Before I went to Italy I could not write; after I had crossed the Simplon
I could: the wonders I saw wholly revolutionized my soul. There was
height above height of snow that disregarded the sun; or, if it yielded
to its insinuations, it was only to drip into bayonets of ice. There were
cataracts that had so far to fall, that the eyes reached the bottom of
the gulph first, and seemed only overtaken by the waters with which they
started.
I had nothing more to do with Bolingbroke or with Goldsmith, in style; I
had seen Nature play the great idea and express herself. I learned that
she was the true stylist, and that she was not inimitable.
I lingered at Florence and made acquaintance with many there—native,
English, and foreign. Among these were Trelawny and Landor, whose names
still continue remarkable. Of the last I saw little; he was preparing
to drive himself to England in his gig. He had greatly offended the
Government of Tuscany by the freedom of his speech, and he became
intolerable. This resulted in his being served with an order to quit
the country. When matters came to so serious a pass, he was taken by
surprise. He called on the Grand Duke to remonstrate; he told that
amiable prince that it was an honour to the country to have such a man as
himself residing in it; on which subject the Grand Duke agreed with him,
and the edict of expulsion was withdrawn.
He, too, was one of the artificial stylists.
People went little abroad in those days for want of travelling
accommodation, and the English generally in Florence, were not of a kind
to make a favourable impression; many of them were ill-disciplined in
principle, and had become dregs who reached the bottom, though there were
many who were quite as respectable at home as a thousand miles off, and
were absent on business only, economy, or pleasure. Colonel Burdett, a
friendly and agreeable man, heir to the prince of Radicals, Sir Francis,
was a traveller on his way to Rome, and invited me to accompany him; but
I desired to be stationary for a time, that I might acquire the lingua
Toscana, which I was learning under the Abbé Caselli.
Landor was not a nice man; he was violent in his conversation: he thought
it worth saying that his ancestors were statesmen when Lord Mulgrave’s
were working in a ditch, forgetting that his descendants in the course of
things might be working in a ditch while Lord Mulgrave’s were statesmen.
Then there was Dr. Bankhead, who was the newsman of the fashionable past
in all instances where slander mostly fitted in. There was a divorced,
re-married countess who, as the wife of a rich parson, was a leader, but
whose story he ripped open for the delight of all comers, at the same
time the nearer he might venture to England himself the worse he would
have fared.
The relief in acquiring such companions is that one never expects to meet
them again.
I am probably the only one living who was acquainted with Trelawny in
his younger days. It was during my first residence in Florence in the
years 1831-32. He was of a strong, noble build, of quiet, gentlemanly
demeanour, and of a manner of conversation free from all display. He
was much courted by the English residents. His adventures, his marriage
with the maid whose father’s life, the Greek chief Ulysses, he had
defended and saved, his connection with Byron, his cremation and burial
of Shelley, were in every mouth, and he is undoubtedly one of the
celebrities of our time. His likeness was taken by Kirkup, an English
artist who lived and died at Florence, and who was the discoverer of
Dante’s portrait, now universally known.
I knew Kirkup well. He was a pleasant companion in those early days, over
sixty years ago; he afterwards became entangled in the superstitions
of spiritualism, all through lack of that physiological training which
should be given to all, and but few enjoy. These shocking errors of the
mind, to which not even the cattle are liable, appear to gratify their
slaves for a time; but they have no ultimate value, only encouraging the
clear-sighted to look down on their fellow-creatures.
It is only due to the memory of Trelawny as a hero to record here that
the English women, married or single, old or young, were crazed as
Juliets about him, at the same time that they were gushing over with
stories of his cruelty to his lovely wife, whose hair, trailing on the
floor of Ulysses’ cave, he was said to have stripped off to the roots in
a moment of anger.
There was a good anatomical school at Florence, of which I did not fail
to profit.
On this my first visit to Florence I got to know many new things—the
meaning of the fine arts, the beauties of Michael Angelo, Cellini,
and Bruneleschi; the mysteries of Dante, Boccacio, Petrarch, Alfieri,
Ariosto, Tasso; so I returned richer than I went. But of all the persons
I remember, Madame Catalani is foremost in my memory; she is never to be
forgotten. And till I returned to the city again, I lived within sight of
the Palazzo Vicchio, the Duomo, and the Campanile.
Lord and Lady Holland occupied the British Ministry at Florence. Among
other English families resident there were Lord Burghersh; Lord Mulgrave,
a great musician; Sir Henry Floyd, Lady Peel’s brother; Dr. Bankhead;
Kirkup, the artist; the Perrys, the Losacks, and several others with and
without handles to their names; Mr. Hare among them, still guessing at
Truth. Among natives was the incomparable Catalani. The English, or most
of them there, were awaiting events, making pleasant homes, until future
prospects came closer and within reach.
At Sir Henry and Lady Floyd’s I met with Colonel Burdett, the brother of
our best lady, the Baroness Burdett-Coutts, whose estimable acquaintance
I made more than half a century later.
The Marquis Spinelli was very fond of the English and a great favourite
with them, acting as a medium between our countrymen and his own.
What an experience and toning a young man gets from a residence of this
sort, in a favourite foreign city, at an age when his sap is rising, and
has yet to burst out and congeal into full leafage!
I am not going to describe Florence; my love of it will come out better
when I visit it again.
All was new to me then! Imagine only what it is for such sweet little
cities as Piacenza, Parma, and Modena to be new; imagine Milan to be seen
for the first time, after architectureless Brighton!
I remained at Florence, a voluntary seeker after knowledge, a great part
of 1831 and 1832. I then went into Switzerland by way of Milan, Como,
Lugano, Bellinzona, Zug, Zurich, Schaffhausen; made acquaintance with
Strasburg, Stutgard, and several other German cities, not omitting the
Rhenish and other German towns, ultimately reaching Brussels and home.
Before long I was at Brighton again on a visit to the widow Wallinger, my
faithful and generous aunt.