed green and fresh. Sometimes our numerous party were

clamorous among one another, disputing how their pay should be shared;

when the confusion grew high, our old guide—sovereign over all in his

own conceit—cried, “_Silenzio! silenzio!_” in an authoritative voice,

and the stream of sound was, for a moment, checked. They were all

well-behaved towards us. We asked our good-natured sbirri, with their

harmless guns, whether there were any banditti now in Calabria? All,

they assured us, was safe and quiet; or if there was any disturbance,

they were sent, and order was restored—by what means I cannot guess,

except that the aspects of these men were peculiarly placid and

peaceful.

The descent was very precipitous, much of it being down flight after

flight of steep steps, cut in the rock. It was far too warm and

fatiguing to think of walking, and rather frightful to be carried down.

However, by turning the chair, and riding backwards, we got through it

without much alarm.

The Ponente had risen as we reached the beach. The sea sparkled fresh

and free. The boat was large and commodious. The master-boatman had a

great sense of his own respectability and that of his sons, and of the

excellence of his vessel. He spoke his own praises in a sonorous voice,

keeping time to his speech with the strokes of his oar:—“Sarete contenti

di me, Signori. Io sono un’ galant’ uomo: miei figli sono galant’

uomini: la mia barca è buona e bella. Tutti i Signori forestieri sono

contenti di me.”

As soon as we had made something of an offing, the sails were set, and

we changed our marinaro’s rhapsody of self-eulogy to some national airs

sung by his sons. Their voices were good, and our navigation was

prosperous and pleasant.

We were thoroughly tired out when we arrived at Salerno, which is less

picturesquely situated than Amalfi, the shore around being low. When

Amalfi was a great commercial sea-port, the medical school of Salerno

was famous for its knowledge of the healing art. The students went to

study in Arabia and Spain; and they returned to their native town to

dispense, among crowds of rich and noble patients, the treasures of

their skill. Salerno in those days was regarded as illustrious among the

cities of modern Italy—the women were beautiful, and the men were

honest; thus Gibbon transcribes the praise of William of Apulia—

“Urbs Latii non est hac delitiosor urbe:

Frugibus, arboribus, vinoque redundat; et unde

Non tibi poma, nuces, non pulchra palatia desunt

Non species muliebris abest probitasque virorum.”

But we saw less of the remnants of this magnificence than even of

Amalfi, for we arrived fatigued; and after a few hours’ repose and

dinner, we set out in a carriage homewards. We drove through a beautiful

valley towards Castelamare, between wooded hills. There is a very pretty

hotel at Cava, where travellers often remain several weeks. I should

prefer, however, the sea-shore at Amalfi. Castelamare is a busy town on

the beach, in the very depth of the bay. Numbers of villas are scattered

over the wooded sides of the mountains and through the shady valley.

There is a good railroad to Naples: the distance, rather more than

twenty miles, is performed in about an hour and a half. Castelamare is a

more fashionable resort than Sorrento. The villas are more numerous and

more elegant; the rides more diversified; the intercourse with the

capital easier. It is not so well suited for a short stay, for the

hotels are all in the midst of a noisy town; and the villas, which let

at a high price, can only be taken for the season—six, or at least, four

months. On the other hand, for excursions on the sea, Sorrento is very

far to be preferred. Castelamare, at the depth of the bay, affords only

a small lake-like basin for boating. To view the shores, or visit the

islands, east or west, you must first reach Sorrento or Naples. In the

former, you seem happily placed, as in a centre, to diverge at will in

excursions on the water. Sorrento is in every way cheaper and more

practicable for those who are not rich.

The road from Castelamare to Sorrento, about twenty miles, is excellent,

constructed on the edge of the cliffs overhanging the sea. As we

proceeded we gladly hailed our return to a familiar scene, and welcomed

various glimpses of views which we looked on as peculiarly our own. We

passed Vico—halfway—and then turning the shoulder of a headland, rattled

down towards the populous plain of Sorrento—with its many villages, its

orange gardens and sheltering hills—and reached our quiet hotel, where

we were gladly welcomed. The Cocumella has become a home—it is a joy to

return to our terrace, to breathe the fragrance of the orange-flowers—to

see the calm sea spread out at our feet, as we look over the bay to

Naples—while above us bends a sky—in whose pure depths ship-like clouds

glide—and the moon hangs luminous, a pendant sphere of silver fire.

-----

Footnote 1:

In preparing these letters for the press, I have consulted some papers

entitled “Sketches of Bohemia and the Sclavonian Provinces of the

Austrian Empire,” by Henry Reeve, Esq., published in the 18th and 19th

vols. of the Metropolitan Magazine. They are admirably written, and it

is greatly to be regretted that they do not proceed to a greater

length, and are lost in a Magazine.

Footnote 2:

Mr. Reeve.

Footnote 3:

Life of Wallenstein, by Colonel Mitchell.

Footnote 4:

Rogers’s “Italy.”

Footnote 5:

Mr. Reeve.

Footnote 6:

Paradise Regained.

Footnote 7:

Milton. Do these lines, in the “Paradise Lost,” refer in the poet’s

mind to his first view of Florence? It seems very probable.

Footnote 8:

Wordsworth.

Footnote 9:

Addison.

Footnote 10:

On this subject only Murray’s Hand-book seems to run faulty—a lower

price for _voiture_ travelling is always named than I have found it

possible to attain. It is easy to allege that we were imposed upon. It

may be so; but it was difficult to believe this in some instances,

where the bargain was made for us by friends, natives of the country.

In the Hand-book of Italy this is the more remarkable, and I can speak

with greater certainty. I do not know how it may be with a single man

taking his place,—one among many, as it may chance,—but for a party,

like ourselves, taking a whole carriage, the expense in proportion is

far higher than he mentions.

Footnote 11:

Alison’s History of Europe.

Footnote 12:

AD SIRMIONEM PENINSULAM

Peninsularum, Sirmio, insularumque

Ocelle, quascunque in liquentibus stagnis,

Marique vasto fert uterque Neptunus;

Quam te libenter, quamque lætus inviso,

Vix mî ipse credens Thyniam, atque Bithynos

Liquisse campos, et videre te in tuto.

O quid solutis est beatius curis

Cum mens onus reponit, ac peregrino

Labore fessi venimus larem ad nostrum,

Desideratoque acquiescimus lecto?

Hoc est quod unum est pro laboribus tantis.

Salve, O venusta Sirmio, atque hero gaude;

Gaudete, vosque Lariæ lacus undæ:

Ridete quidquid est domi cachinnorum.

The above translation, from the verses of Catullus, is by Mr. Leigh

Hunt.

Footnote 13:

Rogers’s “Italy.”

Footnote 14:

De la Poésie Chrétienne.

Footnote 15:

I remember an instance of the sort of interference which occurred in

Tuscany, at the University of Pisa, during the mild and comparatively

liberal reign of Ferdinand. It is well known that during the Carnival

the people promenade in particular streets (in Pisa on the Lungo

l’Arno), the gentry in their carriages, and often masked. The students

at Pisa got up a masque of an elaborate kind, I think of heathen gods

and goddesses, or some such thing. The following Carnival, the

professors, wishing to turn this play to nobler uses, combined with

the students to get up a procession of masks personating all the

illustrious men of Italian history. Government considered this a

dangerous reminiscence of past glory, and forbade it.

Footnote 16:

All the aristocracy—or as they call it, the _famiglie tribunizie_ of

Venice, consider themselves descended from old Roman families of the

Equestrian order, and the names of several seem to attest the validity

of this pretension. Padua sent a colony to the island of Rivo Alto, or

Rialto, in 421; and the command for the building of the new city was

entrusted to Alberto Faliero, Tommaso Candiano, and Cenone Daulo, or

Dandolo. Hence it appears probable that the families of Faliero,

Candiano, and Dandolo are descended from the Roman patricians who were

present at the first building of the city of Rialto. In the ninth

century the seat of Venetian government was transferred from the

island of Rialto to Eraclea, and the independence of Venice was

established. Now, before and after that epoch it may be said Venice

was the only city in Europe, which from its foundation for fourteen

centuries never submitted to a foreign yoke; and it is said that the

old Venetian families have preserved in their lineaments the primitive

character of the race whence they sprung. Dr. Edwards having examined

carefully the portraits of the series of doges, and compared them with

the countenances of their actual descendants, comes to this

conclusion.

Footnote 17:

Shelley’s “Defence of Poetry.”

Footnote 18:

“What were the turkeys a pound?” asked our guide of some peasants

returning from the fair. “Seventeen quatrini,” was the reply. It

requires a complex sum to reduce this to English value. There are five

quatrini to a crazie—eight crazie in a panl—and a panl is about 5¼_d_;

in addition, the turkeys were bought alive with their feathers on, and

the Italian pound contains only twelve ounces. This was the market

price in the country. Every edible pays a duty on entering Florence.

Footnote 19:

“Paradise Regained.”

Footnote 20:

“The compunction of man’s heart—its aspirations towards God—the rapt

ecstacy—a foretaste of celestial beatitude—all that class of profound

and exalted emotions which no artist can represent without having

previously experienced them, formed, as it were, the mysterious circle

which the genius of Fra Angelico delighted to follow, and when ended,

he recommenced with renewed delight.”—_La Poésie Chrétienne._

Footnote 21:

“The Guide-Book of Florence,” by Fantozzi, is very complete, but it

wants an index of the names of the artists, with the numbers of the

pages in which they are mentioned, cited, to enable the amateur at

once to learn where to find their various works.

Footnote 22:

The eight which M. Rio mentions as having seen himself, and as forming

the glory of Raphael, as a painter of ideal and pure beauty, are—the

Virgin, of the Duke of Alba—purchased afterwards by Mr. Coswelt, and

brought to London.—The Virgin, known under the name of La Belle

Jardinière, now in the Louvre.—The Virgin of Palazzo Tempi, now at

Munich.—The Virgin of Canigiani, at Munich.—The two in the gallery of

Florence, which, for the lovers of this style, dim the glory of every

other picture—especially that named the Madonna of the Goldfinch.—Of

this M. Rio says, “It may be boldly affirmed that Christian art never

rose to a greater height.”—The Virgin of the Colonna Palace, now at

Berlin; that of the Palazzo Gregori; and the Madonna of Pescia, known

as the Madonna del Baldachino.

Footnote 23:

Rogers’s “Italy.”

Footnote 24:

The common prints taken from this picture are very unworthy of it;

they seem to substitute sensuality for sensibility, in the lines of

the countenance. Mr. Kirkup’s drawing, made for Lord Vernon, is

excellent. Unfortunately, in removing the whitewash or plaster, a

slight injury was done to the eye in the picture. The painter employed

by the Grand Duke has restored this; but Mr. Kirkup is indignant with

the restoration; and the print, taken from his drawing, exhibits the

blemish. I confess, that to me the restoration seems judicious. The

ball of the eye alone was injured; and as the colour of Dante’s eyes

was known from other pictures, the portrait has gained in expression,

and not lost in authenticity by its being repainted.

Footnote 25:

Colletta, Storia del Reame di Napoli, dal 1735, sino al 1825. Libro

vii. cap. 53.

Footnote 26:

A young aspirant was asked, during the progress of his initiation,

whether, if commanded by the society, he would put his own father to

death. He answered, “Yes.” He was taken to a room where, by some

contrivance it seemed to him that he saw his father sitting at a table

shading his eyes with his hand. A dagger was given him: “Your father

is a traitor to the sect,” he was told, “strike!” The weapon fell from

the youth’s hand; in an instant he was blind-folded—hurried away—set

free in some distant spot—rejected from the sect, as incapable of that

devotion to the cause which was demanded of its members.

Footnote 27:

The spots where the Carbonari assembled were called _Vendite_—or

Places for Sale—in accordance with the fiction of their being sellers

of charcoal. Thus, as we should write over a shop “Charcoal sold

here;” in Italian, the phrase is, “Vendita di Carbone.” Where there

was one Vendita, there could be no other within four miles;—if another

was established within these limits, a schism ensued, and every

endeavour was made to put it down.

Footnote 28:

Rogers’s “Italy.”

Footnote 29:

In the same manner his tragedy, lately published, “_Arnaldo da

Brescia_,” is a splendid protest against the temporal dominion of the

Pope and the abuse of the power of the church.

Footnote 30:

This work was first published at Palermo about two years ago, under

the title of “Un Periodo delle Istorie Siciliane del secolo 13^{mo}.”

The manuscript was of course submitted to the censor of the press, who

permitted its publication. It acquired universal reputation, and was

enthusiastically received in the kingdom of Naples. As soon as public

attention was excited, the police of that state grew suspicious and

fearful. The book was prohibited, the remaining copies were

sequestrated, and all notice of it in newspapers and periodical works,

which had already begun to praise the author and give an account of

his book, was forbidden. The persecution did not cease here;

influenced by some sinister, and, as is supposed, personal motive, Del

Carretto, director or minister of the police, gave orders that Amari

should be dismissed from an employment he held in a government office,

and sent to Naples. Signor Amari was warned in time, and convinced

that a long and severe imprisonment awaited him at the capital, he

preferred going into voluntary exile from his country, to falling into

the hands of a cruel enemy. Signor Amari is at present living in

Paris, where he published, about a year ago, a second edition of his

work, under the amended title of “Guerra del Vespro Siciliano,” with

corrections and additions. He is at present occupied in collecting

materials for the compilation of a history of Sicily, from the

occupation of the Saracens; for which, as he must consult Arabic

documents, he is studying with unwearied ardour; he thus adds another

proof that the Italians of the present day are capable of severe

application and learned research, in addition to the frequent gift of

remarkable talents.—1844.

Footnote 31:

Plato’s Ion. Shelley’s Essays.

Footnote 32:

M. Rio.

Footnote 33:

Maccabees, ii. 3.

Footnote 34:

Childe Harold, Canto IV.

Footnote 35:

Rome in the Nineteenth Century.

Footnote 36:

The want of conventual charities, whose funds, on the Reformation,

were greedily appropriated by the laity, forced Queen Elizabeth to

institute the Poor-Laws.

Footnote 37:

Arnaldo da Brescia.

Footnote 38:

“Ahi, la vedete;

Di porpora è vestita; oro, monili,

Gemme tutta l’ aggravano; le bianche

Vesti, delizia del primier marito,

Che or sta nel cielo, ella perdè nel fango.

Però di nomi e di blasfemi è piena,

E nella fronte sua scrisse; _Mistero_.

Ahi, la sua voce a consolar gli afflitti

Non s’ ode più; tutti minaccia, e crea

Con perenni anatèmi all’ alme incerte

Ineffabili pene; gl’ infelici,

Qui lo siam tutti, nel commun dolore

Correano ad abbracisarsi, e la crudele

Di Cristo in nome gli ha divisi; i padri

Inimica coi figli, e le consorti

Dai mariti disgiunge, e pon la guerra

Fra unanimi fratelli: è del Vangelo

Interprete crudel: l’ odio s’ impara

Nel libro dell’ amor.”

· · · · ·

——“il mondo ignora

S’ ella più d’ oro o più di sangue ha sete.

Perchè salì costei dalle profonde

Viscere della terra al Campidoglio?

Fu bella e grande nelle sue prigioni.”

_Niccolini; Arnaldo da Brescia._

Footnote 39:

“—— Nelle chiese—

I più astuti del clero a udir son posti,

Gli altrui peccati, e li sommesse, arcane

Parole mormorate ai proni orecchi

Sono alla nostra libertà fatali.

Perchè nuda e tremante al lor corpetto

Ogni alma è tratta dalle sue lattèbre,

E assoluto non è chi si confessa

Se gli altri non accusa.”

_Niccolini; Arnaldo da Brescia._

Footnote 40:

Mrs. Starke lived for some years at the Cocumella, at Sorrento. Her

account of the place and scenery around, is both accurate and well

written, and for this part of Italy she is an excellent guide. Mr.

Cooper, the author of “The Spy,” has written very agreeable

“Excursions in Italy,” the most interesting portion of which regards

Sorrento.

Footnote 41:

Rogers’s Italy.

Footnote 42:

Among modern historians Sismondi and Gibbon dwelt with pleasure on the

commerce and prosperity of Amalfi. It was an oasis where the mind of

the historian reposed, fatigued by barbarous wars and innumerable acts

of cruelty. Gibbon quotes the description given by Guglielmus Apulus—

“Nulla magis locuples argento, vestibus, oro,

Pontibus innumeris; hâc plurimus urbe moratur

Nauta maris cœlique vias aperire peritus.

Huc et Alexandri diversa feruntur ab urbe

Regis, et Antiochi. Quis hæc freta plurima transit.

His Arabes, Indi, Siculi nascuntur et Afri.

Hæc gens est totum prope nobilitata per orbem

Et mercando ferens, et amans mercata referre.”

Footnote 43:

Rogers’s Italy.

Footnote 44:

“Until that moment I was not fully sensible of the vast superiority of

the Italian landscapes over all others. Switzerland astonishes, and it

even often delights; but Italian nature wins upon you until you come

to love it as a friend. I can only liken the perfection of the scene

we gazed upon this evening to a feeling almost allied to transport; to

the manner in which we dwell upon the serene expression of a beloved

and lovely countenance. Other scenes have the tints, the hues, the

outlines, the proportions, the grandeur, and even the softness of

beauty; but these have the character that marks the existence of a

soul. The effect is to pour a flood of sensations on the mind, that

are distinct from the commoner feelings of wonder that are excited by

vastness and magnificence. The _refinement_ of Italian nature appears

to distinguish it as much from that of other countries, as the quality

distinguishes the scene of sentiment and intellect from the man of

mere interests. In sublimity of a certain sort—more especially in the

sublimity of desolation, Switzerland probably has no equal on earth;

and perhaps to this may be added a certain unearthly aspect which the

glaciers assume in particular conditions of the atmosphere; but these

Italian scenes rise to a sublimity of a different kinds, which, though

it does not awe, leaves behind it a tender sensation allied to that of

love. I can conceive even an ardent admirer of nature wearying in time

of the grandeur of the Alps; but I can scarce imagine one who could

ever tire of the witchery of Italy.”—C. F. Cooper; “Excursions in

Italy.” Vol. I.; Letter XIV.

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