I struggle up to the dim blue heaven,

From the world, far down in whose breast are driven

The props of my pillared throne;

And the rosy fires of morning glow

Like a glorious thought, on my brow of snow,

While the vales are dark and lone!

Ere twilight summons the first faint star,

I seem to the nations who dwell afar

Like a shadowy cloud, whose every fold

The sunset dyes with its purest gold,

And the soul mounts up through that gateway fair

To try its wings in a loftier air!

The finger of God on my brow is pressed--

His spirit beats in my giant breast,

And I breathe, as the endless ages roll,

His silent words to the eager soul!

I prompt the thoughts of the mighty mind,

Who leaves his century far behind

And speaks from the Future's sun-lit snow

To the Present, that sleeps in its gloom below!

I stand, unchanged, in creation's youth--

A glorious type of Eternal Truth,

That, free and pure, from its native skies

Shines through Oppression's veil of lies,

And lights the world's long-fettered sod

With thoughts of Freedom and of God!

When, at night, I looked out of my chamber-window, the silver moon of

Italy, (for we fancied that her light was softer and that the skies were

already bluer) hung trembling above the fields of snow that stretched in

their wintry brilliance along the mountains around. I heard the roar of

the Ticino and the deepened sound of falling cascades, and thought, if I

were to take those waters for my guide, to what glorious places they

would lead me!

We left Airolo early the next morning, to continue our journey down the

valley of the Ticino. The mists and clouds of Switzerland were exchanged

for a sky of the purest blue, and we felt, for the first time in ten

days, uncomfortably warm. The mountains which flank the Alps on this

side, are still giants--lofty and bare, and covered with snow in many

places. The limit of the German dialect is on the summit of St. Gothard,

and the peasants saluted us with a "_buon giorno_" as they passed. This,

with the clearness of the skies and the warmth of the air, made us feel

that Italy was growing nearer.

The mountains are covered with forests of dark pine, and many beautiful

cascades come tumbling over the rocks in their haste to join the Ticino.

One of these was so strangely beautiful, that I cannot pass it without a

particular description. We saw it soon after leaving Airolo, on the

opposite side of the valley. A stream of considerable size comes down

the mountain, leaping from crag to crag till within forty or fifty feet

of the bottom, where it is caught in a hollow rock, and flung upwards

into the air, forming a beautiful arch as it falls out into the valley.

As it is whirled up thus, feathery curls of spray are constantly driven

off and seem to wave round it like the fibres on an ostrich plume. The

sun shining through, gave it a sparry brilliance which was perfectly

magnificent. If I were an artist, I would give much for such a new form

of beauty.

On our first day's journey we passed through two terrific mountain

gorges, almost equalling in grandeur the defile of the "Devil's Bridge."

The Ticino, in its course to Lago Maggiore has to make a descent of

nearly three thousand feet, passing through three valleys, which lie

like terraces, one below the other. In its course from one to the other,

it has to force its way down in twenty cataracts through a cleft in the

mountains. The road, constructed with the utmost labor, threads these

dark chasms, sometimes carried in a tunnel through the rock, sometimes

passing on arches above the boiling flood. The precipices of bare rock

rise far above and render the way difficult and dangerous. I here

noticed another very beautiful effect of the water, perhaps attributable

to some mineral substance it contained. The spray and foam thrown up in

the dashing of the vexed current, was of a light, delicate pink,

although the stream itself was a soft blue; and the contrast of these

two colors was very remarkable.

As we kept on, however, there was a very perceptible change in the

scenery. The gloomy pines disappeared and the mountains were covered, in

their stead, with picturesque chesnut trees, with leaves of a shining

green. The grass and vegetation was much more luxuriant than on the

other side of the Alps, and fields of maize and mulberry orchards

covered the valley. We saw the people busy at work reeling silk in the

villages. Every mile we advanced made a sensible change in the

vegetation. The chesnuts were larger, the maize higher, the few

straggling grape-vines increased into bowers and vineyards, while the

gardens were filled with plum, pear and fig-trees, and the stands of

delicious fruit which we saw in the villages, gave us promise of the

luxuriance that was to come.

The vineyards are much more beautiful than the German fields of stakes.

The vines are not trimmed, but grow from year to year over a frame

higher than the head, supported through the whole field on stone

pillars. They interlace and form a complete leafy screen, while the

clusters hang below. The light came dimly through the green, transparent

leaves, and nothing was wanting to make them real bowers of Arcadia.

Although we were still in Switzerland, the people began to have that

lazy, indolent look which characterizes the Italians; most of the

occupations were carried on in the open air, and brown-robed, sandalled

friars were going about from house to house, collecting money and

provisions for their support.

We passed Faidò and Giornico, near which last village are the remains of

an old castle, supposed to have been built by the ancient Gauls, and

stopped for the night at Cresciano, which being entirely Italian, we had

an opportunity to put in practice the few words we had picked up from

Pietro. The little fellow parted from us with regret a few hours before,

at Biasco, where he had relations. The rustic landlord at Cresciano was

an honest young fellow, who tried to serve us as well as he could, but

we made some ludicrous mistakes through our ignorance of the language.

Three hours' walk brought us to Bellinzona, the capital of the canton.

Before reaching it, our road joined that of the Splügen which comes down

through the valley of Bernardino. From the bridge where the junction

takes place we had a triple view, whose grandeur took me by surprise,

even after coming from Switzerland. We stood at the union of three

valleys--that leading to St. Gothard, terminated by the glaciers of the

Bernese Oberland, that running off obliquely to the Splügen, and finally

the broad vale of the Ticino, extending to Lago Maggiore, whose purple

mountains closed the vista. Each valley was perhaps two miles broad and

from twenty to thirty long, and the mountains that enclosed them from

five to seven thousand feet in height, so you may perhaps form some idea

what a view down three such avenues in this Alpine temple would be.

Bellinzona is romantically situated, on a slight eminence, with three

castles to defend it, with those square turreted towers and battlements,

which remind one involuntarily of the days of the Goths and Vandals.

We left Bellinzona at noon, and saw, soon after, from an eminence, the

blue line of Lago Maggiore stretched across the bottom of the valley. We

saw sunset fade away over the lake, but it was clouded, and did not

realize my ideal of such a scene in Italy. A band of wild Italians

paraded up and down the village, drawing one of their number in a

hand-cart. They made a great noise with a drum and trumpet, and were

received everywhere with shouts of laughter. A great jug of wine was not

wanting, and the whole seemed to me a very characteristic scene.

We were early awakened at Magadino, at the head of Lago Maggiore, and

after swallowing a hasty breakfast, went on board the steamboat "San

Carlo," for Sesto Calende. We got under way at six o'clock, and were

soon in motion over the crystal mirror. The water is of the most lovely

green hue, and so transparent that we seemed to bo floating in mid-air.

Another heaven arched far below us; other chains of mountains joined

their bases to those which surrounded the lake, and the mirrored

cascades leaped upward to meet their originals at the surface. It may be

because I have seen it more recently, that the water of Lago Maggiore

appears to be the most beautiful in the world. I was delighted with the

Scotch lakes, and enraptured with the Traunsee and "Zurich's waters,"

but this last exceeds them both. I am now incapable of any stronger

feeling, until I see the Egean from the Grecian Isles.

The morning was cloudy, and the white wreaths hung low on the mountains,

whose rocky sides were covered every where with the rank and luxuriant

growth of this climate. As we advanced further over this glorious

mirror, the houses became more Italian-like; the lower stories rested on

arched passages, and the windows were open, without glass, while in the

gardens stood the solemn, graceful cypress, and vines, heavy with

ripening grapes, hung from bough to bough through the mulberry orchards.

Half-way down, in a broad bay, which receives the waters of a stream

that comes down with the Simplon, are the celebrated Borromean Islands.

They are four in number, and seem to float like fairy creations on the

water, while the lofty hills form a background whose grandeur enhances

by contrast their exquisite beauty. There was something in the scene

that reminded me of Claude Melnotte's description of his home, by

Bulwer, and like the lady of Lyons, I answer readily, "I like the

picture."

On passing by Isola Madre, we could see the roses in its terraced

gardens and the broad-leaved aloes clinging to the rocks. Isola Bella,

the loveliest of them all, as its name denotes, was farther off; it rose

like a pyramid from the water, terrace above terrace to the summit, and

its gardens of never fading foliage, with the glorious panorama around,

might make it a paradise, if life were to be dreamed away. On the

northern side of the bay lies a large town (I forget its name,) with a

lofty Romanesque tower, and noble mountains sweep around as if to shut

out the world from such a scene. The sea was perfectly calm, and groves

and gardens slept mirrored in the dark green wave, while the Alps rose

afar through the dim, cloudy air. Towards the other end the hills sink

lower, and slope off into the plains of Lombardy. Near Arona, on the

western side, is a large monastery, overlooking the lower part of the

lake. Beside it, on a hill, is a colossal statue of San Carlo Borromeo,

who gave his name to the lovely islands above.

After a seven hours' passage, we ran into Sesto Calende, at the foot of

the lake. Here, passengers and baggage were tumbled promiscuously on

shore, the latter gathered into the office to be examined, and the

former left at liberty to ramble about an hour until their passports

could be signed. We employed the time in trying the flavor of the grapes

and peaches of Lombardy, and looking at the groups of travelers who had

come down from the Alps with the annual avalanche at this season. The

custom house officers were extremely civil and obliging, as they did not

think necessary to examine our knapsacks, and our passports being soon

signed, we were at liberty to enter again into the dominions of His

Majesty of Austria. Our companion, the German, whose feet could carry

him no further, took a seat on the top of a diligence for Milan; _we_

left Sesto Calende on foot, and plunged into the cloud of dust which was

whirling towards the capital of Northern Italy.

Being now really in the "sunny land," we looked on the scenery with a

deep interest. The first thing that struck me was a resemblance to

America in the fields of Indian corn, and the rank growth of weeds by

the roadside. The mulberry trees and hedges, too, looked quite familiar,

coming as we did, from fenceless and hedgeless Germany. But here the

resemblance ceased. The people were coarse, ignorant and savage-looking,

the villages remarkable for nothing except the contrast between splendid

churches and miserable, dirty houses, while the luxurious palaces and

grounds of the rich noblemen formed a still greater contrast to the

poverty of the people. I noticed also that if the latter are as lazy as

they are said to be, they make their horses work for them, as in a walk

of a few hours yesterday after noon, we saw two horses drawing heavy

loads, drop down apparently dead, and several others seemed nearly ready

to do the same.

We spent the night at the little village of Casina, about sixteen miles

from Milan, and here made our first experience in the honesty of Italian

inns. We had taken the precaution to inquire beforehand the price of a

bed; but it seemed unnecessary and unpleasant, as well as evincing a

mistrustful spirit, to do the same with every article we asked for, so

we concluded to leave it to the host's conscience not to overcharge us.

Imagine our astonishment, however, when at starting, a bill was

presented to us, in which the smallest articles were set down at three

or four times their value. We remonstrated, hut to little purpose; the

fellow knew scarcely any French, and we as little Italian, so rather

than lose time or temper, we paid what he demanded and went on, leaving

him to laugh at the successful imposition. The experience was of value

to us, however, and it may serve as a warning to some future traveler.

About noon, the road turned into a broad and beautiful avenue of

poplars, down which we saw, at a distance, the triumphal arch

terminating the Simplon road, which we had followed from Sesto Calende.

Beyond it rose the slight and airy pinnacle of the Duomo. We passed by

the exquisite structure, gave up our passports at the gates, traversed

the broad Piazza d'Armi, and found ourselves at liberty to choose one of

the dozen streets that led into the heart of the city.

CHAPTER XXXI.

MILAN.

_Aug. 21._--While finding our way at random to the "Pension Suisse,"

whither we had been directed by a German gentleman, we were agreeably

impressed with the gaiety and bustle of Milan. The shops and stores are

all open to the street, so that the city resembles a great bazaar. It

has an odd look to see blacksmiths, tailors and shoemakers working

unconcernedly in the open air, with crowds continually passing before

them. The streets are filled with venders of fruit, who call out the

names with a long, distressing cry, like that of a person in great

agony. Organ-grinders parade constantly about and snatches of songs are

heard among the gay crowd, on every side.

In this lively, noisy Italian city, nearly all there is to see may be

comprised in four things: the Duomo, the triumphal arch over the

Simplon, La Scala and the Picture Gallery. The first alone is more

interesting than many an entire city. We went there yesterday afternoon

soon after reaching here. It stands in an irregular open place, closely

hemmed in by houses on two sides, so that it can be seen to advantage

from only one point. It is a mixture of the Gothic and Romanesque

styles; the body of the structure is entirely covered with statues and

richly wrought sculpture, with needle-like spires of white marble rising

up from every corner. But of the exquisite, airy look of the whole mass,

although so solid and vast, it is impossible to convey an idea. It

appears like some fabric of frost-work which winter traces on the

window-panes. There is a unity of beauty about the whole, which the eye

takes in with a feeling of perfect and satisfied delight.

Ascending the marble steps which lead to the front, I lifted the folds

of the heavy curtain and entered. What a glorious aisle! The mighty

pillars support a magnificent arched ceiling, painted to resemble

fretwork, and the little light that falls through the small windows

above, enters tinged with a dim golden hue. A feeling of solemn awe

comes over one as he steps with a hushed tread along the colored marble

floor, and measures the massive columns till they blend with the

gorgeous arches above. There are four rows of these, nearly fifty in

all, and when I state that they are eight feet in diameter, and sixty or

seventy in height, some idea may be formed of the grandeur of the

building. Imagine the Girard College, at Philadelphia, turned into one

great hall, with four rows of pillars, equal in size to those around it,

reaching to its roof, and you will have a rough sketch of the interior

of the Duomo.

In the centre of the cross is a light and beautiful dome; he who will

stand under this, and look down the broad middle aisle to the entrance,

has one of the sublimest vistas to be found in the world. The choir has

three enormous windows, covered with dazzling paintings, and the ceiling

is of marble and silver. There are gratings under the high altar, by

looking into which, I could see a dark, lonely chamber below, where one

or two feeble lamps showed a circle of praying-places. It was probably a

funeral vault, which persons visited to pray for the repose of their

friends' souls. The Duomo is not yet entirely finished, the workmen

being still employed in various parts, but it is said, that when

completed there will be four thousand statues on the different parts of

it.

The design of the Duomo is said to be taken from Monte Rosa, one of the

loftiest peaks of the Alps. Its hundreds of sculptured pinnacles, rising

from every part of the body of the church, certainly bear a striking

resemblance to the splintered ice-crags of Savoy. Thus we see how Art,

mighty and endless in her forms though she be, is in every thing but the

child of Nature. Her most divine conceptions are but copies of objects

which we behold every day. The faultless beauty of the Corinthian

capital--the springing and intermingling arches of the Gothic aisle--the

pillared portico or the massive and sky-piercing pyramid--are but

attempts at reproducing, by the studied regularity of Art, the

ever-varied and ever-beautiful forms of mountain, rock and forest. But

there is oftentimes a more thrilling sensation of enjoyment produced by

the creations of man's hand and intellect than the grander effects of

Nature, existing constantly before our eyes. It would seem as if man

marvelled more at his own work than at the work of the Power which

created him.

The streets of Milan abound with priests in their cocked hats and long

black robes. They all have the same solemn air, and seem to go about

like beings shut out from all communion with pleasure. No sight lately

has saddened me so much as to see a bright, beautiful boy, of twelve or

thirteen years, in those gloomy garments. Poor child! he little knows

now what he may have to endure. A lonely, cheerless life, where every

affection must be crushed as unholy, and every pleasure denied as a

crime! And I knew by his fair brow and tender lip, that he had a warm

and loving heart. I could not help regarding this class as victims to a

mistaken idea of religious duty, and if I am not mistaken, I read on

more than one countenance the traces of passions that burned within. It

is mournful to see a people oppressed in the name of religion. The

holiest aspirations of man's nature, instead of lifting him up to a

nearer view of Christian perfection, are changed into clouds and shut

out the light of heaven. Immense treasures, wrung drop by drop from the

credulity of the poor and ignorant, are made use of to pamper the luxury

of those who profess to be mediators between man and the Deity. The poor

wretch may perish of starvation on a floor of precious mosaic, which

perhaps his own pittance has helped to form, while ceilings and shrines

of inlaid gold mock his dying eye with their useless splendor. Such a

system of oppression, disguised under the holiest name, can only be

sustained by the continuance of ignorance and blind superstition.

Knowledge--Truth--Reason--these are the ramparts which Liberty throws up

to guard her dominions from the usurpations of oppression and wrong.

We were last night in La Scala. Rossini's opera of William Tell was

advertised, and as we had visited so lately the scene where that

glorious historical drama was enacted, we went to see it represented in

sound. It is a grand subject, which in the hands of a powerful composer,

might be made very effective, but I must confess I was disappointed in

the present case. The overture is, however, very beautiful. It begins

low and mournful, like the lament of the Swiss over their fallen

liberties. Occasionally a low drum is heard, as if to rouse them to

action, and meanwhile the lament swells to a cry of despair. The drums

now wake the land; the horn of Uri is heard pealing forth its summoning

strain, and the echoes seem to come back from the distant Alps. The

sound then changes for the roar of battle--the clang of trumpets, drums

and cymbals. The whole orchestra did their best to represent this combat

in music, which after lasting a short time, changed into the loud,

victorious march of the conquerors. But the body of the opera, although

it had several fine passages, was to me devoid of interest; in fact,

unworthy the reputation of Rossini.

The theatre is perhaps the largest in the world. The singers are all

good; in Italy it could not be otherwise, where everybody sings. As I

write, a party of Italians in the house opposite have been amusing

themselves with going through the whole opera of "_La fille du

Regiment_," with the accompaniment of the piano, and they show the

greatest readiness and correctness in their performance. They have now

become somewhat boisterous, and appear to be improvising. One young

gentleman executes trills with amazing skill, and another appears to

have taken the part of a despairing lover, but the lady has a very

pretty voice, and warbles on and on, like a nightingale. Occasionally a

group of listeners in the street below clap them applause, for as the

windows are always open, the whole neighborhood can enjoy the

performance.

This forenoon I was in the Picture Gallery. It occupies a part of the

Library Building, in the Palazzo Cabrera. It is not large, and many of

the pictures are of no value to anybody but antiquarians; still there

are some excellent paintings, which render it well worthy a visit. Among

these, a marriage, by Raphael, is still in a very good state of

preservation, and there are some fine pictures by Paul Veronese and the

Caracci. The most admired painting, is "Abraham sending away Hagar," by

Guercino. I never saw a more touching expression of grief than in the

face of Hagar. Her eyes are red with weeping, and as she listens in an

agony of tears to the patriarch's command, she still seems doubting the

reality of her doom. The countenance of Abraham is venerable and calm,

and expresses little emotion; but one can read in that of Sarah, as she

turns away, a feeling of pity for her unfortunate rival.

Next to the Duomo, the most beautiful specimen of architecture in Milan

is the ARCH OF PEACE, on the north side of the city, at the commencement

of the Simplon Road. It was the intention of Napoleon to carry the road

under this arch, across the Piazza d'Armi, and to cut a way for it

directly into the heart of the city, but the fall of his dynasty

prevented the execution of this magnificent design, as well as the

completion of the arch itself. This has been done by the Austrian

government, according to the original plan; they have inscribed upon it

the name of Francis I., and changed the bas-reliefs of Lodi and Marengo

into those of a few fields where their forces had gained the victory. It

is even said that in many parts which were already finished, they

altered the splendid Roman profile of Napoleon into the haggard and

repulsive features of Francis of Austria.

The bronze statues on the top were made by an artist of Bologna, by

Napoleon's order, and are said to be the finest works of modern times.

In the centre is the goddess of Peace, in a triumphal car, drawn by six

horses, while on the corners four angels, mounted, are starting off to

convey the tidings to the four quarters of the globe. The artist has

caught the spirit of motion and chained it in these moveless figures.

One would hardly feel surprised if the goddess, chariot, horses and all,

were to start off and roll away through the air.

With the rapidity usual to Americans we have already finished seeing

Milan, and shall start to-morrow morning on a walk to Genoa.

CHAPTER XXXII.

WALK FROM MILAN TO GENOA.

It was finally decided we should leave Milan, so the next morning we

arose at five o'clock for the first time since leaving Frankfort. The

Italians had commenced operations at this early hour, but we made our

way through the streets without attracting quite so much attention as on

our arrival. Near the gate on the road to Pavia, we passed a long

colonnade which was certainly as old as the times of the Romans. The

pillars of marble were quite brown with age, and bound together with

iron to keep them from falling to pieces. It was a striking contrast to

see this relic of the past standing in the middle of a crowded

thoroughfare and surrounded by all the brilliance and display of modern

trade.

Once fairly out of the city we took the road to Pavia, along the banks

of the canal, just as the rising sun gilded the marble spire of the

Duomo. The country was a perfect level, and the canal, which was in many

places higher than the land through which it passed, served also as a

means of irrigation for the many rice-fields. The sky grew cloudy and

dark, and before we reached Pavia gathered to a heavy storm. Torrents of

rain poured down, accompanied with heavy thunder; we crept under an old

gateway for shelter, as no house was near. Finally, as it cleared away,

the square brown towers of the old city rose above the trees, and we

entered the gate through a fine shaded avenue. Our passports were of

course demanded, but we were only detained a minute or two. The only

thing of interest is the University, formerly so celebrated; it has at

present about eight hundred students.

We have reason to remember the city from another circumstance--the

singular attention we excited. I doubt if Columbus was an object of

greater curiosity to the simple natives of the new world, than we three

Americans were to the good people of Pavia. I know not what part of our

dress or appearance could have caused it, but we were watched like wild

animals. If we happened to pause and look at anything in the street,

there was soon a crowd of attentive observers, and as we passed on,

every door and window was full of heads. We stopped in the marketplace

to purchase some bread and fruit for dinner, which increased, if

possible, the sensation. We saw eyes staring and fingers pointing at us

from every door and alley. I am generally willing to contribute as much

as possible to the amusement or entertainment of others, but such

attention was absolutely embarrassing. There was nothing to do but to

appear unconscious of it, and we went along with as much nonchalance as

if the whole town belonged to us.

We crossed the Ticino, on whose banks near Pavia, was fought the first

great battle between Hannibal and the Romans. On the other side our

passports were demanded at the Sardinian frontier and our knapsacks

searched, which having proved satisfactory, we were allowed to enter the

kingdom. Late in the afternoon we reached the Po, which in winter must

be quarter of a mile wide, but the summer heats had dried it up to a

small stream, so that the bridge of boats rested nearly its whole length

in sand. We sat on the bank in the shade, and looked at the chain of

hills which rose in the south, following the course of the Po, crowned

with castles and villages and shining towers. It was here that I first

began to realize Italian scenery. Although the hills were bare, they lay

so warm and glowing in the sunshine, and the deep blue sky spread so

calmly above, that it recalled all my dreams of the fair clime we had

entered.

We stopped for the night at the little village of Casteggio, which lies

at the foot of the hills, and next morning resumed our pilgrimage. Here

a new delight awaited us. The sky was of a heavenly blue, without even

the shadow of a cloud, and full and fair in the morning sunshine we

could see the whole range of the Alps, from the blue hills of Friuli,

which sweep down to Venice and the Adriatic, to the lofty peaks which

stretch away to Nice and Marseilles! Like a summer cloud, except that

they were far more dazzling and glorious, lay to the north of us the

glaciers and untrodden snow-fields of the Bernese Oberland; a little to

the right we saw the double peak of St. Gothard, where six days before

we shivered in the region of eternal winter, while far to the north-west

rose the giant dome of Mount Blanc. Monte Rosa stood near him, not far

from the Great St. Bernard, and further to the south Mont Cenis guarded

the entrance from Piedmont into France. I leave you to conceive the

majesty of such a scene, and you may perhaps imagine, for I cannot

describe the feelings with which I gazed upon it.

At Tortona, the next post, a great market was being held; the town was

filled with country people selling their produce, and with venders of

wares of all kinds. Fruit was very abundant--grapes, ripe figs, peaches

and melons were abundant, and for a trifle one could purchase a

sumptuous banquet. On inquiring the road to Novi, the people made us

understand, after much difficulty, that there was a nearer way across

the country, which came into the post-road again, and we concluded to

take it. After two or three hours' walking in a burning sun, where our

only relief was the sight of the Alps and a view of the battle-field of

Marengo, which lay just on our right, we came to a stand--the road

terminated at a large stream, where workmen were busily engaged in

making a bridge across. We pulled off our boots and waded through, took

a refreshing bath in the clear waters, and walked on through by-lanes.

The sides were lined with luxuriant vines, bending under the ripening

vintage, and we often cooled our thirst with some of the rich bunches.

The large branch of the Po we crossed, came down from the mountains,

which we were approaching. As we reached the post-road again, they were

glowing in the last rays of the sun, and the evening vapors that settled

over the plain concealed the distant Alps, although the snowy top of the

Jungfrau and her companions the Wetterhorn and Schreckhorn, rose above

it like the hills of another world. A castle or church of brilliant

white marble glittered on the summit of one of the mountains near us,

and as the sun went down without a cloud, the distant summits changed in

hue to a glowing purple, amounting almost to crimson, which afterwards

darkened into a deep violet. The western half of the sky was of a pale

orange, and the eastern a dark red, which blended together in the blue

of the zenith, that deepened as twilight came on. I know not if it was a

fair specimen of an Italian sunset, but I must say, without wishing to

be partial, that though certainly very soft and beautiful, there is no

comparison with the splendor of such a scene in America. The day-sky of

Italy better deserves its reputation. Although no clearer than our own,

it is of a far brighter blue, arching above us like a dome of sapphire

and seeming to sparkle all over with a kind of crystal transparency.

We stopped the second night at Arquato, a little village among the

mountains, and after having bargained with the merry landlord for our

lodgings, in broken Italian, took a last look at the plains of Piedmont

and the Swiss Alps, in the growing twilight. We gazed out on the

darkening scene till the sky was studded with stars, and went to rest

with the exciting thought of seeing Genoa and the Mediterranean on the

morrow. Next morning we started early, and after walking some distance

made our breakfast in a grove of chesnuts, on the cool mountain side,

beside a fresh stream of water. The sky shone like a polished gem, and

the glossy leaves of the chesnuts gleamed in the morning sun. Here and

there, on a rocky height, stood the remains of some knightly castle,

telling of the Goths and Normans who descended through these mountain

passes to plunder Rome.

As the sun grew high, the heat and dust became intolerable, and this, in

connection with the attention we raised everywhere, made us somewhat

tired of foot-traveling in Italy. I verily believe the people took us

for pilgrims on account of our long white blouses, and had I a scallop

shell I would certainly have stuck it into my hat to complete the

appearance. We stopped once to ask a priest the road; when he had told

us, he shook hands with us and gave us a parting benediction. At the

common inns, where we stopped, we always met with civil treatment,

though, indeed, as we only slept in them, there was little chance of

practising imposition. We bought our simple meals at the baker's and

grocer's, and ate them in the shade of the grape-bowers, whose rich

clusters added to the repast. In this manner, we enjoyed Italy at the

expense of a franc, daily. About noon, after winding about through the

narrow defiles, the road began ascending. The reflected heat from the

hills on each side made it like an oven; there was not a breath of air

stirring; but we all felt, although no one said it, that from the summit

we could see the Mediterranean, and we pushed on as if life or death

depended on it. Finally, the highest point came in sight--we redoubled

our exertions, and a few minutes more brought us to the top, breathless

with fatigue and expectation. I glanced down the other side--there lay a

real sea of mountains, all around; the farthest peaks rose up afar and

dim, crowned with white towers, and between two of them which stood

apart like the pillars of a gateway, we saw the broad expanse of water

stretching away to the horizon--

To where the blue of heaven on bluer waves shut down!"

It would have been a thrilling sight to see any ocean, when one has

rambled thousands of miles among the mountains and vales of the inland,

but to behold this sea, of all others, was glorious indeed! This sea,

whose waves wash the feet of Naples, Constantinople and Alexandria, and

break on the hoary shores where Troy and Tyre and Carthage have

mouldered away!--whose breast has been furrowed by the keels of a

hundred nations through more than forty centuries--from the first rude

voyage of Jason and his Argonauts, to the thunders of Navarino that

heralded the second birth of Greece! You cannot wonder we grew romantic;

but short space was left for sentiment in the burning sun, with Genoa to

be reached before night. The mountain we crossed is called the Bochetta,

one of the loftiest of the sea-Alps (or Apennines)--the road winds

steeply down towards the sea, following a broad mountain rivulet, now

perfectly dried up, as nearly every stream among the mountains is. It

was a long way to us; the mountains seemed as if they would never unfold

and let us out on the shore, and our weary limbs did penance enough for

a multitude of sins. The dusk was beginning to deepen over the bay and

the purple hues of sunset were dying away from its amphitheatre of

hills, as we came in sight of the gorgeous city. Half the population

were out to celebrate a festival, and we made our entry in the triumphal

procession of some saint.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

SCENES IN GENOA, LEGHORN AND PISA.

Have you ever seen some grand painting of a city, rising with its domes

and towers and palaces from the edge of a glorious bay, shut in by

mountains--the whole scene clad in those deep, delicious, sunny hues

which you admire so much in the picture, although they appear unrealized

in Nature? If so, you can figure to yourself Genoa, as she looked to us

at sunset, from the battlements west of the city. When we had passed

through the gloomy gate of the fortress that guards the western

promontory, the whole scene opened at once on us in all its majesty. It

looked to me less like a real landscape than a mighty panoramic

painting. The battlements where we were standing, and the blue mirror of

the Mediterranean just below, with a few vessels moored near the shore,

made up the foreground; just in front lay the queenly city, stretching

out to the eastern point of the bay, like a great meteor---this point,

crowned with the towers and dome of a cathedral representing the

nucleus, while the tail gradually widened out and was lost among the

numberless villas that reached to the top of the mountains behind. A

mole runs nearly across the mouth of the harbor, with a tall light-house

at its extremity, leaving only a narrow passage for vessels. As we

gazed, a purple glow lay on the bosom of the sea, while far beyond the

city, the eastern half of the mountain crescent around the gulf was

tinted with the loveliest hue of orange. The impressions which one

derives from looking on remarkable scenery, depend, for much of their

effect, on the time and weather. I have been very fortunate in this

respect in two instances, and shall carry with me through life, two

glorious pictures of a very different character--the wild sublimity of

the Brocken in cloud and storm, and the splendor of Genoa in an Italian

sunset.

Genoa has been called the "city of palaces." and it well deserves the

appellation. Row above row of magnificent structures rise amid gardens

along the side of the hills, and many of the streets, though narrow and

crooked, are lined entirely with the splendid dwellings of the Genoese

nobles. All these speak of the republic in its days of wealth and power,

when it could cope successfully with Venice, and Doria could threaten to

bridle the horses of St. Mark. At present its condition is far

different; although not so fallen as its rival, it is but a shadow of

its former self--the life and energy it possessed as a republic, has

withered away under the grasp of tyranny.

We entered Genoa, as I have already said, in a religious procession. On

passing the gate we saw from the concourse of people and the many

banners hanging from the windows or floating across the streets, that it

was the day of a festa. Before entering the city we reached the

procession itself, which was one of unusual solemnity. As it was

impossible in the dense crowd, to pass it, we struggled through till we

reached a good point for seeing the whole, and slowly moved on with it

through the city. First went a company of boys in white robes; then

followed a body of friars, dressed in long black cassocks, and with

shaven crowns; then a company of soldiers with a band of music; then a

body of nuns, wrapped from head to foot in blue robes, leaving only a

small place to see out of--in the dusk they looked very solemn and

ghost-like, and their low chant had to me something awful and sepulchral

in it; then followed another company of friars, and after that a great

number of priests in white and black robes, bearing the statue of the

saint, with a pyramid of flowers, crosses and blazing wax tapers, while

companies of soldiery, monks and music brought up the rear. Armed guards

walked at intervals on each side of the procession, to keep the way

clear and prevent disturbance; two or three bands played solemn airs,

alternating with the deep monotonous chanting of the friars. The whole

scene, dimly lighted by the wax tapers, produced in me a feeling nearly

akin to fear, as if I were witnessing some ghostly, unearthly spectacle.

To rites like these, however, which occur every few weeks, the people

must be well accustomed.

Among the most interesting objects in Genoa, is the Doria palace, fit

in its splendor for a monarch's residence. It stands in the _Strada

Nova_, one of the three principal streets, and I believe is still in the

possession of the family. There are many others through the city,

scarcely less magnificent, among which that of the Durazzo family may be

pointed out. The American consulate is in one of these old edifices,

with a fine court-yard and ceilings covered with frescoes. Mr. Moro, the

Vice Consul, did us a great kindness, which I feel bound to acknowledge,

although it will require the disclosure of some private, and perhaps

uninteresting circumstances. On leaving Frankfort, we converted--for the

sake of convenience--the greater part of our funds into a draft on a

Saxon merchant in Leghorn, reserving just enough, as we supposed, to

take us thither. As in our former case, in Germany, the sum was too

small, which we found to our dismay on reaching Milan. Notwithstanding

we had traveled the whole ninety miles from that city to Genoa for three

francs each, in the hope of having enough, left to enable _one_ at least

to visit Leghorn, the expenses for a passport in Genoa (more than twenty

francs) prevented this plan. I went therefore to the Vice Consul to

ascertain whether the merchant on whom the draft was drawn, had any

correspondents there, who might advance a portion of it. His secretary

made many inquiries, but without effect; Mr. Moro then generously

offered to furnish me with means to reach Leghorn, whence I could easily

remit a sufficient sum to my two comrades. This put an end to our

anxiety, (for I must confess we could not help feeling some), and I

therefore prepared to leave that evening in the "Virgilio."

The feelings with which I look on this lovely land, are fast changing.

What with the dust and heat, and cheating landlords, and the dull plains

of Lombardy, my first experience was not very prepossessing. But the

joyous and romantic anticipation with which I looked forward to

realizing the dream of my earliest boyhood, is now beginning to be

surpassed by the exciting reality. Every breath I drew in the city of

Columbus and Doria, was deeply tinctured with the magic of history and

romance. It was like entering on a new existence, to look on scenes so

lovely by nature and so filled with the inspiring memories of old.

"Italia too, Italia! looking on thee,

Full flashes on the soul the light of ages,

Since the fierce Carthagenian almost won thee,

To the last halo of the chiefs and sages

Who glorify thy consecrated pages!

Thou wert the throne and grave of empires."

The _Virgilio_ was advertised to leave at six o'clock, and I accordingly

went out to her in a little boat half an hour beforehand; but we were

delayed much longer, and I saw sunset again fade over the glorious

amphitheatre of palaces and mountains, with the same orange glow--the

same purple and crimson flush, deepening into twilight--as before. An

old blind man in a skiff, floated around under the bows of the boat on

the glassy water, singing to the violin a plaintive air that appeared to

be an evening hymn to the virgin. There was something very touching in

his venerable countenance, with the sightless eyes turned upward to the

sunset heaven whose glory he could never more behold.

The lamps were lit on the tower at the end of the mole as we glided out

on the open sea; I stood on deck and watched the receding lights of the

city, till they and the mountains above them, were blended with the

darkened sky. The sea-breeze was fresh and cool, and the stars glittered

with a frosty clearness, which would have made the night delicious had

not a slight rolling of the waves obliged me to go below. Here, besides

being half seasick, I was placed at the mercy of many voracious fleas,

who obstinately stayed, persisting in keeping me company. This was the

first time I had suffered from these cannibals, and such were my

torments, I almost wished some blood-thirsty Italian would come and put

an end to them with his stiletto.

The first ray of dawn that stole into the cabin sent me on deck. The

hills of Tuscany lay in front, sharply outlined on the reddening sky;

near us was the steep and rocky isle of Gorgona; and far to the

south-west, like a low mist along the water, ran the shores of

Corsica--the birth place of Columbus and Napoleon![***] As the dawn

brightened we saw on the southern horizon a cloud-like island, also

imperishably connected with the name of the latter--the prison-kingdom

of Elba! North of us extended the rugged mountains of Carrarra--that

renowned range whence has sprung many a form of almost breathing beauty,

and where yet slumber, perhaps, in the unhewn marble, the god-like

shapes of an age of art, more glorious than any the world has ever yet

beheld!

[Footnote ***: By recent registers found in Corsica, it has been

determined that this island also gave birth to the discoverer of the new

world.]

The sun rose from behind the Apennines and masts and towers became

visible through the golden haze, as we approached the shore. On a flat

space between the sea and the hills, not far from the foot of Montenero,

stands Leghorn. The harbor is protected by a mole, leaving a narrow

passage, through which we entered, and after waiting two hours for the

visit of the health and police officers, we were permitted to go on

shore. The first thing that struck me, was the fine broad streets; the

second, the motley character of the population. People were hurrying

about noisy and bustling--Greeks in their red caps and capotes; grave

turbaned and bearded Turks; dark Moors; the Corsair-looking natives of

Tripoli and Tunis, and seamen of nearly every nation. At the hotel where

I stayed, we had a singular mixture of nations at dinner:--two French,

two Swiss, one Genoese, one Roman, one American and one Turk--and we

were waited on by a Tuscan and an Arab! We conversed together in four

languages, all at once.

To the merchant, Leghorn is of more importance than to the traveler. Its

extensive trade, not only in the manufactures of Tuscany, but also in

the productions of the Levant, makes it important to the former, while

the latter seeks in vain for fine buildings, galleries of art, or in

interesting historical reminiscences. Through the kind attention of the

Saxon Consul, to whom I had letters, two or three days went by

delightfully.

The only place of amusement here in summer is a drive along the sea

shore, called the Ardenza, which is frequented every evening by all who

can raise a vehicle. I visited it twice with a German friend. We met one

evening the Princess Corsini, wife of the Governor of Leghorn, on

horseback--a young, but not pretty woman. The road leads out along the

Mediterranean, past an old fortress, to a large establishment for the

sea bathers, where it ends in a large ring, around which the carriages

pass and re-pass, until sunset has gone out over the sea, when they

return to the city in a mad gallop, or as fast as the lean horses can

draw them.

In driving around, we met two or three carriages of Turks, in one of

which I saw a woman of Tunis, with a curious gilded head-dress, eighteen

inches in height.

I saw one night a Turkish funeral. It passed me in one of the outer

streets, on its way to the Turkish burying ground. Those following the

coffin, which was covered with a heavy black pall, wore white turbans

and long white robes--the mourning color of the Turks. Torches were

borne by attendants, and the whole company passed on at a quick pace.

Seen thus by night, it had a strange and spectral appearance.

There is another spectacle here which was exceedingly revolting to me.

The condemned criminals, chained two and two, are kept at work through

the city, cleaning the streets. They are dressed in coarse garments of a

dirty red color, with the name of the crime for which they were

convicted, painted on the back. I shuddered to see so many marked with

the words--"_omicidio premeditato_." All day they are thus engaged,

exposed to the scorn and contumely of the crowd, and at night dragged

away to be incarcerated in damp, unwholesome dungeons, excavated under

the public thoroughfares.

The employment of criminals in this way is common in Italy. Two days

after crossing St. Gothard, we saw a company of abject-looking

creatures, eating their dinner by the road-side, near Bellinzona. One of

them had a small basket of articles of cotton and linen, and as he rose

up to offer them to us, I was startled by the clank of fetters. They

were all employed to labor on the road.

On going down to the wharf in Leghorn, in the morning, two or three days

ago, I found F---- and B---- just stepping on shore from the steamboat,

tired enough of the discomforts of the voyage, yet anxious to set out

for Florence as soon as possible. After we had shaken off the crowd of

porters, pedlars and vetturini, and taken a hasty breakfast at the _Cafe

Americano_, we went to the Police Office to get our passports, and had

the satisfaction of paying two francs for permission to proceed to

Florence. The weather had changed since the preceding day, and the

sirocco-wind which blows over from the coast of Africa, filled the

streets with clouds of dust, which made walking very unpleasant. The

clear blue sky had vanished, and a leaden cloud hung low on the

Mediterranean, hiding the shores of Corsica and the rooky isles of

Gorgona and Capraja.

The country between Leghorn and Pisa, is a flat marsh, intersected in

several places by canals to carry off the stagnant water which renders

this district so unhealthy. It is said that the entire plain between the

mountains of Carrarra and the hills back of Leghorn has been gradually

formed by the deposits of the Arno and the receding of the

Mediterranean, which is so shallow along the whole coast, that large

vessels have to anchor several miles out. As we approached Pisa over the

level marsh, I could see the dome of the Cathedral and the Leaning Tower

rising above the gardens and groves which surround it.

Our baggage underwent another examination at the gate, where we were

again assailed by the vetturini, one of whom hung on us like a leech

till we reached a hotel, and there was finally no way of shaking him off

except by engaging him to take us to Florence. The bargain having been

concluded, we had still a few hours left and set off to hunt the

Cathedral. We found it on an open square near the outer wall, and quite

remote from the main part of the town. Emerging from the narrow and

winding street, one takes in et a glance the Baptistery, the Campo

Santo, the noble Cathedral and the Leaning Tower--forming altogether a

view rarely surpassed in Europe for architectural effect. But the square

is melancholy and deserted, and rank, untrampled grass fills the

crevices of its marble pavement.

I was surprised at the beauty of the Leaning Tower. Instead of all old,

black, crumbling fabric, as I always supposed, it is a light, airy,

elegant structure, of white marble, and its declension, which is

interesting as a work of art (or accident,) is at the same time pleasing

from its novelty. There have been many conjectures as to the cause of

this deviation, which is upwards of fourteen feet from the

perpendicular; it is now generally believed that the earth having sunk

when the building was half finished, it was continued by the architects

in the same angle. The upper gallery, which is smaller than the others,

shows a very perceptible inclination back towards the perpendicular, as

if in some degree to counterbalance the deviation of the other part.

There are eight galleries in all, supported by marble pillars, but the

inside of the Tower is hollow to the very top.

We ascended by the same stairs which were trodden so often by Galileo in

going up to make his astronomical observations; in climbing spirally

around the hollow cylinder in the dark, it was easy to tell on which

side of the Tower we were, from the proportionate steepness of the

staircase. There is a fine view from the top, embracing the whole plain

as far as Leghorn on one side, with its gardens and grain fields spread

out like a vast map. In a valley of the Carrarrese Mountains to the

north, we could see the little town of Lucca, much frequented at this

season on account of its baths; the blue summits of the Appenines shut

in the view to the east. In walking through the city I noticed two other

towers, which had nearly as great a deviation from the perpendicular. We

met a person who had the key of the Baptistery, which he opened for us.

Two ancient columns covered with rich sculpture form the doorway, and

the dome is supported by massive pillars of the red marble of Elba. The

baptismal font is of the purest Parian marble. The most remarkable thing

was the celebrated musical echo. Our cicerone stationed himself at the

side of the font and sang a few notes. After a moment's pause they were

repeated aloft in the dome, but with a sound of divine sweetness--as

clear and pure as the clang of a crystal bell. Another pause--and we

heard them again, higher, fainter and sweeter, followed by a dying note,

as if they were fading far away into heaven. It seemed as if an angel

lingered in the temple, echoing with his melodious lips the common

harmonies of earth. Even thus does the music of good deeds, hardly noted

in our grosser atmosphere, awake a divine echo in the far world of

spirit.

The Campo Santo, on the north side of the Cathedral, was, until lately,

the cemetery of the city; the space enclosed within its marble galleries

is filled to the depth of eight or ten feet, with earth from the Holy

Land. The vessels which carried the knights of Tuscany to Palestine were

filled at Joppa, on returning, with this earth as ballast, and on

arriving at Pisa it was deposited in the Cemetery. It has the peculiar

property of decomposing all human bodies, in the space of two days. A

colonnade of marble encloses it, with windows of the most exquisite

sculpture opening on the inside. They reminded me of the beautiful

Gothic oriels of Melrose. At each end are two fine, green cypresses,

which thrive remarkably in the soil of Palestine. The dust of a German

emperor, among others, rests in this consecrated ground. There are other

fine churches in Pisa, but the four buildings I have mentioned, are the

principal objects of interest. The tower where Count Ugolino and his

sons were starved to death by the citizens of Pisa, who locked them up

and threw the keys into the Arno, has lately been destroyed.

An Italian gentleman having made a bargain in the meantime with our

vetturino, we found every thing ready on returning to the hotel. On the

outside of the town we mounted into the vehicle, a rickety-looking

concern, and as it commenced raining, I was afraid we would have a bad

night of it. After a great deal of bargaining, the vetturino agreed to

take us to Florence that night for five francs a piece, provided one

person would sit on the outside with the driver. I accordingly mounted

on front, protected by a blouse and umbrella, for it was beginning to

rain dismally. The miserable, bare-boned horses were fastened with

rope-traces, and the vetturino having taken the rope-lines in his hand,

gave a flourish with his whip; one old horse tumbled nearly to the

ground, but he jerked him up again and we rattled off.

After riding ten miles in this way, it became so wet and dreary, that I

was fain to give the driver two francs extra, for the privilege of an

inside seat. Our Italian companion was agreeable and talkative, but as

we were still ignorant of the language, I managed to hold a scanty

conversation with him in French. He seemed delighted to learn that we

were from America; his polite reserve gave place to a friendly

familiarity and he was loud in his praises of the Americans. I asked him

why it was that he and the Italians generally, were so friendly towards

us. "I hardly know," he answered; "you are so different from any other

nation; and then, too, you have so much sincerity!"

The Appenines were wreathed and hidden in thick mist, and the prospect

over the flat cornfields bordering the road was not particularly

interesting. We had made about one-third of the way as night set in,

when on ascending a hill soon after dark, F---- happened to look out,

and saw one of the axles bent and nearly broken off. we were obliged to

get out and walk through the mud to the next village, when after two

hours' delay, the vetturino came along with another carriage. Of the

rest of the way to Florence, I cannot say much. Cramped up in the narrow

vehicle, we jolted along in the dark, rumbling now and then through some

silent village, where lamps were burning before the solitary shrines.

Sometimes a blinding light crossed the road, where we saw the

tile-makers sitting in the red glare of their kilns, and often the black

boughs of trees were painted momentarily on the cloudy sky. If the

jolting carriage had even permitted sleep, the horrid cries of the

vetturino, urging on his horses, would have prevented it; and I decided,

while trying to relieve my aching limbs, that three days' walking in sun

and sand was preferable to one night of such travel.

Finally about four o'clock in the morning the carriage stopped; my

Italian friend awoke and demanded the cause. "Signor," said the

vetturino, "we are in Florence!" I blessed the man, and the city too.

The good-humored officer looked at our passports and passed our baggage

without examination; we gave the gatekeeper a paul and he admitted us.

The carriage rolled through the dark, silent streets--passed a public

square--came out on the Arno--crossed and entered the city again--and

finally stopped at a hotel. The master of the "Lione Bianco" came down

in an undress to receive us, and we shut the growing dawn out of our

rooms to steal that repose from the day which the night had not given.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

FLORENCE AND ITS GALLERIES.

_Sept. 11._--Our situation here is as agreeable as we could well desire.

We have three large and handsomely furnished rooms, in the centre of the

city, for which we pay Signor Lazzeri, a wealthy goldsmith, ten scudo

per month--a scudo being a trifle more than an American dollar. We live

at the _Cafès_ and _Trattone_ very conveniently for twenty-five cents a

day, enjoying moreover, at our dinner in the Trattoria del Cacciatore,

the company of several American artists with whom we have become

acquainted. The day after our arrival we met at the table d'hote of the

"Lione Bianco," Dr. Boardman of New York, through whose assistance we

obtained our present lodgings. There are at present ten or twelve

American artists in Florence, and we promise ourselves much pleasure and

profit from their acquaintance. B---- and I are so charmed with the

place and the beautiful Tuscan dialect, that we shall endeavor to spend

three or four months here. F---- returns to Germany in two weeks, to

attend the winter term of the University at his favorite Heidelberg.

Our first walk in Florence was to the Royal Gallery--we wished to see

the "goddess living in stone" without delay. Crossing the neighboring

_Piazza del Granduca_, we passed Michael Angelo's colossal statue of

David, and an open gallery containing, besides some antiques, the

master-piece of John of Bologna. The palace of the _Uffizii_, fronting

on the Arno, extends along both sides of an avenue running back to the

Palazzo Vecchio. We entered the portico which passes around under the

great building, and after ascending three or four flights of steps, came

into a long hall, filled with paintings and ancient statuary. Towards

the end of this, a door opened into the Tribune--that celebrated room,

unsurpassed by any in the world for the number and value of the gems it

contains. I pushed aside a crimson curtain and stood in the presence of

the Venus.

It may be considered heresy, but I confess I did not at first go into

raptures, nor perceive any traces of superhuman beauty. The predominant

feeling, if I may so express it, was satisfaction; the eye dwells on its

faultless outline with a gratified sense, that nothing is wanting to

render it perfect. It is the ideal of a woman's form--a faultless

standard by which all beauty may be measured, but without striking

expression, except in the modest and graceful position of the limbs. The

face, though regular, is not handsome, and the body appears small, being

but five feet in height, which, I think, is a little below the average

stature of women. On each side, as if to heighten its elegance by

contrast with rude and unrefined nature, are the statues of the

Wrestlers, and the slave listening to the conspiracy of Catiline, called

also The Whetter.

As if to correspond with the value of the works it holds, the Tribune is

paved with precious marbles and the ceiling studded with polished

mother-of-pearl. A dim and subdued light fills the hall, which throws

over the mind that half-dreamy tone necessary to the full enjoyment of

such objects. On each side of the Venus de Medici hangs a Venus by

Titian, the size of life, and painted in that rich and gorgeous style of

coloring which has been so often and vainly attempted since his time.

Here are six of Raphael's best preserved paintings. I prefer the "St.

John in the Desert" to any other picture in the Tribune. His glorious

form, in the fair proportions of ripening boyhood--the grace of his

attitude, with the arm lifted eloquently on high--the divine inspiration

which illumines his young features--chain the step irresistibly before

it. It is one of those triumphs of the pencil which few but Raphael have

accomplished--the painting of _spirit_ in its loftiest and purest form.

Near it hangs the Fornarina, which he seems to have painted in as deep a

love as he entertained for the original. The face is modest and

beautiful, and filled with an expression of ardent and tender

attachment. I never tire looking upon either of these two.

Let me not forget, while we are in this peerless hall, to point out

Guercino's Samian Sybil. It is a glorious work. With her hands clasped

over her volume, she is looking up with a face full of deep and

expressive sadness. A picturesque turban is twined around her head, and

bands of pearls gleam amidst her rich, dark brown tresses. Her face

bears the softness of dawning womanhood, and nearly answers my ideal of

female beauty. The same artist has another fine picture here--a sleeping

Endymion. The mantle has fallen from his shoulders, as he reclines

asleep, with his head on his hand, and his crook beside him. The silver

crescent of Dian looks over his shoulder from the sky behind, and no

wonder if she should become enamored, for a lovelier shepherd has not

been seen since that of King Admetus went back to drive his chariot in

the heavens.

The "Drunken Bacchus" of Michael Angelo is greatly admired, and indeed

it might pass for a relic of the palmiest times of Grecian art. The

face, amidst its half-vacant, sensual expression, shows traces of its

immortal origin, and there is still an air of dignity preserved in the

swagger of his beautiful form. It is, in a word, the ancient idea of _a

drunken god_. It may be doubted whether the artist's talents might not

have been employed better than in ennobling intoxication. If he had

represented Bacchus as he really is--degraded even below the level of

humanity--it might be more beneficial to the mind, though less beautiful

to the eye. However, this is a question on which artists and moralists

cannot agree. Perhaps, too, the rich blood of the Falernian grape

produced a more godlike delirium than the vulgar brandy which oversets

the moderns!

At one end of the gallery is a fine copy in marble of the Laocoon, by

Bandinelli, one of the rivals of Michael Angelo. When it was finished,

the former boasted it was better than the original, to which Michael

made the apt reply: "It is foolish for those who walk in the footsteps

of others, to say they go before them!"

Let us enter the hall of Niobe. One starts back on seeing the many

figures in the attitude of flight, for they seem at first about to

spring from their pedestals. At the head of the room stands the

afflicted mother, bending over the youngest daughter who clings to her

knees, with an upturned countenance of deep and imploring agony. In

vain! the shafts of Apollo fall thick, and she will soon be childless.

No wonder the strength of that woe depicted on her countenance should

change her into stone. One of her sons--a beautiful, boyish form,--is

lying on his back, just expiring, with the chill langour of death

creeping over his limbs. We seem to hear the quick whistling of the

arrows, and look involuntarily into the air to see the hovering figure

of the avenging god. In a chamber near is kept the head of a faun, made

by Michael Angelo, at the age of fourteen, in the garden of Lorenzo de

Medici, from a piece of marble given him by the workmen.

The portraits of the painters are more than usually interesting. Every

countenance is full of character. There is the pale, enthusiastic face

of Raphael, the stern vigor of Titian, the majesty and dignity of

Leonardo da Vinci, and the fresh beauty of Angelica Kauffmann. I liked

best the romantic head of Raphael Mengs. In one of the rooms there is a

portrait of Alfieri, with an autograph sonnet of his own on the back of

it. The house in which he lived and died, is on the north bank of the

Arno, near the Ponte Caraja, and his ashes rest in Santa Croce.

Italy still remains the home of art, and it is but just she should keep

these treasures, though the age that brought them forth has passed away.

They are her only support now; her people are dependent for their

subsistence on the glory of the past. The spirits of the old painters,

living still on their canvass, earn from year to year the bread of an

indigent and oppressed people. This ought to silence those utilitarians

at home, who oppose the cultivation of the fine arts, on the ground of

their being useless luxuries. Let them look to Italy, where a picture by

Raphael or Correggio is a rich legacy for a whole city. Nothing is

useless that gratifies that perception of beauty, which is at once the

most delicate and the most intense of our mental sensations, binding us

by an unconscious link nearer to nature and to Him, whose every thought

is born of Beauty, Truth and Love. I envy not the one who looks with a

cold and indifferent spirit on these immortal creations of the old

masters--these poems written in marble and on the canvass. They who

oppose every thing which can refine and spiritualize the nature of man,

by binding him down to the cares of the work-day world alone, cheat life

of half its glory.

The eighth of this month was the anniversary of the birth of the Virgin,

and the celebration, if such it might be called, commenced the evening

before, It is the custom, and Heaven only knows how it originated, for

the people of the lower class to go through the streets in a company,

blowing little penny whistles. We were walking that night in the

direction of the Duomo, when we met a band of these men, blowing with

all their might on the shrill whistles, so that the whole neighborhood

resounded with one continual, piercing, ear-splitting shriek. They

marched in a kind of quick trot through the streets, followed by a crowd

of boys, and varying the noise occasionally by shouts and howls of the

most horrible character. They paraded through all the principal streets

of the city, which for an hour sent up such an agonizing scream that you

might have fancied it an enormous monster, expiring in great torment.

The people seemed to take the whole thing as a matter of course, but it

was to us a novel manner of ushering in a religious festival.

The sky was clear and blue, as it always is in this Italian paradise,

when we left Florence a few days ago for Fiesole. In spite of many

virtuous efforts to rise early, it was nine o'clock before we left the

Porta San Gallo, with its triumphal arch to the Emperor Francis,

striding the road to Bologna. We passed through the public walk at this

end of the city, and followed the road to Fiesole along the dried-up bed

of a mountain torrent. The dwellings of the Florentine nobility occupy

the whole slope, surrounded with rich and lovely gardens. The mountain

and plain are both covered with luxuriant olive orchards, whose foliage

of silver gray gives the scene the look of a moonlight landscape.

At the base of the mountain of Fiesole we passed one of the summer

palaces of Lorenzo the Magnificent, and a little distance beyond, took a

foot-path overshadowed by magnificent cypresses, between whose dark

trunks we looked down on the lovely Val d'Arno. But I will reserve all

description of the view till we arrive at the summit.

The modern village of Fiesole occupies the site of an ancient city,

generally supposed to be of Etrurian origin. Just above, on one of the

peaks of the mountain, stands the Acropolis, formerly used as a

fortress, but now untenanted save by a few monks. From the side of its

walls, beneath the shade of a few cypresses, there is a magnificent view

of the whole of Val d'Arno, with Florence--the gem of Italy--in the

centre. Stand with me a moment on the height, and let us gaze on this

grand panorama, around which the Apennines stretch with a majestic

sweep, wrapped in a robe of purple air, through which shimmer the villas

and villages on their sides! The lovely vale lies below us in its garb

of olive groves, among which beautiful villas are sprinkled as

plentifully as white anemones in the woods of May. Florence lies in

front of us, the magnificent cupola of the Duomo crowning its clustered

palaces. We see the airy tower of the Palazzo Vecchio--the new spire of

Santa Croce--and the long front of the Palazzo Pitti, with the dark

foliage of the Boboli Gardens behind. Beyond, far to the south, are the

summits of the mountains near Siena. We can trace the sandy bed of the

Arno down the valley till it disappears at the foot of the Lower

Apennines, which mingle in the distance with the mountains of Carrara.

Galileo was wont to make observations "at evening from the top of

Fiesole," and the square tower of the old church is still pointed out as

the spot. Many a night did he ascend to its projecting terrace, and

watch the stars as they rolled around through the clearest heaven to

which a philosopher ever looked up.

We passed through an orchard of fig trees, and vines laden with

beautiful purple and golden clusters, and in a few minutes reached the

remains of an amphitheatre, in a little nook on the mountain side. This

was a work of Roman construction, as its form indicates. Three or four

ranges of seats alone, are laid bare, and these have only been

discovered within a few years. A few steps further we came to a sort of

cavern, overhung with wild fig-trees. After creeping in at the entrance,

we found ourselves in an oval chamber, tall enough to admit of our

standing upright, and rudely but very strongly built. This was one of

the dens in which the wild beasts were kept; they were fed by a hole in

the top, now closed up. This cell communicates with four or five others,

by apertures broken in the walls. I stepped into one, and could see in

the dim light, that it was exactly similar to the first, and opened into

another beyond.

Further down the mountain we found the ancient wall of the city, without

doubt of Etrurian origin. It is of immense blocks of stone, and extends

more or less dilapidated around the whole brow of the mountain. In one

place there stands a solitary gateway, of large stones, which looks as

if it might have been one of the first attempts at using the principle

of the arch. These ruins are all gray and ivied, and it startles one to

think what a history Earth has lived through since their foundations

were laid!

We sat all the afternoon under the cypress trees and looked down on the

lovely valley, practising Italian sometimes with two young Florentines

who came up to enjoy the "_bell'aria_" of Fiesole. Descending as sunset

drew on, we reached the Porta San Gallo, as the people of Florence were

issuing forth to their evening promenade.

One of my first visits was to the church of Santa Croce. This is one of

the oldest in Florence, venerated alike by foreigners and citizens, for

the illustrious dead whose remains it holds. It is a plain, gloomy pile,

the front of which is still unfinished, though at the base, one sees

that it was originally designed to be covered with black marble. On

entering the door we first saw the tomb of Michael Angelo. Around the

marble sarcophagus which contains his ashes are three mourning figures,

representing Sculpture, Painting and Architecture, and his bust stands

above--a rough, stern countenance, like a man of vast but unrefined

mind. Further on are the tombs of Alfieri and Machiavelli and the

colossal cenotaph lately erected to Dante. Opposite reposes Galileo.

What a world of renown in these few names! It makes one venerate the

majesty of his race, to stand beside the dust of such lofty spirits.

Dante's monument may be said to be only erected to his memory; he sleeps

at the place of his exile,

"Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore!"

It is the work of Ricci, a Florentine artist, and has been placed there

within a few years. The colossal figure of Poetry weeping over the empty

urn, might better express the regret of Florence in being deprived of

his ashes. The figure of Dante himself, seated above, is grand and

majestic; his head is inclined as if in meditation, and his features

bear the expression of sublime thought. Were this figure placed there

alone, on a simple and massive pedestal, it would be more in keeping

with his fame than the lumbering heaviness of the present monument.

Machiavelli's tomb is adorned with a female figure representing History,

bearing his portrait. The inscription, which seems to be somewhat

exaggerated, is: _tanto nomini nullum par elogium_. Near lies Alfieri,

the "prince of tragedy," as he is called by the Italians. In his life he

was fond of wandering among the tombs of Santa Croce, and it is said

that there the first desire and presentiment of his future glory stirred

within his breast. Now he slumbers among them, not the least honored

name of that immortal company.

Galileo's tomb is adorned with his bust. His face is calm and dignified,

and he holds appropriately in his hands, a globe and telescope. Aretino,

the historian, lies on his tomb with a copy of his works clasped to his

breast; above that of Lanzi, the historian of painting, there is a

beautiful fresco of the angel of fame; and opposite to him is the

scholar Lamio. The most beautiful monument in the church is that of a

Polish princess, in the transept. She is lying on the bier, her features

settled in the repose of death, and her thin, pale hands clasped across

her breast. The countenance wears that half-smile, "so coldly sweet and

sadly fair," which so often throws a beauty over the face of the dead,

and the light pall reveals the fixed yet graceful outline of the form.

In that part of the city, which lies on the south bank of the Arno, is

the palace of the Grand Duke, known by the name of the Palazzo Pitti,

from a Florentine noble of that name, by whom it was first built. It is

a very large, imposing pile, preserving an air of lightness in spite of

the rough, heavy stones of which it is built. It is another example of a

magnificent failure. The Marquis Strozzi, having built a palace which

was universally admired for its beauty, (which stands yet, a model of

chaste and massive elegance,) his rival, the Marquis Pitti, made the

proud boast that he would build a palace, in the court-yard of which

could bo placed that of Strozzi. These are actually the dimensions of

the court-yard; but in building the palace, although he was liberally

assisted by the Florentine people, he ruined himself, and his

magnificent residence passed into other hands, while that of Strozzi is

inhabited by his descendants to this very day.

The gallery of the Palazzo Pitti is one of the finest in Europe. It

contains six or seven hundred paintings, selected from the best works of

the Italian masters. By the praiseworthy liberality of the Duke, they

are open to the public, six hours every day, and the rooms are thronged

with artists of all nations.

Among Titian's works, there is his celebrated "Bella," a half-length

figure of a young woman. It is a masterpiece of warm and brilliant

coloring, without any decided expression. The countenance is that of

vague, undefined thought, as of one who knew as yet nothing of the

realities of life. In another room is his Magdalen, a large, voluptuous

form, with her brown hair falling like a veil over her shoulders and

breast, but in her upturned countenance one can sooner read a prayer for

an absent lover than repentance for sins she has committed.

What could excel in beauty the _Madonna della Sedia_ of Raphael? It is

another of those works of that divine artist, on which we gaze and gaze

with a never-tiring enjoyment of its angelic beauty. To my eye it is

faultless; I could not wish a single outline of form, a single shade of

color changed. Like his unrivalled Madonna in the Dresden Gallery, its

beauty is spiritual as well as earthly; and while gazing on the glorious

countenance of the Jesus-child, I feel an impulse I can scarcely

explain--a longing to tear it from the canvas as if it were a breathing

form, and clasp it to my heart in a glow of passionate love. What a

sublime inspiration Raphael must have felt when he painted it! Judging

from its effect on the beholder, I can conceive of no higher mental

excitement than that required to create it.

Here are also some of the finest and best preserved pictures of Salvator

Rosa, and his portrait--a wild head, full of spirit and genius. Besides

several landscapes in his savage and stormy style, there are two large

sea-views, in which the atmosphere is of a deep and exquisite softness,

without impairing the strength and boldness of the composition. "A

Battle Scene," is terrible. Hundreds of combatants are met in the shock

and struggle of conflict. Horses, mailed knights, vassals are mixed

together in wild confusion; banners are waving and lances flashing amid

the dust and smoke, while the wounded and dying are trodden under foot

in darkness and blood. I now first begin to comprehend the power and

sublimity of his genius. From the wildness and gloom of his pictures, he

might almost be called the Byron of painters.

There is a small group of the "Fates," by Michael Angelo, which is one

of the best of the few pictures which remain of him. As is well known,

he disliked the art, saying it was only fit for women. This picture

shows, however, how much higher he might have gone, had he been so

inclined. The three weird sisters are ghostly and awful--the one who

stands behind, holding the distaff, almost frightful. She who stands

ready to cut the thread as it is spun out, has a slight trace of pity on

her fixed and unearthly lineaments. It is a faithful embodiment of the

old Greek idea of the Fates. I have wondered why some artist has not

attempted the subject in a different way. In the Northern Mythology they

are represented as wild maidens, armed with swords and mounted on fiery

coursers. Why might they not also be pictured as angels, with

countenances of a sublime and mysterious beauty--one all radiant with

hope and promise of glory, and one with the token of a better future

mingled with the sadness with which it severs the links of life?

There are many, many other splendid works in this collection, but it is

unnecessary to mention them. I have only endeavored, by taking a few of

the best known, to give some idea of them as they appear to me. There

are hundreds of pictures here, which, though gems in themselves, are by

masters who are rarely heard of in America, and it would be of little

interest to go through the Gallery, describing it in guide-book fashion.

Indeed, to describe galleries, however rich and renowned they may be, is

in general a work of so much difficulty, that I know not whether the

writer or the reader is made most tired thereby.

This collection possesses also the celebrated statue of Venus, by

Canova. She stands in the centre of a little apartment, filled with the

most delicate and graceful works of painting. Although undoubtedly a

figure of great beauty, it by no means struck me as possessing that

exquisite and classic perfection which has been ascribed to it. The

Venus de Medici far surpasses it. The head is larger in proportion to

the size of the body, than that of the latter, but has not the same

modest, virgin expression. The arm wrapped in the robe which she is

pressing to her breast, is finely executed, but the fingers of the other

hand are bad--looking, as my friend said, as if the ends were _whittled_

off! The body is, however, of fine proportions, though, taken as a

whole, the statue is inferior to many other of Canova's works.

Occupying all the hill back of the Pitti Palace, are the Boboli Gardens,

three times a week the great resort of the Florentines. They are said to

be the most beautiful gardens in Italy. Numberless paths, diverging from

a magnificent amphitheatre in the old Roman style, opposite the

court-yard, lend either in long flights of steps and terraces, or gentle

windings among beds sweet with roses, to the summit. Long avenues,

entirely arched and interwoven with the thick foliage of the laurel,

which here grows to a tree, stretch along the slopes or wind in the

woods through thickets of the fragrant bay. Parterres, rich with flowers

and shrubbery, alternate with delightful groves of the Italian pine,

acacia and laurel-leaved oak, and along the hillside, gleaming among the

foliage, are placed statues of marble, some of which are from the

chisels of Michael Angelo and Bandinelli. In one part there is a little

sheet of water, with an island of orange-trees in the centre, from which

a broad avenue of cypresses and statues leads to the very summit of the

hill.

We often go there to watch the sun set over Florence and the vale of the

Arno. The palace lies directly below, and a clump of pine-trees on the

hillside, that stand out in bold relief on the glowing sky, makes the

foreground to one of the loveliest pictures this side of the Atlantic. I

saw one afternoon the Grand Duke and his family get into their carriage

to drive out. One of the little dukes, who seemed a mischievous imp, ran

out on a projection of the portico, where considerable persuasion had to

be used to induce him to jump into the arms of his royal papa. I turned

from these titled infants to watch a group of beautiful American

children playing, for my attention was drawn to them by the sound of

familiar words, and I learned afterwards they were the children of the

sculptor Powers. I contrasted involuntarily the destinies of each;--one

to the enjoyment and proud energy of freedom, and one to the confining

and vitiating atmosphere of a court. The merry voices of the latter, as

they played on the grass, came to my ears most gratefully. There is

nothing so sweet as to hear one's native tongue in a foreign land from

the lips of children!

CHAPTER XXXV.

A PILGRIMAGE TO VALLOMBROSA.

A pilgrimage to Vallombrosa!--in sooth it has a romantic sound. The

phrase calls up images of rosaries, and crosses, and shaven-headed

friars. Had we lived in the olden days, such things might verily have

accompanied our journey to that holy monastery. We might then have gone

barefoot, saying prayers as we toiled along the banks of the Arno and up

the steep Appenines, as did Benevenuto Cellini, before he poured the

melted bronze into the mould of his immortal Perseus. But we are

pilgrims to the shrines of Art and Genius; the dwelling-places of great

minds are our sanctuaries. The mean dwelling, in which a poet has

battled down poverty with the ecstacy of his mighty conceptions, and the

dungeon in which a persecuted philosopher has languished, are to us

sacred; we turn aside from the palaces of kings and the battle-fields of

conquerors, to visit them. The famed miracles of San Giovanni Gualberto

added little, in our eyes, to the interest of Vallombrosa, but there

were reverence and inspiration in the names of Dante, Milton, and

Ariosto.

We left Florence early, taking the way that leads from the Porta della

Croce, up the north bank of the Arno. It was a bright morning, but there

was a shade of vapor on the hills, which a practised eye might have

taken as a prognostic of the rain that too soon came on. Fiesole, with

its tower and Acropolis, stood out brightly from the blue background,

and the hill of San Miniato lay with its cypress groves in the softest

morning light. The _Contadini_ were driving into the city in their

basket wagons, and there were some fair young faces among them, that

made us think Italian beauty was not altogether in the imagination.

After walking three or four miles, we entered the Appenines, keeping

along the side of the Arno, whose bed is more than half dried up from

the long summer heats. The mountain sides were covered with vineyards,

glowing with their wealth of white and purple grapes, but the summits

were naked and barren. We passed through the little town of Ponte Sieve,

at the entrance of a romantic valley, where our view of the Arno was

made more interesting by the lofty range of the Appenines, amid whose

forests we could see the white front of the monastery of Vallombrosa.

But the clouds sank low and hid it from sight, and the rain came on so

hard that we were obliged to take shelter occasionally in the cottages

by the wayside. In one of these we made a dinner of the hard, black

bread of the country, rendered palatable by the addition of mountain

cheese and some chips of an antique Bologna sausage. We were much amused

in conversing with the simple hosts and their shy, gipsy-like children,

one of whom, a dark-eyed, curly-haired boy, bore the name of Raphael. We

also became acquainted with a shoemaker and his family, who owned a

little olive orchard and vineyard, which they said produced enough to

support them. Wishing to know much a family of six consumed in a year,

we inquired the yield of their property. They answered, twenty small

barrels of wine, and ten of oil. It was nearly sunset when we reached

Pellago, and the wet walk and coarse fare we were obliged to take on the

road, well qualified us to enjoy the excellent supper the pleasant

landlady gave us.

This little town is among the Appenines, at the foot of the magnificent

mountain of Vallombrosa. What a blessing it was for Milton, that he saw

its loveliness before his eyes closed on this beautiful earth, and

gained from it another hue in which to dip his pencil, when he painted

the bliss of Eden! I watched the hills all day as we approached them,

and thought how often his eyes had rested on their outlines, and how he

had carried their forms in his memory for many a sunless year. The

banished Dante, too, had trodden them, flying from his ungrateful

country; and many another, whose genius has made him a beacon in the

dark sea of the world's history. It is one of those places where the

enjoyment is all romance, and the blood thrills as we gaze upon it.

We started early next morning, crossed the ravine, and took the

well-paved way to the monastery along the mountain side. The stones are

worn smooth by the sleds in which ladies and provisions are conveyed up,

drawn by the beautiful white Tuscan oxen. The hills are covered with

luxuriant chesnut and oak trees, of those picturesque forms which they

only wear in Italy: one wild dell in particular is much resorted to by

painters for the ready-made foregrounds it supplies. Further on, we

passed the _Paterno_, a rich farm belonging to the Monks. The vines

which hung from tree to tree, were almost breaking beneath clusters as

heavy and rich as those which the children of Israel bore on staves from

the Promised Land. Of their flavor, we can say, from experience, they

were worthy to have grown in Paradise. We then entered a deep dell of

the mountain, where little shepherd girls were sitting on the rocks

tending their sheep and spinning with their fingers from a distaff, in

the same manner, doubtless, as the Roman shepherdesses two thousand

years ago. Gnarled, gray olive trees, centuries old, grew upon the bare

soil, and a little rill fell in many a tiny cataract down the glen. By a

mill, in one of the coolest and wildest nooks I ever saw, two of us

acted the part of water-spirits under one of these, to the great

astonishment of four peasants, who watched us from a distance.

Beyond, our road led through forests of chesnut and oak, and a broad

view of mountain and vale lay below us. We asked a peasant boy we met,

how much land the Monks of Vallombrosa possessed. "_All that you see_!"

was the reply. The dominion of the good fathers reached once even to the

gates of Florence. At length, about noon, we emerged from the woods into

a broad avenue leading across a lawn, at whose extremity stood the

massivs buildings of the monastery. On a rock that towered above it, was

the _Paradisino_, beyond which rose the mountain, covered with forests--

"Shade above shade, a woody theatre.

Of stateliest view"--

as Milton describes it. We were met at the entrance by a young monk in

cowl and cassock, to whom we applied for permission to stay till the

next day, which was immediately given. Brother Placido (for that was his

name) then asked us if we would not have dinner. We replied that our

appetites were none the worse for climbing the mountain; and in half an

hour sat down to a dinner, the like of which we had not seen for a long

time. Verily, thought I, it must be a pleasant thing to be a monk, after

all!--that is, a monk of Vallombrosa.

In the afternoon we walked through a grand pine forest to the western

brow of the mountain, where a view opened which it would require a

wonderful power of the imagination for you to see in fancy, as I did in

reality. From the height where we stood, the view was uninterrupted to

the Mediterranean, a distance of more than seventy miles; a valley

watered by a brunch of the Arno swept far to the east, to the mountains

near the Luke of Thrasymene; northwestwards the hills of Carrara

bordered the horizon; the space between these wide points was filled

with mountains and valleys, all steeped in that soft blue mist which

makes Italian landscapes more like heavenly visions than realities.

Florence was visible afar off, and the current of the Arno flashed in

the sun. A cool and almost chilling wind blew constantly over the

mountain, although the country below basked in summer heat. We lay on

the rocks, and let our souls luxuriate in the lovely scene till near

sunset. Brother Placido brought us supper in the evening, with his

ever-smiling countenance, and we soon after went to our beds in the

neat, plain chambers, to get rid of the unpleasant coldness.

Next morning it was damp and misty, and thick clouds rolled down the

forests towards the convent. I set out for the "Little Paradise," taking

in my way the pretty cascade which falls some fifty feet down the rocks.

The building is not now as it was when Milton lived here, having been

rebuilt within a short time. I found no one there, and satisfied my

curiosity by climbing over the wall and looking in at the windows. A

little chapel stands in a cleft of the rock below, to mark the

miraculous escape of St. John Gualberto, founder of the monastery. Being

one day very closely pursued by the Devil, he took shelter under the

rock, which immediately became soft and admitted him into it, while the

fiend, unable to stop, was precipitated over the steep. All this is

related in a Latin inscription, and we saw a large hollow in the rock

near, which must have been intended for the imprint left by his sacred

person.

One of the monks told us another legend, concerning a little chapel

which stands alone on a wild part of the mountain, above a rough pile of

crags, called the "Peak of the Devil." "In the time of San Giovanni

Gualberto, the holy founder of our order," said he, "there was a young

man, of a noble family in Florence, who was so moved by the words of the

saintly father, that he forsook the world, wherein he had lived with

great luxury and dissipation, and became monk. But, after a time, being

young and tempted again by the pleasures he had renounced, he put off

the sacred garments. The holy San Giovanni warned him of the terrible

danger in which he stood, and at length the wicked young man returned.

It was not a great while, however, before he became dissatisfied, and in

spite all holy counsel, did the same thing again. But behold what

happened! As he was walking along the peak where the chapel stands,

thinking nothing of his great crime, the devil sprang suddenly from

behind a rock, and catching the young man in his arms, before he could

escape, carried him with a dreadful noise and a great red flame and

smoke over the precipice, so that he was never afterwards seen."

The church attached to the monastery is small, but very solemn and

venerable. I went several times to muse in its still, gloomy aisle, and

hear the murmuring chant of the Monks, who went through their exercises

in some of the chapels. At one time I saw them all, in long black

cassocks, march in solemn order to the chapel of St. John Gualberto,

where they sang a deep chant, which to me had something awful and

sepulchral in it. Behind the high altar I saw their black, carved chairs

of polished oak, with ponderous gilded foliants lying on the rails

before them. The attendant opened one of these, that we might see the

manuscript notes, three or four centuries old, from which they sung.

We were much amused in looking through two or three Italian books, which

were lying in the traveler's room. One of these which our friend Mr.

Tandy, of Kentucky, read, described the miracles of the patron saint

with an air of the most ridiculous solemnity. The other was a

description of the Monastery, its foundation, history, etc. In

mentioning its great and far-spread renown, the author stated then even

an English poet, by the name of Milton, had mentioned it in the

following lines, which I copied verbatim from the book:

"Thick as autumnal scaves that strow she brooks

In vallombrosa, whereth Etruian Jades

Stigh over orch d'embrover!"

In looking over the stranger's book, I found among the names of my

countrymen, that of S. V. Clevenger, the talented and lamented sculptor

who died at sea on his passage home. There were also the names of Mrs.

Shelley and the Princess Potemkin, and I saw written on the wall, the

autograph of Jean Reboul, the celebrated modern French poet. We were so

delighted with the place we would have stayed another day, but for fear

of trepassing too much on the lavish and unceasing hospitality of the

good fathers.

So in the afternoon we shook hands with Brother Placido, and turned our

backs regretfully upon one of the loneliest and loveliest spots of which

earth can boast. The sky became gradually clear as we descended, and the

mist raised itself from the distant mountains. We ran down through the

same chesnut groves, diverging a little to go through the village of

Tosi, which is very picturesque when seen from a distance, but extremely

dirty to one passing through. I stopped in the ravine below to take a

sketch of the mill and bridge, and as we sat, the line of golden

sunlight rose higher on the mountains above. On walking down the shady

side of this glen, we were enraptured with the scenery. A brilliant yet

mellow glow lay over the whole opposing height, lighting up the houses

of Tosi and the white cottages half seen among the olives, while the

mountain of Vallombrosa stretched far heavenward like a sunny painting,

with only a misty wreath floating and waving around its summit. The

glossy foliage of the chesnuts was made still brighter by the warm

light, and the old olives softened down into a silvery gray, whose

contrast gave the landscape a character of the mellowest beauty. As we

wound out of the deep glen, the broad valleys and ranges of the

Appenines lay before us, forests, castles and villages steeped in the

soft, vapory blue of the Italian atmosphere, and the current of the Arno

flashing like a golden belt through the middle of the picture.

The sun was nearly down, and the mountains just below him were of a

deep purple hue, while those that ran out to the eastward wore the most

aerial shade of blue. A few scattered clouds, floating above, soon put

on the sunset robe of orange and a band of the same soft color encircled

the western horizon. It did not reach half way to the zenith, however;

the sky above was blue, of such a depth and transparency, that to gaze

upward was like looking into eternity. Then how softly and soothingly

the twilight came on! How deep a hush sank on the chesnut glades, broken

only by the song of the cicada, chirping its "good-night carol!" The

mountains, too, how majestic they stood in their deep purple outlines!

Sweet, sweet Italy! I can feel now how the soul may cling to thee, since

thou canst thus gratify its insatiable thirst for the Beautiful. Even

thy plainest scene is clothed in hues that seem borrowed of heaven! In

the twilight, more radiant than light, and the stillness, more eloquent

than music, which sink down over the sunny beauty of thy shores, there

is a silent, intense poetry that stirs the soul through all its

impassioned depths. With warm, blissful tears filling the eyes and a

heart overflowing with its own bright fancies, I wander in the solitude

and calm of such a time, and love thee as if I were a child of thy soil!

CHAPTER XXXVI.

WALK TO SIENA AND PRATOLINO--INCIDENTS IN FLORENCE.

_October 16._--My cousin, being anxious to visit Rome, and reach

Heidelberg before the commencement of the winter semestre, set out

towards the end of September, on foot. We accompanied him as far as

Siena, forty miles distant. As I shall most probably take another road

to the Eternal City, the present is a good opportunity to say something

of that romantic old town, so famous throughout Italy for the honesty of

its inhabitants.

We dined the first day, seventeen miles from Florence, at Tavenella,

where, for a meagre dinner the hostess had the assurance to ask us seven

pauls. We told her we would give but four and a half, and by assuming a

decided manner, with a plentiful use of the word "Signora" she was

persuaded to be fully satisfied with the latter sum. From a height near,

we could see the mountains coasting the Mediterranean, and shortly

after, on descending a long hill, the little town of Poggibonsi lay in

the warm afternoon light, on an eminence before us. It was soon passed

with its dusky towers, then Stagia looking desolate in its ruined and

ivied walls, and following the advice of a peasant, we stopped for the

night at the inn of Querciola. As we knew something of Italian by this

time, we thought it best to inquire the price of lodging, before

entering. The _padrone_ asked if we meant to take supper also. We

answered in the affirmative; "then," said he, "you will pay half a paul

(about five emits) apiece for a bed." We passed under the swinging bunch

of boughs, which in Italy is the universal sign of an inn for the common

people, and entered the bare, smoky room appropriated to travelers. A

long table, with well-worn benches, were the only furniture; we threw

our knapsacks on one end of it and sat down, amusing ourselves while

supper was preparing, in looking at a number of grotesque charcoal

drawings on the wall, which the flaring light of our tall iron lamp

revealed to us. At length the hostess, a kindly-looking woman, with a

white handkerchief folded gracefully around her head, brought us a dish

of fried eggs, which, with the coarse black bread of the peasants and a

basket full of rich grapes, made us an excellent supper. We slept on

mattresses stuffed with corn husks, placed on square iron frames, which

are the bedsteads most used in Italy. A brightly-painted caricature of

some saint or a rough crucifix, trimmed with bay leaves, hung at the

head of each bed, and under their devout protection we enjoyed a safe

and unbroken slumber.

Next morning we set out early to complete the remaining ten miles to

Siena. The only thing of interest on the road, is the ruined wall and

battlements of Castiglione, circling a high hill and looking as old as

the days of Etruria. The towers of Siena are seen at some distance, but

approaching it from this side, the traveler does not perceive its

romantic situation until he arrives. It stands on a double hill, which

is very steep on some sides; the hollow between the two peaks is

occupied by the great public square, ten or fifteen feet lower than the

rest of the city. We left our knapsacks at a _cafè_ and sought the

celebrated Cathedral, which stands in the highest part of the town,

forming with its flat dome and lofty marble tower, an apex to the

pyramidal mass of buildings.

The interior is rich and elegantly perfect. Every part is of black and

white marble, in what I should call the _striped_ style, which has a

singular but agreeable effect. The inside of the dome and the vaulted

ceilings of the chapels, are of blue, with golden stars; the pavement in

the centre is so precious a work that it is kept covered with boards and

only shown once a year. There are some pictures of great value in this

Cathedral; one of "The Descent of the Dove," is worthy of the best days

of Italian art. In an adjoining chamber, with frescoed walls, and a

beautiful tesselated pavement, is the library, consisting of a few huge

old volumes, which with their brown covers and brazen clasps, look as

much like a collection of flat leather trunks as any thing else. In the

centre of the room stands the mutilated group of the Grecian Graces,

found in digging the foundation of the Cathedral. The figures are still

beautiful and graceful, with that exquisite curve of outline which is

such a charm in the antique statues. Canova has only perfected the idea

in his celebrated group, which is nearly a copy of this.

We strolled through the square and then accompanied our friend to the

Roman gate, where we took leave of him for six months at least. He felt

lonely at the thought of walking in Italy without a companion, but was

cheered by the anticipation of soon reaching Rome. We watched him

awhile, walking rapidly over the hot plain towards Radicofani, and then,

turning our faces with much pleasure towards Florence, we commenced the

return walk. I must not forget to mention the delicious grapes which we

bought, begged and stole on the way. The whole country is like one

vineyard--and the people live, in a great measure, on the fruit, during

this part of the year. Would you not think it highly romantic and

agreeable to sit in the shade of a cypress grove, beside some old

weather-beaten statues, looking out over the vales of the Appenines,

with a pile of white and purple grapes beside you, the like of which can

scarcely be had in America for love or money, and which had been given

you by a dark-eyed peasant girl? If so, you may envy us, for such was

exactly our situation on the morning before reaching Florence.

Being in the Duomo, two or three days ago, I met a German traveler, who

has walked through Italy thus far, and intends continuing his journey to

Rome and Naples. His name is Von Raumer. He was well acquainted with the

present state of America, and I derived much pleasure from his

intelligent conversation. We concluded to ascend the cupola in company.

Two black-robed boys led the way; after climbing an infinite number of

steps, we reached the gallery around the foot of the dome. The glorious

view of that paradise, the vale of the Arno, shut in on all sides by

mountains, some bare and desolate, some covered with villas, gardens,

and groves, lay in soft, hazy light, with the shadows of a few light

clouds moving slowly across it. They next took us to a gallery on the

inside of the dome, where we first saw the immensity of its structure.

Only from a distant view, or in ascending it, can one really measure its

grandeur. The frescoes, which from below appear the size of life, are

found to be rough and monstrous daubs; each figure being nearly as many

fathoms in length as a man is feet. Continuing our ascent, we mounted

between the inside and outside shells of the dome. It was indeed a bold

idea for Brunelleschi to raise such a mass in air. The dome of Saint

Peter's, which is scarcely as large, was not made until a century after,

and this was, therefore, the first attempt at raising one on so grand a

scale. It seems still as solid as if just built.

There was a small door in one of the projections of the lantern, which

the sacristan told us to enter and ascend still higher. Supposing there

was a fine view to be gained, two priests, who had just come up, entered

it; the German followed, and I after him. After crawling in at the low

door, we found ourselves in a hollow pillar, little wider than our

bodies. Looking up, I saw the German's legs just above my head, while

the other two were above him, ascending by means of little iron bars

fastened in the marble. The priests were very much amused, and the

German said:--"This is the first time I ever learned chimney-sweeping!"

We emerged at length into a hollow cone, hot and dark, with a rickety

ladder going up somewhere; we could not see where. The old priest, not

wishing to trust himself to it, sent his younger brother up, and we

shouted after him:--"What kind of a view have you?" He climbed up till

the cone got so narrow he could go no further, and answered back in the

darkness:--"I see nothing at all!" Shortly after he came down, covered

with dust and cobwebs, and we all descended the chimney quicker than we

went up. The old priest considered it a good joke, and laughed till his

fat sides shook. We asked the sacristan why he sent us up, and he

answered:--"To see _the construction of the Church_!"

I attended service in the Cathedral one dark, rainy morning, and was

never before so deeply impressed with the majesty and grandeur of the

mighty edifice. The thick, cloudy atmosphere darkened still more the

light which came through the stained windows, and a solemn twilight

reigned in the long aisles. The mighty dome sprang far aloft, as if it

enclosed a part of heaven, for the light that struggled through the

windows around its base, lay in broad bars on the blue, hazy air. I

would not have been surprised at seeing a cloud float along within it.

The lofty burst of the organ, that seemed like the pantings of a

monster, boomed echoing away through dome and nave, with a chiming,

metallic vibration, that shook the massive pillars which it would defy

an earthquake to rend. All was wrapped in dusky obscurity, except where,

in the side-chapels, crowns of tapers were burning around the images.

One knows not which most to admire, the genius which could conceive, or

the perseverance which could accomplish such a work, On one side of the

square, the colossal statue of the architect, glorious old Brunelleschi,

is most appropriately placed, looking up with pride at his performance.

The sunshine and genial airs of Italy have gone, leaving instead a cold,

gloomy sky and chilling winds. The autumnal season has fairly commenced,

and I suppose I must bid adieu to the brightness which made me in love

with the land. The change has been no less sudden than unpleasant, and

if, as they say, it will continue all winter with little variation, I

shall have to seek a clearer climate. In the cold of these European

winters, there is, as I observed last year in Germany, a dull, damp

chill, quite different from the bracing, exhilarating frosts of America.

It stagnates the vital principle and leaves the limbs dull and heavy,

with a lifeless feeling which can scarcely be overcome by vigorous

action. At least, such has been my experience.

We lately made an excursion to Pratolino, on the Appenines, to see the

vintage and the celebrated colossus, by John of Bologna. Leaving

Florence in the morning, with a cool, fresh wind blowing down from the

mountains, we began ascending by the road to Bologna. We passed Fiesole

with its tower and acropolis on the right, ascending slowly, with the

bold peak of one of the loftiest Appenines on our left. The abundant

fruit of the olive was beginning to turn brown, and the grapes were all

gathered in from the vineyards, but we learned from a peasant boy that

the vintage was not finished at Pratolino.

We finally arrived at an avenue shaded with sycamores, leading to the

royal park. The vintagers were busy in the fields around, unloading the

vines of their purple tribute, and many a laugh and jest among the merry

peasants enlivened the toil. We assisted them in disposing of some fine

clusters, and then sought the "Colossus of the Appenines." He stands

above a little lake, at the head of a long mountain-slope, broken with

clumps of magnificent trees. This remarkable figure, the work of John of

Bologna, impresses one like a relic of the Titans. He is represented as

half-kneeling, supporting himself with one hand, while the other is

pressed upon the head of a dolphin, from which a little stream falls

into the lake. The height of the figure when erect, would amount to more

than sixty feet! We measured one of the feet, which is a single piece of

rock, about eight feet long; from the ground to the top of one knee is

nearly twenty feet. The limbs are formed of pieces of stone, joined

together, and the body of stone and brick. His rough hair and eyebrows,

and the beard, which reached nearly to the ground, are formed of

stalactites, taken from caves, and fastened together in a dripping and

crusted mass. These hung also from his limbs and body, and gave him the

appearance of Winter in his mail of icicles. By climbing up the rocks at

his back, we entered his body, which contains a small-sized room; it was

even possible to ascend through his neck and look out at his ear! The

face is in keeping with the figure--stern and grand, and the architect

(one can hardly say sculptor) has given to it the majestic air and

sublimity of the Appenines. But who can build up _an image of the Alp_?

We visited the factory on the estate, where wine and oil are made. The

men had just brought in a cart load of large wooden vessels, filled with

grapes, which they were mashing with heavy wooden pestles. When the

grapes were pretty well reduced to pulp and juice, they emptied them

into an enormous tub, which they told us would be covered air-tight, and

left for three or four weeks, after which the wine would be drawn off at

the bottom. They showed us also a great stone mill for grinding olives;

this estate of the Grand Duke produces five hundred barrels of wine and

a hundred and fifty of oil, every year. The former article is the

universal beverage of the laboring classes in Italy, or I might say of

all classes; it is, however, the pure blood of the grape, and although

used in such quantities, one sees little drunkenness--far less than in

our own land.

Tuscany enjoys at present a more liberal government than any other part

of Italy, and the people are, in many respects, prosperous and happy.

The Grand Duke, although enjoying almost absolute privileges, is

disposed to encourage every measure which may promote the welfare of his

subjects. The people are, indeed, very heavily taxed, but this is less

severely felt by them, than it would be by the inhabitants of colder

climes. The soil produces with little labor all that is necessary for

their support; though kept constantly in a state of comparative poverty,

they appear satisfied with their lot, and rarely look further than the

necessities of the present. In love with the delightful climate, they

cherish their country, fallen as she is, and are rarely induced to leave

her. Even the wealthier classes of the Italians travel very little; they

can learn the manners and habits of foreigners nearly as well in their

own country as elsewhere, and they prefer their own hills of olive and

vine to the icy grandeur of the Alps or the rich and garden-like beauty

of England.

But, although this sweet climate, with its wealth of sunlight and balmy

airs, may enchant the traveler for awhile and make him wish at times

that his whole life might be spent amid such scenes, it exercises a most

enervating influence on those who are born to its enjoyment. It relaxes

mental and physical energy, and disposes body and mind to dreamy

inactivity. The Italians, as a race, are indolent and effeminate. Of the

moral dignity of man they have little conception. Those classes who are

engaged in active occupation seem even destitute of common honesty,

practising all kinds of deceits in the most open manner and apparently

without the least shame. The state of morals is lower than in any other

country of Europe; what little virtue exists is found among the

peasants. Many of the most sacred obligations of society are universally

violated, and as a natural consequence, the people are almost entire

strangers to that domestic happiness, which constitutes the true

enjoyment of life.

This dark shadow in the moral atmosphere of Italy hangs like a curse on

her beautiful soil, weakening the sympathies of citizens of freer lands

with her fallen condition. I often feel vividly the sentiment which

Percival puts into the mouth of a Greek in slavery:

"The spring may here with autumn twine

And both combined may rule the year,

And fresh-blown flowers and racy wine

In frosted clusters still be near--

Dearer the wild and snowy hills

Where hale and ruddy Freedom smiles."

No people can ever become truly great or free, who are not virtuous. If

the soul aspires for liberty--pure and perfect liberty--it also aspires

for everything that is noble in Truth, everything that is holy in

Virtue. It is greatly to be feared that all those nervous and impatient

efforts which have been made and are still being made by the Italian

people to better their condition, will be of little avail, until they

set up a better standard of principle and make their private actions

more conformable with their ideas of political independence.