take their own lodgings, three or four families in a house, and meet
in their drives and walks, or in small exclusive parties. The Duke
gives a ball every Tuesday, to which all respectable strangers are
invited; and while I was there an Italian prince, who married into the
royal family of Spain, gave a grand _fete_ at the theatre. There is
usually some party every night, and with the freedom of a
watering-place, they are rather the pleasantest I have seen in Italy.
The Duke's chamberlain, an Italian cavalier, has the charge of a
_casino_, or public hall, which is open day and night for
conversation, dancing and play. The Italians frequent it very much,
and it is free to all well-dressed people; and as there is always a
band of music, the English sometimes make up a party and spend the
evening there in dancing or promenading. It is maintained at the
Duke's expense, lights, music, and all, and he finds his equivalent in
the profits of the gambling-bank.
I scarce know who of the distinguished people I met there would
interest you. The village was full of coroneted carriages, whose
masters were nobles of every nation, and every reputation. The
originals of two well-known characters happened to be there--Scott's
_Diana Vernon_, and the _Miss Pratt_ of the Inheritance. The former is
a Scotch lady, with five or six children; a tall, superb woman still,
with the look of a mountain-queen, who rode out every night with two
gallant boys mounted on ponies, and dashing after her with the spirit
you would bespeak for the sons of Die Vernon. Her husband was the best
horseman there, and a "has been" handsome fellow, of about forty-five.
An Italian abbe came up to her one night, at a small party, and told
her he "wondered the king of England did not marry her." "Miss Pratt"
was the companion of an English lady of fortune, who lived on the
floor below me. She was still what she used to be, a much-laughed-at
but much-sought person, and it was quite requisite to know her. She
flew into a passion whenever the book was named. The rest of the world
there was very much what it is elsewhere--a medley of agreeable and
disagreeable, intelligent and stupid, elegant and awkward. The _women_
were perhaps superior in style and manner to those ordinarily met in
such places in America, and the _men_ vastly inferior. It is so
wherever I have been on the continent.
I remained at the baths a few weeks, recruiting--for the hot weather
and travel had, for the first time in my life, worn upon me. They say
that a summer in Italy is equal to five years elsewhere, in its
ravages upon the constitution, and so I found it.
LETTER XXXVII.
RETURN TO VENICE--CITY OF LUCCA--A MAGNIFICENT WALL--A
CULTIVATED AND LOVELY COUNTRY--A COMFORTABLE PALACE--THE DUKE
AND DUCHESS OF LUCCA--THE APPENINES--MOUNTAIN SCENERY--
MODENA--VIEW OF AN IMMENSE PLAIN--VINEYARDS AND FIELDS--
AUSTRIAN TROOPS--A PETTY DUKE AND A GREAT TYRANT--SUSPECTED
TRAITORS--LADIES UNDER ARREST--MODENESE NOBILITY--SPLENDOR AND
MEANNESS--CORREGIO'S BAG OF COPPER COIN--PICTURE GALLERY--
CHIEF OF THE CONSPIRATORS--OPPRESSIVE LAWS--ANTIQUITY--
MUSEUM--BOLOGNA--MANUSCRIPTS OF TASSO AND ARIOSTO--THE
PO--AUSTRIAN CUSTOM-HOUSE--POLICE OFFICERS--DIFFICULTY ON
BOARD THE STEAMBOAT--VENICE ONCE MORE, ETC.
After five or six weeks _sejour_ at the baths of Lucca, the only
exception to the pleasure of which was an attack of the "country
fever," I am again on the road, with a pleasant party, bound for
Venice; but passing by cities I had not seen, I have been from one
place to another for a week, till I find myself to-day in Modena--a
place I might as well not have seen at all as to have hurried
through, as I was compelled to do a month or two since. To go back a
little, however, our first stopping-place was the city of Lucca, about
fifteen miles from the baths; a little, clean, beautiful gem of a
town, with a wall three miles round only, and on the top of it a broad
carriage road, giving you on every side views of the best cultivated
and loveliest country in Italy. The traveller finds nothing so rural
and quiet, nothing so happy-looking, in the whole land. The radius to
the horizon is nowhere more than five or six miles; and the bright
green farms and luxuriant vineyards stretch from the foot of the wall
to the summits of the lovely mountains which form the theatre around.
It is a very ancient town, but the duchy is so rich and flourishing
that it bears none of the marks of decay, so common to even more
modern towns in Italy. Here Caesar is said to have stopped to
deliberate on passing the Rubicon.
The palace of the Duke is the _prettiest_ I ever saw. There is not a
room in it you could not _live_ in--and no feeling is less common than
this in visiting palaces. It is furnished with splendor, too--but with
such an eye to comfort, such taste and elegance, that you would
respect the prince's affections that should order such a one. The Duke
of Lucca, however, is never at home. He is a young man of twenty-eight
or thirty, and spends his time and money in travelling, as caprice
takes him. He has been now for a year at Vienna, where he spends the
revenue of these rich plains most lavishly. The Duchess, too, travels
always, but in a different direction, and the people complain loudly
of the desertion. For many years they have now been both absent and
parted. The Duke is a member of the royal family of Spain, and at the
death of Maria Louisa of Parma, he becomes Duke of Parma, and the
duchy goes to Tuscany.
From Lucca we crossed the Appenines, by a road seldom travelled,
performing the hundred miles to Modena in three days. We suffered, as
all must who leave the high roads in continental countries, more
privations than the novelty was worth. The mountain scenery was fine,
of course, but I think less so than that on the passes between
Florence and Bologna, the account of which I wrote a few weeks since.
We were too happy to get to Modena.
Modena lies in the vast campagna lying between the Appenines and the
Adriatic--an immense plain looking like the sea as far as the eye can
stretch from north to south. The view of it from the mountains in
descending is magnificent beyond description. The capital of the
little duchy lay in the midst of us, like a speck on a green carpet,
and smaller towns and rivers varied its else unbroken surface of
vineyards and fields. We reached the gates just as a fine sunset was
reddening the ramparts and towers, and giving up our passports to the
soldier on guard, rattled into the hotel.
The town is full of Austrian troops, and in our walk to the ducal
palace we met scarce any one else. The streets look gloomy and
neglected, and the people singularly dispirited and poor. This petty
Duke of Modena is a man of about fifty, and said to be the greatest
tyrant, after Don Miguel, in the world. The prisons are full of
suspected traitors; one hundred and thirty of the best families of the
duchy are banished for liberal opinions; three hundred and over are
now under arrest (among them a considerable number of ladies); and
many of the Modenese nobility are now serving in the galleys for
conspiracy. He has been shot at eighteen times. The last man who
attempted it, as I stated in a former letter, was executed the morning
I passed through Modena on my return from Venice. With all this he is
a fine soldier, and his capital looks in all respects like a garrison
in the first style of discipline. He is just now absent at a chateau
three miles in the country.
The palace is a union of splendor and meanness within. The endless
succession of state apartments are gorgeously draped and ornamented,
but the entrance halls and intermediate passages are furnished with an
economy you would scarce find exceeded in the "worst inn's worst
room." Modena is Corregio's birthplace, and it was from a Duke of
Modena that he received the bag of copper coin which occasioned his
death. It was, I think, the meagre reward of his celebrated "Night,"
and he broke a blood-vessel in carrying it to his house. The Duke has
sold this picture, as well as every other sufficiently celebrated to
bring a princely price. His gallery is a heap of trash, with but here
and there a redeeming thing. Among others, there is a portrait of a
boy, I think by Rembrandt, very intellectual and lofty, yet with all
the youthfulness of fourteen; and a copy of "Giorgione's mistress,"
the "love in life" of the Manfrini palace, so admired by Lord Byron.
There is also a remarkably fine crucifixion, I forget by whom.
The front of the palace is renowned for its beauty. In a street near
it, we passed a house half battered down by cannon. It was the
residence of the chief of a late conspiracy, who was betrayed a few
hours before his plot was ripe. He refused to surrender, and, before
the ducal troops had mastered his house, the revolt commenced and the
Duke was driven from Modena. He returned in a week or two with some
three thousand Austrians, and has kept possession by their assistance
ever since. While we were waiting dinner at the hotel, I took up a
volume of the Modenese law, and opened upon a statute forbidding all
subjects of the duchy to live out of the Duke's territories under pain
of the entire confiscation of their property. They are liable to
arrest, also, if it is suspected that they are taking measures to
remove. The alternatives are oppression here or poverty elsewhere, and
the result is that the Duke has scarce a noble left in his realm.
Modena is a place of great antiquity. It was a strong-hold in the time
of Caesar, and after his death was occupied by Brutus, and besieged by
Antony. There are no traces left, except some mutilated and uncertain
relics in the museum.
We drove to Bologna the following morning, and I slept once more in
Rogers's chamber at "the Pilgrim." I have described this city, which I
passed on my way to Venice, so fully before, that I pass it over now
with the mere mention. I should not forget, however, my acquaintance
with a snuffy little librarian, who showed me the manuscripts of Tasso
and Ariosto, with much amusing importance.
We crossed the Po to the Austrian custom-house. Our trunks were turned
inside out, our papers and books examined, our passports studied for
flaws--as usual. After two hours of vexation, we were permitted to go
on board the steamboat, thanking Heaven that our troubles were over
for a week or two, and giving Austria the common benediction she gets
from travellers. The ropes were cast off from the pier when a police
retainer came running to the boat, and ordered our whole party on
shore, bag and baggage. Our passports, which had been retained to be
sent on to Venice by the captain, were irregular. We had not passed
by Florence, and they had not the signature of the Austrian
ambassador. We were ordered imperatively back over the Po, with a flat
assurance, that, without first going to Florence, we never could see
Venice. To the ladies of the party, who had made themselves certain of
seeing this romance of cities in twelve hours, it was a sad
disappointment, and after seeing them safely seated in the return
shallop, I thought I would go and make a desperate appeal to the
commissary in person. My nominal commission as _attache_ to the
Legation at Paris, served me in this case as it had often done before,
and making myself and the honor of the American nation responsible for
the innocent designs of a party of ladies upon Venice, the dirty and
surly commissary signed our passports and permitted us to remand our
baggage.
It was with unmingled pleasure that I saw again the towers and palaces
of Venice rising from the sea. The splendid approach to the Piazzetta;
the transfer to the gondola and its soft motion; the swift and still
glide beneath the balconies of palaces, with whose history I was
familiar; and the renewal of my own first impressions in the surprise
and delight of others, made up, altogether, a moment of high
happiness. There is nothing like--nothing equal to Venice. She is the
city of the imagination--the realization of romance--the queen of
splendor and softness and luxury. Allow all her decay--feel all her
degradation--see the "Huns in her palaces," and the "Greek upon her
mart," and, after all, she is alone in the world for beauty, and,
spoiled as she has been by successive conquerors, almost for riches
too. Her churches of marble, with their floors of precious stones, and
walls of gold and mosaic; her ducal palace, with its world of art and
massy magnificence; her private palaces, with their fronts of inland
gems, and balconies and towers of inimitable workmanship and riches;
her lovely islands and mirror-like canals--all distinguish her, and
will till the sea rolls over her, as one of the wonders of time.
LETTER XXXVIII.
VENICE--CHURCH OF THE JESUITS--A MARBLE CURTAIN--ORIGINAL OF
TITIAN'S MARTYRDOM OF ST. LAWRENCE--A SUMMER MORNING--ARMENIAN
ISLAND--VISIT TO A CLOISTER--A CELEBRATED MONK--THE POET'S
STUDY--ILLUMINATED COPIES OF THE BIBLE--THE STRANGER'S BOOK--A
CLEAN PRINTING-OFFICE--THE HOSPITAL FOR THE INSANE--INNOCENT
AND HAPPY-LOOKING MANIACS--THE CELLS FOR UNGOVERNABLE
LUNATICS--BARBARITY OF THE KEEPER--MISERABLE PROVISIONS--
ANOTHER GLANCE AT THE PRISONS UNDER THE DUCAL PALACE--THE
OFFICE OF EXECUTIONER--THE ARSENAL--THE STATE GALLERY--THE
ARMOR OF HENRY THE FOURTH--A CURIOUS KEY--MACHINES FOR
TORTURE, ETC.
In a first visit to a great European city it is difficult not to let
many things escape notice. Among several churches which I did not see
when I was here before, is that of the _Jesuits_. It is a temple
worthy of the celebrity of this splendid order. The proportions are
finer than those of most of the Venetian churches, and the interior is
one tissue of curious marbles and gold. As we entered, we were first
struck with the grace and magnificence of a large heavy curtain,
hanging over the pulpit, the folds of which, and the figures wrought
upon it, struck us as unusually elegant and ingenious. Our
astonishment was not lessened when we found it was one solid mass of
verd-antique marble. Its sweep over the side and front of the pulpit
is as careless as if it were done by the wind. The whole ceiling of
the church is covered with _sequin gold_--the finest that is coined.
In one of the side chapels is the famous "Martyrdom of St. Lawrence,"
by Titian. A fine copy of it (said in the catalogue to be the
original) was exhibited in the Boston Athenaeum a year or two since.
* * * * *
It is Sunday, and the morning has been of a heavenly, summer, sunny
calmness, such as is seen often in Italy, and once in a year, perhaps,
in New England. It is a kind of atmosphere, that, to breathe is to be
grateful and happy. We have been to the Armenian island--a little gem
on the bosom of the Lagune, a mile from Venice, where stands the
monastery, to which place Lord Byron went daily to study and translate
with the fathers. There is just room upon it for a church, a convent,
and a little garden. It looks afloat on the water. Our gondola glided
up to the clean stone stairs, and we were received by one of the
order, a hale but venerable looking monk, in the Armenian dress, the
long black cassock and small round cap, his beard long and scattered
with gray, and his complexion and eyes of a cheerful, child-like
clearness, such as regular and simple habits alone can give. I
inquired, as we walked through the cloister, for the father with whom
Lord Byron studied, and of whom the poet speaks so often and so highly
in his letters. The monk smiled and bowed modestly, and related a
little incident that had happened to him at Padua, where he had met
two American travellers, who had asked him of himself in the same
manner. He had forgotten their names, but from his description I
presumed one to have been Professor Longfellow, of Bowdoin University.
The stillness and cleanliness about the convent, as we passed through
the cloisters and halls, rendered the impression upon a stranger
delightful. We passed the small garden, in which grew a stately
oleander in full blossom, and thousands of smaller flowers, in neat
beds and vases, and after walking through the church, a plain and
pretty one, we came to the library, where the monk had studied with
the poet. It is a proper place for study--disturbed by nothing but the
dash of oars from a passing gondola, or the screams of a sea-bird, and
well furnished with books in every language, and very luxurious
chairs. The monk showed us an encyclopaedia, presented to himself by an
English lady of rank, who had visited the convent often. His handsome
eyes flashed as he pointed to it on the shelves. We went next into a
smaller room, where the more precious manuscripts are deposited, and
he showed us curious illuminated copies of the Bible, and gave us the
stranger's book to inscribe our names. Byron had scrawled his there
before us, and the Empress Maria Louisa had written hers twice on
separate visits. The monk then brought us a volume of prayers, in
twenty-five languages, translated by himself. We bought copies, and
upon some remark of one of the ladies upon his acquirements, he ran
from one language to another, speaking English, French, Italian,
German, and Dutch, with equal facility. His English was quite
wonderful; and a lady from Rotterdam, who was with us, pronounced his
Dutch and German excellent. We then bought small histories of the
order, written by an English gentleman, who had studied at the island,
and passed on to the printing office--the first _clean_ one I ever
saw, and quite the best appointed. Here the monks print their Bibles,
and prayer-books in really beautiful Armenian type, beside almanacs,
and other useful publications for Constantinople, and other parts of
Turkey. The monk wrote his name at our request (Pascal Aucher) in the
blank leaves of our books, and we parted from him at the water-stairs
with sincere regret. I recommend this monastery to all travellers to
Venice.
On our return we passed near an island, upon which stands a single
building--an insane hospital. I was not very curious to enter it, but
the gondolier assured us that it was a common visit for strangers, and
we consented to go in. We were received by the keeper, who went
through the horrid scene like a regular cicerone, giving us a cold and
rapid history of every patient that arrested our attention. The men's
apartment was the first, and I should never have supposed them insane.
They were all silent, and either read or slept like the inmates of
common hospitals. We came to a side door, and as it opened, the
confusion of a hundred tongues burst through, and we were introduced
into the apartment for women. The noise was deafening. After
traversing a short gallery, we entered a large hall, containing
perhaps fifty females. There was a simultaneous smoothing back of the
hair and prinking of the dress through the room. These the keeper
said, were the well-behaved patients, and more innocent and
happy-looking people I never saw. If to be happy is to be wise, I
should believe with the mad philosopher, that the world and the
lunatic should change names. One large, fine-looking woman took upon
herself to do the honors of the place, and came forward with a
graceful curtesy and a smile of condescension and begged the ladies to
take off their bonnets, and offered me a chair. Even with her
closely-shaven head and coarse flannel dress, she seemed a lady. The
keeper did not know her history. Her attentions were occasionally
interrupted by a stolen glance at the keeper, and a shrinking in of
the shoulders, like a child that had been whipped. One handsome and
perfectly healthy-looking girl of eighteen, walked up and down the
hall, with her arms folded, and a sweet smile on her face, apparently
lost in pleasing thought, and taking no notice of us. Only one was in
bed, and her face might have been a conception of Michael Angelo for
horror. Her hair was uncut, and fell over her eyes, her tongue hung
from her mouth, her eyes were sunken and restless, and the deadly
pallor over features drawn into the intensest look of mental agony,
completing a picture that made my heart sick. Her bed was clean, and
she was as well cared for as she could be, apparently.
We mounted a flight of stairs to the cells. Here were confined those
who were violent and ungovernable. The mingled sounds that came
through the gratings as we passed were terrific. Laughter of a
demoniac wildness, moans, complaints in every language, screams--every
sound that could express impatience and fear and suffering saluted our
ears. The keeper opened most of the cells and went in, rousing
occasionally one that was asleep, and insisting that all should appear
at the grate. I remonstrated of course, against such a piece of
barbarity, but he said he did it for all strangers, and took no notice
of our pity. The cells were small, just large enough for a bed, upon
the post of which hung a small coarse cloth bag, containing two or
three loaves of the coarsest bread. There was no other furniture. The
beds were bags of straw, without sheets or pillows, and each had a
coarse piece of matting for a covering. I expressed some horror at the
miserable provision made for their comfort, but was told that they
broke and injured themselves with any loose furniture, and were so
reckless in their habits, that it was impossible to give them any
other bedding than straw, which was changed every day. I observed that
each patient had a wisp of long straw tied up in a bundle, given them,
as the keeper said, to employ their hands and amuse them. The wooden
blind before one of the gratings was removed, and a girl flew to it
with the ferocity of a tiger, thrust her hands at us through the bars,
and threw her bread out into the passage, with a look of violent and
uncontrolled anger such as I never saw. She was tall and very
fine-looking. In another cell lay a poor creature, with her face
dreadfully torn, and her hands tied strongly behind her. She was
tossing about restlessly upon her straw, and muttering to herself
indistinctly. The man said she tore her face and bosom whenever she
could get her hands free, and was his worst patient. In the last cell
was a girl of eleven or twelve years, who began to cry piteously the
moment the bolt was drawn. She was in bed, and uncovered her head very
unwillingly, and evidently expected to be whipped. There was another
range of cells above, but we had seen enough, and were glad to get out
upon the calm Lagune. There could scarcely be a stronger contrast than
between those two islands lying side by side--the first the very
picture of regularity and happiness, and the last a refuge for
distraction and misery. The feeling of gratitude to God for reason
after such a scene is irresistible.
* * * * *
In visiting again the prisons under the ducal palace, several
additional circumstances were told us. The condemned were compelled to
become executioners. They were led from their cells into the dark
passage where stood the secret guillotine, and without warning forced
to put to death a fellow-creature either by this instrument, or the
more horrible method of strangling against a grate. The guide said
that the office of executioner was held in such horror that it was
impossible to fill it, and hence this dreadful alternative. When a
prisoner was about to be executed, his clothes were sent home to his
family with the message, that "the state would care for him." How much
more agonizing do these circumstances seem, when we remember that most
of the victims were men of rank and education, condemned on suspicion
of political crimes, and often with families refined to a most
unfortunate capacity for mental torture! One ceases to regret the fall
of the Venetian republic, when he sees with how much crime and tyranny
her splendor was accompanied.
* * * * *
I saw at the arsenal to-day the model of the "Bucentaur," the state
galley in which the Doge of Venice went out annually to marry him to
the sea. This poetical relic (which, in Childe Harold's time, "lay
rotting unrestored") was burnt by the French--why, I can not conceive.
It was a departure from their usual habit of respect to the curious
and beautiful; and if they had been jealous of such a vestige of the
grandeur of a conquered people, it might at least have been sent to
Paris as easily as "Saint Mark's steeds of brass," and would have been
as great a curiosity. I would rather have seen the Bucentaur than all
their other plunder. The arsenal contains many other treasures. The
armor given to the city of Venice by Henry the Fourth is there, and a
curious key constructed to shoot poisoned needles, and used by one of
the Henrys, I have forgotten which, to despatch any one who offended
him in his presence. One or two curious machines for torture were
shown us--mortars into which the victim was put, with an iron armor
which was screwed down upon him till his head was crushed, or
confession stopped the torture.
LETTER XXXIX.