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PENCILLINGS BY THE WAY:
WRITTEN
DURING SOME YEARS OF RESIDENCE AND TRAVEL
IN
EUROPE.
BY
N. PARKER WILLIS.
NEW YORK:
CHARLES SCRIBNER, 124 GRAND STREET.
MDCCCLX.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by
CHARLES SCRIBNER,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United
States for the Southern District of New York.
PREFACE.
A word or two of necessary explanation, dear reader.
I had resided on the Continent for several years, and had been a year
in England, without being suspected, I believe, in the societies in
which I lived, of any habit of authorship. No production of mine had
ever crossed the water, and my Letters to the New-York Mirror, were
(for this long period, and I presumed would be forever), as far as
European readers were concerned, an unimportant and easy secret.
Within a few months of returning to this country, the Quarterly Review
came out with a severe criticism on the Pencillings by the Way,
published in the New-York Mirror. A London publisher immediately
procured a broken set of this paper from an American resident there,
and called on me with an offer of L300 for an immediate edition of
what he had--rather less than one half of the Letters in this present
volume. This chanced on the day before my marriage, and I left
immediately for Paris--a literary friend most kindly undertaking to
look over the proofs, and suppress what might annoy any one then
living in London. The book was printed in three volumes, at about $7
per copy, and in this expensive shape three editions were sold by the
original publisher. After his death a duodecimo edition was put forth,
very beautifully illustrated; and this has been followed by a fifth
edition lately published, with new embellishments, by Mr. Virtue. The
only American edition (long ago out of print) was a literal copy of
this imperfect and curtailed book.
In the present complete edition, the Letters objected to by the
Quarterly, are, like the rest, re-published _as originally written_.
The offending portions must be at any rate, harmless, after being
circulated extensively in this country in the Mirror, and prominently
quoted from the Mirror in the Quarterly--and this being true, I have
felt that I could gratify the wish to be put _fairly on trial_ for
these alleged offences--to have a comparison instituted between my
sins, in this respect, and Hamilton's, Muskau's, Von Raumer's,
Marryat's and Lockhart's--and so, to put a definite value and meaning
upon the constant and vague allusions to these iniquities, with which
the critiques of my contemporaries abound. I may state as a fact, that
the only instance in which a quotation by me from the conversation of
distinguished men gave the least offence in England, was the one
remark made by Moore the poet at a dinner party, on the subject of
O'Connell. It would have been harmless, as it was designed to be, but
for the unexpected celebrity of my Pencillings; yet with all my heart
I wished it unwritten.
I wish to put on record in this edition (and you need not be at the
trouble of perusing them unless you please, dear reader!) an extract
or two from the London prefaces to "Pencillings," and parts of two
articles written apropos of the book's offences.
The following is from the Preface to the first London edition:--
"The extracts from these Letters which have appeared in the public
prints, have drawn upon me much severe censure. Admitting its justice
in part, perhaps I may shield myself from its remaining excess by a
slight explanation. During several years' residence in Continental and
Eastern countries, I have had opportunities (as _attache_ to a foreign
Legation), of seeing phases of society and manners not usually
described in books of travel. Having been the Editor, before leaving
the United States, of a monthly Review, I found it both profitable and
agreeable, to continue my interest in the periodical in which that
Review was merged at my departure, by a miscellaneous correspondence.
Foreign courts, distinguished men, royal entertainments, &c.
&c.,--matters which were likely to interest American readers more
particularly--have been in turn my themes. The distance of America
from these countries, and the ephemeral nature and usual obscurity of
periodical correspondence, were a sufficient warrant to my mind, that
the descriptions would die where they first saw the light, and fulfil
only the trifling destiny for which they were intended. I indulged
myself, therefore, in a freedom of detail and topic which is usual
only in posthumous memoirs--expecting as soon that they would be read
in the countries and by the persons described, as the biographer of
Byron and Sheridan, that these fruitful and unconscious themes would
rise from the dead to read their own interesting memoirs! And such a
resurrection would hardly be a more disagreeable surprise to that
eminent biographer, than was the sudden appearance to me of my own
unambitious Letters in the Quarterly Review.
"The reader will see (for every Letter containing the least personal
detail has been most industriously republished in the English papers)
that I have in some slight measure corrected these Pencillings by the
Way. They were literally what they were styled--notes written on the
road, and despatched without a second perusal; and it would be
extraordinary if, between the liberty I felt with my material, and the
haste in which I scribbled, some egregious errors in judgment and
taste had not crept in unawares. The Quarterly has made a long arm
over the water to refresh my memory on this point. There _are_
passages I would not re-write, and some remarks on individuals which I
would recall at some cost, and would not willingly see repeated in
these volumes. Having conceded thus much, however, I may express my
surprise that this particular sin should have been visited upon _me_,
at a distance of three thousand miles, when the reviewer's own
literary fame rests on the more aggravated instance of a book of
personalities, published under the very noses of the persons
described. Those of my Letters which date from England were written
within three or four months of my first arrival in this country.
Fortunate in my introductions, almost embarrassed with kindness, and,
from advantages of comparison, gained by long travel, qualified to
appreciate keenly the delights of English society, I was little
disposed to find fault. Everything pleased me. Yet in one
instance--one single instance--I indulged myself in stricture upon
individual character, and I _repeat it in this work_, sure that there
will be but one person in the world of letters who will not read it
with approbation--the editor of the _Quarterly_ himself. It was
expressed at the time with no personal feeling, for I had never seen
the individual concerned, and my name had probably never reached his
ears. I but repeated what I had said a thousand times, and never
without an indignant echo to its truth--an opinion formed from the
most dispassionate perusal of his writings--that the editor of that
Review was the most unprincipled critic of his age. Aside from its
flagrant literary injustice, we owe to the _Quarterly_, it is well
known, every spark of ill-feeling that has been kept alive between
England and America for the last twenty years. The sneers, the
opprobrious epithets of this bravo in literature, have been received
in a country where the machinery of reviewing was not understood, as
the voice of the English people, and an animosity for which there was
no other reason, has been thus periodically fed and exasperated. I
conceive it to be my duty as a literary man--I _know_ it is my duty as
an American--to lose no opportunity of setting my heel on the head of
this reptile of criticism."
The following is part of an article, written by myself, on the subject
of personalities, for a periodical in New York:
"There is no question, I believe, that pictures of living society,
where society is in very high perfection, and of living persons, where
they are 'persons of mark,' are both interesting to ourselves, and
valuable to posterity. What would we not give for a description of a
dinner with Shakspeare and Ben Jonson--of a dance with the Maids of
Queen Elizabeth--of a chat with Milton in a morning call? We should
say the man was a churl, who, when he had the power, should have
refused to 'leave the world a copy' of such precious hours. Posterity
will decide who are the great of our time--but they are at least
_among_ those I have heard talk, and have described and quoted, and
who would read without interest, a hundred years hence, a character of
the second Virgin Queen, caught as it was uttered in a ball-room of
her time? or a description of her loveliest Maid of Honor, by one who
had stood opposite her in a dance, and wrote it before he slept? or a
conversation with Moore or Bulwer?--when the Queen and her fairest
maid, and Moore and Bulwer have had their splendid funerals, and are
dust, like Elizabeth and Shakspeare?
"The harm, if harm there be in such sketches, is in the spirit in
which they are done. If they are ill-natured or untrue, or if the
author says aught to injure the feelings of those who have admitted
him to their confidence or hospitality, he is to blame, and it is
easy, since he publishes while his subjects are living, to correct his
misrepresentations, and to visit upon him his infidelities of
friendship.
"But (while I think of it), perhaps some fault-finder will be pleased
to tell me, why this is so much deeper a sin in _me_ than in all other
travellers. Has Basil Hall any hesitation in describing a dinner party
in the United States, and recording the conversation at table? Does
Miss Martineau stick at publishing the portrait of a distinguished
American, and faithfully recording all he says in a confidential
_tete-a-tete_? Have Captain Hamilton and Prince Pukler, Von Raumer and
Captain Marryat, any scruples whatever about putting down anything
they hear that is worth the trouble, or of describing any scene,
private or public, which would tell in their book, or illustrate a
national peculiarity? What would their books be without this class of
subjects? What would any book of travels be, leaving out everybody the
author saw, and all he heard? Not that I justify all these authors
have done in this way, for I honestly think they have stepped over the
line, which I have but trod close upon."
Surely it is the _abuse_, and not the _use_ of information thus
acquired, that makes the offence.
The most formal, unqualified, and severe condemnation recorded against
my Pencillings, however, is that of the renowned Editor of the
Quarterly, and to show the public the immaculate purity of the forge
where this long-echoed thunder is manufactured, I will quote a passage
or two from a book of the same description, by the Editor of the
Quarterly himself. 'Peter's Letters to his Kinsfolk,' by Mr. Lockhart,
are three volumes exclusively filled with portraits of persons, living
at the time it was written in Scotland, their conversation with the
author, their manners, their private histories, etc., etc. In one of
the letters upon the 'Society of Edinburgh,' is the following delicate
passage:--
"'Even you, my dear Lady Johnes, are a perfect history in every branch
of knowledge. I remember, only the last time I saw you, you were
praising with all your might the legs of Col. B----, those flimsy,
worthless things that look as if they were bandaged with linen rollers
from the heel to the knee. You may say what you will, but I still
assert, and I will prove it if you please by pen and pencil, that,
with one pair of exceptions, the best legs in Cardigan are Mrs.
P----'s. As for Miss J---- D----'s, I think they are frightful.'...
"Two pages farther on he says:--
"'As for myself, I assure you that ever since I spent a week at Lady
L----'s and saw those great fat girls of hers, waltzing every night
with that odious De B----, I can not endure the very name of the
thing.'
"I quote from the second edition of these letters, by which it appears
that even these are _moderated_ passages. A note to the first of the
above quotations runs as follows:
"'A great part of this letter is omitted in the Second Edition in
consequence of the displeasure its publication gave to certain ladies
in Cardiganshire. As for the gentleman who chose to take what I said
of him in so much dudgeon, he will observe, that I have allowed what I
said to remain _in statu quo_, which I certainly should not have
done, had he expressed his resentment in a proper manner.'
"So well are these unfortunate persons' names known by those who read
the book in England, that in the copy which I have from a circulating
library, they are all filled out in pencil. And I would here beg the
reader to remark that these are private individuals, compelled by no
literary or official distinction to come out from their privacy and
figure in print, and in this, if not in the _taste_ and _quality_ of
my descriptions, I claim a fairer escutcheon than my self-elected
judge--for where is a person's name recorded in my letters who is not
either by tenure of public office, or literary, or political
distinction, a theme of daily newspaper comment, and of course fair
game for the traveller.
"I must give one more extract from Mr. Lockhart's book, an account of
a dinner with a private merchant of Glasgow.
"'I should have told you before, that I had another visiter early in
the morning, besides Mr. H. This was a Mr. P----, a respectable
merchant of the place, also an acquaintance of my friend W----. He
came before H----, and after professing himself very sorry that his
avocations would not permit him to devote his forenoon to my service,
he made me promise to dine with him.... My friend soon joined me, and
observing from the appearance of my countenance that I was
contemplating the scene with some disgust,' (the Glasgow Exchange) 'My
good fellow,' said he, 'you are just like every other well-educated
stranger that comes into this town; you can not endure the first
sight of us mercantile whelps. Do not, however, be alarmed; I will not
introduce you to any of these cattle at dinner. No, sir! You must know
that there are a few men of refinement and polite information in this
city. I have warned two or three of these _rarae aves_, and depend upon
it, you shall have a very snug _day's work_.' So saying he took my
arm, and observing that five was _just on the chap_, hurried me
through several streets and lanes till we arrived in the ----, where
his house is situated. His wife was, I perceived, quite the fine lady,
and, withal, a little of the blue stocking. Hearing that I had just
come from Edinburgh, she remarked that Glasgow would be seen to much
more disadvantage after that elegant city. 'Indeed,' said she, 'a
person of taste, must, of course, find many disagreeables connected
with a residence in such a town as this; but Mr. P----'s business
renders the thing necessary for the present, and one can not make a
silk purse of a sow's ear--he, he, he!' Another lady of the company,
carried this affectation still farther; she pretended to be quite
ignorant of Glasgow and its inhabitants, although she had lived among
them the greater part of her life, and, by the by, seemed no chicken.
I was afterward told by my friend Mr. H----, that this damsel had in
reality sojourned a winter or two in Edinburgh, in the capacity of
_lick-spittle_ or _toad-eater_ to a lady of quality, to whom she had
rendered herself amusing by a malicious tongue; and that during this
short absence, she had embraced the opportunity of utterly forgetting
everything about the West country.
"'The dinner was excellent, although calculated apparently for forty
people rather than sixteen, which last number sat down. While the
ladies remained in the room, there was such a noise and racket of
coarse mirth, ill restrained by a few airs of sickly sentiment on the
part of the hostess, that I really could neither attend to the wine
nor the dessert; but after a little time a very broad hint from a fat
Falstaff, near the foot of the table, apparently quite a privileged
character, thank Heaven! sent the ladies out of the room. The moment
after which blessed consummation, the butler and footman entered, as
if by instinct, the one with a huge punch bowl, _the other with,
&c._'"
I do thank Heaven that there is no parallel in my own letters to
either of these three extracts. It is a thing of course that there is
not. They are violations of hospitality, social confidence, and
delicacy, of which even my abusers will allow me incapable. Yet this
man accuses me of all these things, and so runs criticism!
And to this I add (to conclude this long Preface) some extracts from a
careful review of the work in the North American:--
"'Pencillings by the Way,' is a very spirited book. The letters out of
which it is constructed, were written originally for the New-York
'Mirror,' and were not intended for distinct publication. From this
circumstance, the author indulged in a freedom of personal detail,
which we must say is wholly unjustifiable, and we have no wish to
defend it. This book does not pretend to contain any profound
observations or discussions on national character, political
condition, literature, or even art. It would be obviously impossible
to carry any one of these topics thoroughly out, without spending
vastly more time and labor upon it than a rambling poet is likely to
have the inclination to do. In fact, there are very few men, who are
qualified, by the nature of their previous studies, to do this with
any degree of edification to their readers. But a man of general
intellectual culture, especially if he have the poetical imagination
superadded, may give us rapid sketches of other countries, which will
both entertain and instruct us. Now this book is precisely such a one
as we have here indicated. The author travelled through Europe,
mingling largely in society, and visited whatever scenes were
interesting to him as an American, a scholar, and a poet. The
impressions which these scenes made upon his mind, are described in
these volumes; and we must say, we have rarely fallen in with a book
of a more sprightly character, a more elegant and graceful style, and
full of more lively descriptions. The delineations of manners are
executed with great tact; and the shifting pictures of natural scenery
pass before us as we read, exciting a never-ceasing interest. As to
the personalities which have excited the wrath of British critics, we
have, as we said before, no wish to defend them; but a few words upon
the tone, temper, and motives, of those gentlemen, in their dealing
with our author, will not, perhaps, be considered inappropriate.
"It is a notorious fact, that British criticism, for many years past,
has been, to a great extent, free from all the restraints of a regard
to literary truth. Assuming the political creed of an author, it would
be a very easy thing to predict the sort of criticism his writings
would meet with, in any or all of the leading periodicals of the
kingdom. This tendency has been carried so far, that even discussions
of points in ancient classical literature have been shaped and colored
by it. Thus, Aristophanes' comedies are turned against modern
democracy, and Pindar, the Theban Eagle, has been unceremoniously
classed with British Tories, by the London Quarterly. Instead of
inquiring 'What is the author's object? How far has he accomplished
it? How far is that object worthy of approbation?'--three questions
that are essential to all just criticism; the questions put by English
Reviewers are substantially 'What party does he belong to? Is he a
Whig, Tory, Radical, or is he an American?' And the sentence in such
cases depends on the answer to them. Even where British criticism is
favorable to an American author, its tone is likely to be haughty and
insulting; like the language of a condescending city gentleman toward
some country cousin, whom he is kind enough to honor with his
patronage.
"Now, to critics of this sort, Mr. Willis was a tempting mark. No one
can for a moment believe that the London Quarterly, Frazer's Magazine,
and Captain Marryat's monthly, are honest in the language they hold
toward Mr. Willis. Motives, wide enough from a love of truth, guided
the conduct of these journals. The editor of the London Quarterly, it
is well known, is the author of 'Peter's Letters to his Kinsfolk,' a
work full of personalities, ten times more objectionable than
anything to be found in the 'Pencillings.' Yet this same editor did
not blush to write and print a long and most abusive tirade upon the
American traveller, for doing what he had himself done to a much
greater and more reprehensible extent; and, to cap the climax of
inconsistency, republished in his journal the very personalities,
names and all, which had so shocked his delicate sensibilities. It is
much more likely that a disrespectful notice of the London Quarterly
and its editor, in these 'Pencillings,' was the source from which this
bitterness flowed, than that any sense of literary justice dictated
the harsh review. Another furious attack on Mr. Willis's book appeared
in the monthly journal, under the editorial management of Captain
Marryat, the author of a series of very popular sea novels. Whoever
was the author of that article, ought to be held disgraced in the
opinions of all honorable men. It is the most extraordinary tissue of
insolence and coarseness, with one exception, that we have ever seen,
in any periodical which pretended to respectability of literary
character. It carries its grossness to the intolerable length of
attacking the private character of Mr. Willis, and throwing out
foolish sneers about his birth and parentage. It is this article which
led to the well-known correspondence, between the American Poet and
the British Captain, ending in a hostile meeting. It is to be
regretted that Mr. Willis should so far forget the principles of his
New England education, as to participate in a duel. We regard the
practice with horror; we believe it not only wicked, but absurd. We
can not possibly see how, Mr. Willis's tarnished fame could be
brightened by the superfluous work of putting an additional quantity
of lead into the gallant captain. But there is, perhaps, no disputing
about tastes; and, bad as we think the whole affair was, no candid man
can read the correspondence without feeling that Mr. Willis's part of
it, is infinitely superior to the captain's, in style, sense, dignity
of feeling, and manly honor.
"But, to return to the work from which we have been partially drawn
aside. Its merits in point of style are unquestionable. It is written
in a simple, vigorous, and highly descriptive form of English, and
rivets the reader's attention throughout. There are passages in it of
graphic eloquence, which it would be difficult to surpass from the
writings of any other tourist, whatever. The topics our author
selects, are, as has been already stated, not those which require long
and careful study to appreciate and discuss; they are such as the
poetic eye would naturally dwell upon, and a poetic hand rapidly
delineate, in a cursory survey of foreign lands. Occasionally, we
think, Mr. Willis enters too minutely into the details of the
horrible. Some of his descriptions of the cholera, and the pictures he
gives us of the catacombs of the dead, are ghastly. But the manners of
society he draws with admirable tact; and personal peculiarities of
distinguished men, he renders with a most life-like vivacity. Many of
his descriptions of natural scenery are more like pictures, than
sketches in words. The description of the Bay of Naples will occur as
a good example.
"It would be impossible to point out, with any degree of
particularity, the many passages in this book whose beauty deserves
attention. But it may be remarked in general, that the greater part of
the first volume is not so fresh and various, and animated, as the
second. This we suppose arises partly from the fact that France and
Italy have long been beaten ground.
"The last part of the book is a statement of the author's observations
upon English life and society; and it is this portion, which the
English critics affect to be so deeply offended with. The most
objectionable passage in this is the account of a dinner at Lady
Blessington's. Unquestionably Mr. Moore's remarks about Mr. O'Connell
ought not to have been reported, considering the time when, and the
place where, they were uttered; though they contain nothing new about
the great Agitator, the secrets disclosed being well known to some
millions of people who interest themselves in British politics, and
read the British newspapers. We close our remarks on this work by
referring our readers to a capital scene on board a Scotch steamboat,
and a breakfast at Professor Wilson's, the famous editor of Blackwood,
both in the second volume, which we regret our inability to quote."
"Every impartial reader must confess, that for so young a man, Mr.
Willis has done much to promote the reputation of American literature.
His position at present is surrounded with every incentive to a noble
ambition. With youth and health to sustain him under labor; with much
knowledge of the world acquired by travel and observation, to draw
upon; with a mature style, and a hand practised in various forms of
composition, Mr. Willis's genius ought to take a wider and higher
range than it has ever done before. We trust we shall meet him again,
ere long, in the paths of literature; and we trust that he will take
it kindly, if we express the hope, that he will lay aside those
tendencies to exaggeration, and to an unhealthy tone of sentiment,
which mar the beauty of some of his otherwise most agreeable books."
CONTENTS.
PAGE
LETTER I.
Getting under Way--The Gulf Stream--Aspect of the Ocean--
Formation of a Wave--Sea Gems--The Second Mate, 11
LETTER II.
A Dog at Sea--Dining, with a High Sea--Sea Birds--Tandem of
Whales--Speaking a Man-of-War--Havre, 18
LETTER III.
Havre--French Bed-room--The Cooking--Chance Impressions, 25
LETTER IV.
Pleasant Companion--Normandy--Rouen--Eden of Cultivation--St.
Denis--Entrance to Paris--Lodgings--Walk of Discovery--Palais
Royal, 30
LETTER V.
Gallery of the Louvre--Greenough--Feeling as a Foreigner--
Solitude in the Louvre--Louis Philippe--The Poles--Napoleon
II, 40
LETTER VI.
Taglioni--French Acting--French Applause--Leontine Fay, 48
LETTER VII.
Lelewel--Pere La Chaise--Pauvre Marie--Versailles--The
Trianons--Josephine's Boudoir--Time and Money at Paris--Wives
and Fuel--One Price Shops, 53
LETTER VIII.
Mr. Cooper--Mr. Greenough--Fighting Animals--The Dog Pit--
Fighting Donkey--Sporting Englishmen, 63
LETTER IX.
Malibran--Paris at a Late Hour--Glass Gallery--Cloud and
Sunshine--General Romarino--Parisian Students--Tumult Ended, 70
LETTER X.
French Children--Royal Equipages--French Driving--City
Riding--Parisian Picturesque--Beggar's Deception--Genteel
Beggars, 78
LETTER XI.
Madame Mars--Franklin's House--Ball for the Poor--Theatrical
Splendor--Louis Philippe--Duke of Orleans--Young Queen of
Portugal--Don Pedro--Close of the Ball, 86
LETTER XII.
Champs Elysees--Louis Philippe--Literary Dinner--Bowring and
others--The Poles--Dr. Howe's Mission, 96
LETTER XIII.
Club Gambling House--Frascati's--Female Gambler, 103
LETTER XIV.
Tuileries--Men of Mark--Cooper and Morse--Contradictions--
Dinner Hour--How to Dine Well, 107
LETTER XV.
The Emperor--Turenne--Lady Officer--Gambling Quarrel--Curious
Antagonists--Influence of Paris, 114
LETTER XVI.
Cholera Gaieties--Cholera Patient--Morning in Paris--Cholera
Hospital--New Patient--Physician's Indifference--Punch
Remedy--Dead Room--Non-Contagion, 121
LETTER XVII.
Unexpected Challenge--Court Presentation--Louis Philippe--
Royal Family at Tea--Countess Guiccioli--Mardi Gras--Bal
Costume--Public Masks--Lady Cavalier--Ball at the Palace--
Duke of Orleans--Dr. Bowring--Celebrated Men--Glass Verandah, 131
LETTER XVIII.
Cholera--Social Tea Party--Recipe for Caution--Baths and
Happiness, 146
LETTER XIX.
Bois de Boulogne--Guiccioli--Sismondi--Cooper, 151
LETTER XX.
Friend of Lady Morgan--Dr. Spurzheim--Cast-Taking--De
Potter--David the Sculptor, 156
LETTER XXI.
Attractions of Paris--Mr. Cooper--Mr. Rives, 162
LETTER XXII.
Chalons--Sens--Auxerre--St. Bris--Three Views In One--
Chalons, 166
LETTER XXIII.
Boat on the Saone--Scenery above Lyons--Lyons--Churches at
Lyons--Monastery, 173
LETTER XXIV.
Travelling Party--Breakfast on the Road--Localities of
Antiquity--Picturesque Chateau--French Patois, 179
LETTER XXV.
Arles--The Cathedral--Marseilles--Parting with Companions--
Pass of Ollioules--Toulon--Antibes--Coast of Mediterranean--
Forced to Return--Lazaretto--Absurd Hindrances--Fear of
Contagion--Sleep out of Doors--Lazaretto Occupations--
Delicious Sunday--New Arrivals--Companions--End of
Quarantine, 185
LETTER XXVI.
Nice--Funeral of an Arch-Duchess--Nice to Genoa--Views--
Entrance to Genoa--Genoa, 204
LETTER XXVII.
The Venus--The Fornarina--A Coquette and the Arts--A
Festa--Ascension Day--The Cascine--Madame Catalani, 211
LETTER XXVIII.
Titian's Bella--The Grand-Duchess--An Improvisatrice--Living
in Florence--Lodgings at Florence--Expense of Living, 219
LETTER XXIX.
Companions--Scenery of Romagna--Wives--Bologna, 225
LETTER XXX.
Gallery at Bologna--A Guido--Churches--Confession--Chapel--
Festa--Agreeable Manners, 231
LETTER XXXI.
Regatta--Venetian Sunset--Privileged Admission--Guillotining--
Bridge of Sighs--San Marc--The Nobleman Beggar, 238
LETTER XXXII.
An Evening in Venice--The Streets of Venice--The Rialto--
Sunset from San Marc, 246
LETTER XXXIII.
Titian's Pictures--Last Day in Venice, 251
LETTER XXXIV.
Italian Civility--Juliet's Tomb--The Palace of the
Capuletti--A Dinner, 254
LETTER XXXV.
Good and Ill-Breeding--Bridal Party, 259
LETTER XXXVI.
Manner of Living--Originals of Novels--Ill, 262
LETTER XXXVII.
The Duke of Lucca--Modena--The Palace--Bologna--Venice
Again--Its Splendor, 266
LETTER XXXVIII.
Armenian Island--Agreeable Monk--Insane Hospital--Insane
Patients--The Lagune--State Galley--Instruments of Torture, 273
LETTER XXXIX.
Venice at Evening--The Patriotism of a Noble--Church of St.
Antony--Petrarch's Cottage and Tomb--Petrarch's Room, 281
LETTER XL.
Cultivation of the Fields--The Vintage--Malibran in Gazza
Ladra--Gallery of the Lambaccari, 287
LETTER XLI.
Sienna--Catholic Devotion--Acquapendente--Lake Bolsena--
Vintage Festa--Monte Cimino--First Sight of Rome--Baccano, 292
LETTER XLII.
St. Peter's--The Apollo Belvidere--Raphael's
Transfiguration--The Pantheon--The Forum, 301
LETTER XLIII.
The Falls of Tivoli--Villa of Adrian--A Ramble by Moonlight--
The Cloaca Maxima, 307
LETTER XLIV.
The Last Judgment--The Music--Gregory the Sixteenth, 312
LETTER XLV.
Byron's Statue--The Borghese Palace--Society of Rome, 316
LETTER XLVI.
The Climate--Falls of Terni--The Clitumnus--A Lesson not
Lost--Thrasimene--Florence--Florentine Women--Need of an
Ambassador, 320
LETTER XLVII.
Chat in the Ante-Chamber--Love in High Life--Ball at the
Palazzo Pitti--The Grand Duke--An Italian Beauty--An English
Beauty, 329
LETTER XLVIII.
Oxen of Italy--Vallombrosa--A Convent Dinner--Vespers at
Vallombrosa--The Monk's Estimate of Women--Milton's Room--
Florence, 336
LETTER XLIX.
The House of Michael Angelo--Fiesole--San Miniato--Christmas
Eve--Amusing Scenes in Church, 344
LETTER L.
Penitential Processions--The Carlist Refugees--The Miracle of
Rain--The Miraculous Picture--Giovanni Di Bologna--Andrea Del
Sarto, 350
LETTER LI.
The Entertainments of Florence--A Peasant Beauty--The Morality
of Society--The Italian Cavalier--The Features of Society, 357
LETTER LII.
Artists and the French Academy--Beautiful Scenery--Sacred
Woods of Bolsena, 363
LETTER LIII.
The Virtuoso of Viterbo--Robberies--Rome as Fancied--Rome as
Found, 367
LETTER LIV.
The Fountain of Egeria--The Pontine Marshes--Mola--The
Falernian Hills--The Doctor of St. Agatha--The Queen of
Naples, 372
LETTER LV.
St. Peter's--The Fountains--The Obelisk--The Forum--Its
Memories--The Cenci--Claude's Pictures--Fancies Realized--The
Last of the Dorias--A Picture by Leonardo Da Vinci--Palace of
the Cesars--An Hour on the Palatine, 379
LETTER LVI.
Roman Eyes versus Feet--Vespers at Santa Trinita--Roman
Baths--Baths of Titus--Shelley's Haunt, 390
LETTER LVII.
The Tomb of the Scipios--The Early Christians--The Tomb of
Metella--Fountain of Egeria--Changed Aspect of Rome, 396
LETTER LVIII.
Palm Sunday--A Crowd--The Miserere--A Judas--The Washing of
Feet--The Dinner, 402
LETTER LIX.
The Protestant Cemetery--Shelley's Grave--Beauty of the
Place--Keats--Dr. Bell, 409
LETTER LX.
Audience with the Pope--Humility and Pride in Contrast--The
Miserere at St. Peter's--Italian Moonlight--Dancing at the
Coliseum, 415
LETTER LXI.
Easter Sunday--The Pope's Blessing--Illumination of St.
Peter's--Florentine Sociability--A Marriage of Convenience, 421
LETTER LXII.
The Correggio--Austrians in Italy--The Cathedral at Milan--
Guercino's Hagar--Milanese Coffee, 427
LETTER LXIII.
Still in Italy--Isola Bella--Ascent of the Simplon--Farewell
to Italy--An American--Descent of the Simplon, 433
LETTER LXIV.
The Cretins--The Goitre--First Sight of Lake Leman--Mont
Blanc--June in Geneva--The Winkelreid, 440
LETTER LXV.
American and Genevese Steamers--Lilies of the Valley--A
Frenchman's Apology--Genevese Women--Voltaire's Room, 446
LETTER LXVI.
The Jura--Arrival at Morez--Lost my Temper--National
Characteristics--Politeness versus Comfort, 452
LETTER LXVII.
Lafayette's Funeral--Crossing the Channel--An English Inn--
Mail Coaches and Horses--A Gentleman Driver--A Subject for
Madame Trollope, 458
LETTER LXVIII.
First Dinner in London--The King's Birth-day--A Handsome
Street--Introduction to Lady Blessington--A Chat about
Bulwer--The D'Israeli's--Contrast of Criticism--Countess
Guiccioli--Lady Blessington--An Apology, 465
LETTER LXIX.
An Evening at Lady Blessington's--Fonblanc--Tribute to American
Authors--A Sketch of Bulwer--Bulwer's Conversation--An Author
his own Critic, 476
LETTER LXX.
Ascot Races--Handsome Men--The Princess Victoria--Charles
Lamb--Mary Lamb--Lamb's Conversation--The Breakfast at Fault, 483
LETTER LXXI.
A Dinner at Lady Blessington's--D'Israeli, the Younger--The
Author of Vathek--Mr. Beckford's Whims--Irish Patriotism--The
Effect of Eloquence, 491
LETTER LXXII.
The Opera House--What Books will pay for--English Beauty--A
Belle's Criticism on Society--Celebrities, 498
LETTER LXXIII.
Breakfast with Proctor--A Story of Hazlitt--Procter as a
Poet--Impressions of the Man, 504
LETTER LXXIV.
Moore's Dread of Criticism--Moore's Love of Rank--A generous
Offer nobly Refused--A Sacrifice to Jupiter--The Election of
Speaker--Miss Pardoe--Prices of Books, 509
LETTER LXXV.
Dinner at Lady Blessington's--Scott--The Italians--Scott's Mode
of Living--O'Connell--Grattan--Moore's Manner of Talking--Lady
Blessington's Tact--Moore's Singing--A Curious Incident--The
Maid Metamorphosed, 517
PENCILLINGS BY THE WAY.
LETTER I.
AT SEA.--I have emerged from my berth this morning for the first time
since we left the Capes. We have been running six or seven days before
a strong northwest gale, which, by the scuds in the sky, is not yet
blown out, and my head and hand, as you will see by my penmanship, are
anything but at rights. If you have ever plunged about in a cold
rain-storm at sea for seven successive days, you can imagine how I
have amused myself.
I wrote to you after my pilgrimage to the tomb of Washington. It was
almost the only object of natural or historical interest in our own
country that I had not visited, and that seen, I made all haste back
to embark, in pursuance of my plans of travel, for Europe. At
Philadelphia I found a first-rate merchant-brig, the Pacific, on the
eve of sailing for Havre. She was nearly new, and had a French
captain, and no passengers--three very essential circumstances to my
taste--and I took a berth in her without hesitation. The next day she
fell down the river, and on the succeeding morning I followed her with
the captain in the steamboat.
Some ten or fifteen vessels, bound on different voyages, lay in the
roads waiting for the pilot boat; and, as she came down the river,
they all weighed anchor together and we got under way. It was a
beautiful sight--so many sail in close company under a smart breeze,
and I stood on the quarter-deck and watched them in a mood of mingled
happiness and sadness till we reached the Capes. There was much to
elevate and much to depress me. The dream of my lifetime was about to
be realized. I was bound to France; and those fair Italian cities,
with their world of association and interest were within the limit of
a voyage; and all that one looks to for happiness in change of scene,
and all that I had been passionately wishing and imagining since I
could dream a day-dream or read a book, was before me with a visible
certainty; but my home was receding rapidly, perhaps for years, and
the chances of death and adversity in my absence crowded upon my
mind--and I had left friends--(many--many--as dear to me, any one of
them, as the whole sum of my coming enjoyment), whom a thousand
possible accidents might remove or estrange; and I scarce knew whether
I was more happy or sad.
We made Cape Henlopen about sundown, and all shortened sail and came
to. The little boat passed from one to another, taking off the pilots,
and in a few minutes every sail was spread again, and away they went
with a dashing breeze, some on one course some on another, leaving us
in less than an hour, apparently alone on the sea. By this time the
clouds had grown black, the wind had strengthened into a gale, with
fits of rain; and as the order was given to "close-reef the
top-sails," I took a last look at Cape Henlopen, just visible in the
far edge of the horizon, and went below.
OCT. 18.--It is a day to make one in love with life. The remains of
the long storm, before which we have been driven for a week, lie, in
white, turreted masses around the horizon, the sky overhead is
spotlessly blue, the sun is warm, the wind steady and fresh, but soft
as a child's breath, and the sea--I must sketch it to you more
elaborately. We are in the Gulf Stream. The water here as you know,
even to the cold banks of Newfoundland, is always blood warm, and the
temperature of the air mild at all seasons, and, just now, like a
south wind on land in June. Hundreds of sea birds are sailing around
us--the spongy sea-weeds, washed from the West Indian rocks, a
thousand miles away in the southern latitudes, float by in large
masses--the sailors, barefoot and bareheaded, are scattered over the
rigging, doing "fair-weather work"--and just in the edge of the
horizon, hidden by every swell, stand two vessels with all sail
spread, making, with the first fair wind they have had for many days,
for America.
This is the first day that I have been able to be long enough on deck
to study the sea. Even were it not, however, there has been a constant
and chilly rain which would have prevented me from enjoying its
grandeur, so that I am reconciled to my unusually severe sickness. I
came on deck this morning and looked around, and for an hour or two I
could scarce realize that it was not a dream. Much as I had watched
the sea from our bold promontory at Nahant, and well as I thought I
knew its character in storms and calms, the scene which was before me
surprized and bewildered me utterly. At the first glance, we were just
in the gorge of the sea; and, looking over the leeward quarter, I
saw, stretching up from the keel, what I can only describe as a hill
of dazzling blue, thirty or forty feet in real altitude, but sloped so
far away that the white crest seemed to me a cloud, and the space
between a sky of the most wonderful beauty and brightness. A moment
more, and the crest burst over with a splendid volume of foam; the sun
struck through the thinner part of the swell in a line of vivid
emerald, and the whole mass swept under us, the brig rising and riding
on the summit with the buoyancy and grace of a bird.
The single view of the ocean which I got at that moment, will be
impressed upon my mind for ever. Nothing that I ever saw on land at
all compares with it for splendor. No sunset, no lake scene of hill
and water, no fall, not even Niagara, no glen or mountain gap ever
approached it. The waves had had no time to "knock down," as the
sailors phrase it, and it was a storm at sea without the hurricane and
rain. I looked off to the horizon, and the long majestic swells were
heaving into the sky upon its distant limit, and between it and my eye
lay a radius of twelve miles, an immense plain flashing with green and
blue and white, and changing place and color so rapidly as to be
almost painful to the sight. I stood holding by the tafferel an hour,
gazing on it with a childish delight and wonder. The spray had broken
over me repeatedly, and, as we shipped half a sea at the scuppers at
every roll, I was standing half the time up to the knees in water; but
the warm wind on my forehead, after a week's confinement to my berth,
and the excessive beauty lavished upon my sight, were so delicious,
that I forgot all, and it was only in compliance with the captain's
repeated suggestion that I changed my position.
I mounted the quarter-deck, and, pulling off my shoes, like a
schoolboy, sat over the leeward rails, and, with my feet dipping into
the warm sea at every lurch, gazed at the glorious show for hours. I
do not hesitate to say that the formation, progress, and final burst
of a sea-wave, in a bright sun, are the most gorgeously beautiful
sight under heaven. I must describe it like a jeweller to you, or I
can never convey my impressions.
First of all, a quarter of a mile away to windward, your eye is caught
by an uncommonly high wave, rushing right upon your track, and heaping
up slowly and constantly as it comes, as if some huge animal were
ploughing his path steadily and powerfully beneath the surface. Its
"ground," as a painter would say, is of a deep indigo, clear and
smooth as enamel, its front curved inward, like a shell, and turned
over at the summit with a crest of foam, flashing and changing
perpetually in the sunshine, like the sudden outburst of a million of
"unsunned diamonds;" and, right through its bosom, as the sea falls
off, or the angle of refraction changes, there runs a shifting band of
the most vivid green, that you would take to have been the cestus of
Venus, as she rose from the sea, it is so supernaturally translucent
and beautiful. As it nears you, it looks in shape like the prow of
Cleopatra's barge, as they paint it in the old pictures; but its
colors, and the grace and majesty of its march, and its murmur (like
the low tones of an organ, deep and full, and, to my ear, ten times as
articulate and solemn), almost startle you into the belief that it is
a sentient being, risen glorious and breathing from the ocean. As it
reaches the ship, she rises gradually, for there is apparently an
under-wave driven before it, which prepares her for its power; and as
it touches the quarter, the whole magnificent wall breaks down beneath
you with a deafening surge, and a volume of foam issues from its
bosom, green and blue and white, as if it had been a mighty casket in
which the whole wealth of the sea, crysoprase, and emerald, and
brilliant spars, had been heaped and lavished at a throw. This is the
"tenth wave," and, for four or five minutes, the sea will be smooth
about you, and the sparkling and dying foam falls into the wake, and
may be seen like a white path, stretching away over the swells behind,
till you are tired of gazing at it. Then comes another from the same
direction, and with the same shape and motion, and so on till the sun
sets, or your eyes are blinded and your brain giddy with splendor.
I am sure this language will seem exaggerated to you, but, upon the
faith of a lonely man (the captain has turned in, and it is near
midnight and a dead calm), it is a mere skeleton, a goldsmith's
inventory, of the reality. I long ago learned that first lesson of a
man of the world, "to be astonished at nothing," but the sea has
overreached my philosophy--quite. I am changed to a mere child in my
wonder. Be assured, no view of the ocean from land can give you a
shadow of an idea of it. Within even the outermost Capes, the swell is
broken, and the color of the water in soundings is essentially
different--more dull and earthy. Go to the mineral cabinets of
Cambridge or New Haven, and look at the _fluor spars_, and the
_turquoises_, and the clearer specimens of _crysoprase_, and _quartz_,
and _diamond_, and imagine them all polished and clear, and flung at
your feet by millions in a noonday sun, and it may help your
conceptions of the sea after a storm. You may "swim on bladders" at
Nahant and Rockaway till you are gray, and be never the wiser.
The "middle watch" is called, and the second mate, a fine rough old
sailor, promoted from "the mast," is walking the quarter-deck,
stopping his whistle now and then with a gruff "How do you head?" or
"keep her up, you lubber," to the man at the helm; the "silver-shell"
of a waning moon, is just visible through the dead lights over my
shoulder (it has been up two hours, to me, and by the difference of
our present merideans, is just rising now over a certain hill, and
peeping softly in at an eastern window that I have watched many a time
when its panes have been silvered by the same chaste alchymy), and so
after a walk on the deck for an hour to look at the stars and watch
the phosphorus in the wake, I think of ----, I'll get to mine own
uneven pillow, and sleep too.
LETTER II.
AT SEA, OCTOBER 20.--We have had fine weather for progress, so far,
running with north and north-westerly winds from eight to ten knots an
hour, and making, of course, over two hundred miles a day. The sea is
still rough; and though the brig is light laden and rides very
buoyantly, these mounting waves break over us now and then with a
tremendous surge, keeping the decks constantly wet, and putting me to
many an uncomfortable shiver. I have become reconciled, however, to
much that I should have anticipated with no little horror. I can lie
in my berth forty-eight hours, if the weather is chill or rainy, and
amuse myself very well with talking bad French across the cabin to the
captain, or laughing at the distresses of my friend and
fellow-passenger, Turk (a fine setter dog, on his first voyage), or
inventing some disguise for the peculiar flavor which that dismal cook
gives to all his abominations, or, at worst, I can bury my head in my
pillow, and brace from one side to the other against the swell, and
enjoy my disturbed thoughts--all without losing my temper, or wishing
that I had not undertaken the voyage.