"Lines I write the first time and the last time,"--
for Destiny has given to them other than the author's meaning: because
of this destiny, we pass from the shadow of Casa Guidi with bowed head.
It is a beautiful custom, this of Italy, marking the spot where noble
souls have lived or died, that coming generations may learn to venerate
the greatness of the past, and become inspired thereby to exalted deeds
in the present. We of America, eagerly busy jostling the elbows of
To-Day, have not even a turn of the head for the haunts of dead men whom
we honor. No tablets mark their homes; and indeed they would be of
little profit to a country where mementos of "lang syne" are never
spared, when the requirements of commerce or of real estate issue their
universal mandate, "Destroy and build anew!" America shakes all dust
from off her feet, even that of great men's bones; though indeed Boston,
which is not wanting in esteem for its respectable antecedents, has made
a feeble attempt to do honor to the Father of his Country. The tablet is
but an attempt, however, which has become thoroughly demoralized by
keeping company with attorneys' signs and West-India goods; the bouquet
of law-papers, _plus_ coffee and tobacco, has deprived the salt of its
savor.
Far different is it in Florence, where the identical houses still
remain. Almost every street bears the record of a great man. To walk
there is to hold intimate communion with departed genius. What traveller
has not mused before Dante's stone? The most careless cannot pass
Palazzo Buonarotti without giving a thought to Michel Angelo and his
art. An afternoon's stroll along the Lung' Arno to drink in the warmth
of an Italian sunset is made doubly suggestive by a glance at the house
where set another sun when the Piedmontese poet-patriot, Alfieri, died.
We never passed through the Via Guicciardini, as clingy, musty, and
gloomy as the writings of the old historian whose palace gives name to
the street, without looking up at the weather-beaten _casa_ dedicated to
the memory of that wonderfully subtile Tuscan, Niccolo Macchiavelli; and
by dint of much looking we fancied ourselves drawn nearer to the
Florence of 1500, and read "The Prince," with a gusto and an
apprehension which nothing but the old house could have inspired. This,
at least, we believed, and our faith in the fancy remains unshaken, now
that Mr. Denton, the geologist, has expounded the theory of
"Psychometry," which he tells us is the divination of soul through the
contact of matter with a psychometrical mind. Had we in those days been
better versed in this theory of "the soul of things," we should have
made a gentle application of forehead to the door-step of Macchiavelli's
mundane residence, and doubtless have arisen thoroughly pervaded with
the true spirit of the man whose feet were familiar to a stone now
desecrated by wine-flasks, onions, cabbages, and _contadini_.
Mrs. Somerville, to whom the world is indebted for several developments
in physical geography, is almost as fixed a Florentine celebrity as the
Palazzo Vecchio; and Villino Trollope has become endeared to many
_forestieri_ from the culture and hospitality of its inmates. It is the
residence of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Adolphus Trollope, earnest contributors
to the literature of England, and active friends of Cavour's Italy.
Justice prompts us to say that no other foreigner of the present day has
done so much as Mr. Trollope to familiarize the Anglo-Saxon mind with
the genius and aspirations of Italy. A constant writer for the liberal
press of London, Mr. Trollope is also the author of several historical
works that have taken their place in a long-neglected niche. "A Decade
of Italian Women" has woven new interest around ten females of renown,
while his later works of "Filippo Strozzi" and "Paul the Pope and Paul
the Friar," have thrown additional light upon three vigorous historical
characters, as well as upon much Romish iniquity. "Tuscany in '48 and
'59" is the most satisfactory book of the kind that has been published,
Mr. Trollope's constant residence in Florence having made him perfectly
familiar with the actual _status_ of Tuscany during these important eras
in her history. The old saying, "Merit is its own reward," to which it
is usually necessary to give a Pre-Raphaelite interpretation, has had a
broader signification to Mr. Trollope, whose efforts in Italy's behalf
have been appreciated by the _Re Galantuomo_, Victor Emanuel, by whom he
has been knighted with the Order of Saints Maurice and Lazarus. As the
decoration was entirely unsolicited,--for Mr. Trollope is a true
democrat,--and as he is nearly, if not quite, the only Englishman
similarly honored, the compliment is as pleasing as it is flattering.
Historian though he be, Mr. Trollope has more recently made his mark as
a novelist. "La Beata," an Italian story, published three years ago, is
greatly praised by London critics, one strong writer describing it as a
"beatific book." The character of the heroine has been drawn with a
pathos rare and heart-rending, nor can the reader fail to be impressed
with the nobility of the mind that could conceive of such exceeding
purity and self-sacrifice in woman. Mr. Trollope's later novels of
"Marietta" and "Giulio Malatesta" have also met with great success, and,
although not comparable with "La Beata," give most accurate pictures of
Italian life and manners,--and truth is ordinarily left out of
Anglo-Italian stories. "Giulio Malatesta" is of decided historical
interest, giving a side-view of the Revolution of '48 and of the Battle
of Curtatone, which was fought so nobly by Tuscan volunteers and
students. It is a matter of regret to all lovers of Italy that Mr.
Trollope's works have not been republished in America, as no American
has labored in the same field, nor do Americans _en masse_ possess very
correct ideas of a country whose great future is creating an additional
interest in her promising present and wonderful past. Mr. Trollope's
"History of Florence," upon which he is now at work, will be his most
valuable contribution to literature.
Mrs. Trollope, who from her polyglot accomplishments may be called a
many-sided woman, has been, both by Nature and education, most liberally
endowed with intellectual gifts. The depressing influence of continual
invalidism alone prevents her from taking that literary position which
good health and application would soon secure for her. Nevertheless,
Mrs. Trollope has for several years been a constant correspondent of the
London "Athenaeum," and in all seasons Young Italy has found an
enthusiastic friend in her. Many are the machinations of the clerical
and Lorraine parties that have been revealed to the English reader by
Mrs. Trollope; and when, some time since, her letters upon the "Social
Aspects of Revolution in Italy," were collected and published in
book-form, they met with the cordial approbation of the critics. These
letters are marked by purity of style, quaint picturesqueness, and an
admirable _couleur locale_. As a translator, Mrs. Trollope possesses
very rare ability. Her natural aptitude for language is great. A
residence in Italy of seventeen years has made her almost as familiar
with the mother-tongue of Dante as with that of Shakspeare; and we make
bold to say that Giovan Battista Niccolini's most celebrated tragedy,
"Arnaldo da Brescia," loses none of its Italian lustre in Mrs.
Trollope's setting of English blank-verse,--Ah! we cannot soon forget
the first time that we saw this same Niccolini, the greatest poet of
modern Italy! It was in the spring of 1860, upon the memorable
inauguration of the Theatre Niccolini,--_ci-devant_ Cocomero,
(water-melon,)--when Florence gave its first public reception to the
poet, who was not only Tuscan, but Italianissimo, and rendered more than
a passing homage to his name in the new baptism of a charming theatre.
Since 1821 Niccolini had been fighting for the good cause with pen as
cutting as Damascus blade; the goal was not reached until the veteran of
eighty-two, paralyzed in body and mind, was borne into the presence of
an enthusiastic audience to receive its bravos. So lately as the
previous year the Ducal government had suppressed a demonstration in
Niccolini's favor: _this_ night must have atoned for the persecutions of
the past. It was then that we heard Rossi, the great actor, declaim
entire scenes from "Arnold of Brescia"; and though he stood before us as
plain citizen Rossi in a lustrous suit of broadcloth, the fervor and
intensity with which he interpreted the master-thoughts of Niccolini
forced the audience to see in him the embodiment of the grand
patriot-priest. We have witnessed but few greater dramatic performances;
never have we been present at so impassioned a political demonstration.
Freedom of speech was but just born to Italy, and Florence drew a long
breath in the presence of a national teacher. Eighteen months later
Niccolini gazed for the last time upon Italy, and saw the fulfilment of
his prophecies.
We wish there were a copy of Mrs. Trollope's translation of "Arnaldo da
Brescia" in America, that we might make noble extracts, and cause other
eyes to glisten with the fire of its passion. We can recall but one
passage, a speech made by Arnaldo to the recreant Pope Adrian. It is as
strong and fearless as was the monk himself.
"Adrian, thou dost deceive thyself. The dread
Of Roman thunderbolts is growing faint,
And Reason slacks the bonds thou'dst have eternal.
She'll break them; yet she is not well awake.
Already human thought so far rebels,
That tame it thou canst not: Christ cries to it,
As to the sick of old, '_Arise and walk!_'
'T will trample thee, if thou precede it not:
The world has other truths than of the altar,
Nor will endure a church which hideth Heaven.
Thou wast a shepherd,--be a father: men
Are tired at last of being called a flock;
Too long have they stood trembling in the path
Smit by your pastoral staff. Why in the name
Of Heaven dost trample on the race of man,
The latest offspring of the Thought Divine?"
It is not strange that the emancipated Florentines grow wild with
delight when Rossi declaimed such heresy as this.
Mrs. Trollope's later translations of the patriotic poems of Dall'
Ongaro, the clever Venetian, are very spirited; nor is she unknown as an
original poet. "Baby Beatrice," a poem inscribed to her own fairy child,
that appeared several years ago in "Household Words," is exceedingly
charming; and one of her fugitive pieces, having naturally transformed
itself into "_la lingua del si_," has ever been attributed to her friend
Niccolini.
It was as a poet that Mrs. Trollope, then Miss Garrow, began to
write,--and indeed she may be called a _protegee_ of Walter Savage
Landor, for through his encouragement and instrumentality she first made
her appearance in print as a contributor to Lady Blessington's "Book of
Beauty." There are few who remember the old lion-poet's lines to Miss
Garrow, and their insertion here cannot be considered _mal-a-propos_.
"TO THEODOSIA GARROW.
"Unworthy are these poems of the lights
That now run over them, nor brief the doubt
In my own breast if such should interrupt
(Or follow so irreverently) the voice
Of Attic men, of women such as thou,
Of sages no less sage than heretofore,
Of pleaders no less eloquent, of souls
Tender no less, or tuneful, or devout.
Unvalued, even by myself, are they,--
Myself, who reared them; but a high command
Marshalled them in their station; here they are;
Look round; see what supports these parasites.
Stinted in growth and destitute of odor,
They grow where young Ternissa held her guide,
Where Solon awed the ruler; there they grow,
Weak as they are, on cliffs that few can climb.
None to thy steps are inaccessible,
Theodosia! wakening Italy with song
Deeper than Filicaia's, or than his,
The triple deity of plastic art.
Mindful of Italy and thee, fair maid!
I lay this sear, frail garland at thy feet."
Mrs. Trollope is still a young woman, and it is sincerely to be hoped
that improved health will give her the proper momentum for renewed
exertions in a field where nobly sowing she may nobly reap.
Ah, this Villino Trollope is quaintly fascinating, with its marble
pillars, its grim men in armor, starting like sentinels from the walls,
and its curiosities greeting you at every step. The antiquary revels in
its _majolica_, its old Florentine bridal chests and carved furniture,
its beautiful terra-cotta of the Virgin and Child by Orgagna, its
hundred _oggetti_ of the Cinque Cento. The bibliopole grows silently
ecstatic, as he sinks quietly into a mediaeval chair and feasts his eyes
on a model library, bubbling over with five thousand rare books, many
wonderfully illuminated and enriched by costly engravings. To those who
prefer (and who does not?) an earnest talk with the host and hostess on
politics, art, religion, or the last new book, there is the cozy
_laisser-faire_ study where Miss Puss and Bran, the honest dog, lie side
by side on Christian terms, and where the sunbeam Beatrice, when _very_
beaming, will sing to you the _canti popolari_ of Tuscany, like a young
nightingale in voice, though with more than youthful expression. Here
Anthony Trollope is to be found, when he visits Florence; and it is no
ordinary pleasure to enjoy simultaneously the philosophic reasoning of
Thomas Trollope,--looking half Socrates and half Galileo,--whom Mrs.
Browning was wont to call "Aristides the Just," and the almost boyish
enthusiasm and impulsive argumentation of Anthony Trollope, who is a
noble specimen of a thoroughly frank and loyal Englishman. The unity of
affection existing between these brothers is as charming as it is rare.
Then in spring, when the soft winds kiss the budding foliage and warm it
into bloom, the beautiful terrace of Villino Trollope is transformed
into a reception-room. Opening upon a garden, with its lofty pillars,
its tessellated marble floor, its walls inlaid with terra-cotta,
bas-reliefs, inscriptions, and coats-of-arms, with here and there a
niche devoted to some antique Madonna, the terrace has all the charm of
a _campo santo_ without the chill of the grave upon it; or were a few
cowled monks to walk with folded arms along its space, one might fancy
it the cloister of a monastery. And here of a summer's night, burning no
other lights than the stars, and sipping iced lemonade, one of the
specialties of the place, the intimates of Villino Trollope sit and talk
of Italy's future, the last _mot_ from Paris, and the last allocution at
Rome.
Many charming persons have we met at the Villino, the recollection of
whom is as bright and sunny to us as a June day,--persons whose lives
and motive-power have fully convinced us that the world is not quite as
hollow as it is represented, and that all is not vanity of vanities. In
one corner we have melodiously wrangled, in a _tempo_ decidedly _allegro
vivace_, with enthusiastic Mazzinians, who would say clever, sharp,
cruel things of Cavour, the man of all men to our way of thinking, "the
one man of three men in all Europe," according to Louis Napoleon.
Gesticulation grew as rampant at the mention of the French Emperor, who
was familiarly known as "_quel volpone_," (that fox,) as it becomes
to-day in America at the mention of Wendell Phillip's name to one of the
"Chivalry." Politics ran high in Italy in these days of the
_Renaissance_, and to have a pair of stout fists shaken in one's face in
a drawing-room for a difference of opinion is not as much "out of order"
as it would be on this more phlegmatic side of the Atlantic, where fists
have a deep significance not dreamed of by expansive Italians. In
another corner we have had many a _tete-a-tete_ with Dall' Ongaro, the
poet, who is as quick at an _impromptu_ as at a malediction against "_il
Papa_," and whose spirited recitations of his own patriotic poems have
inspired his private audiences with a like enthusiasm for Italian
liberty. Not unlike Garibaldi in appearance, he is a Mazzini-Garibaldian
at heart, and always knowing in the ways of that mysterious prophet of
the "Reds" who we verily believe fancies himself author not only of the
phrase "_Dio ed il Popolo_," but of the reality as well. When Mazzini
was denied entrance into Tuscany under pain of imprisonment, and yet, in
spite of Governor Ricasoli's decree, came to Florence _incognito_, it
was Dall' Ongaro who knew his hiding-place, and who conferred with him
much to the disgust and mortification of the Governor and his police,
who were outwitted by the astute republican. Mazzini is an incarnation
of the _Sub Rosa_, and we doubt whether he could live an hour, were it
possible to fulminate a bull for the abolition of intrigue and secret
societies. Dall' Ongaro was a co-laborer of Mazzini's in Rome in '48;
and when the downfall of the Republic forced its partisans to seek
safety in exile, he travelled about Europe with an American passport. "I
could not be an Italian," he said to us, "and I became, ostensibly, the
next best thing, a citizen of the United States. I sought shelter under
a republican flag."
It was at Villino Trollope that we first shook hands with Colonel
Peard,--"_l'Inglese con Garibaldi_," as the Italians used to call
him,--about whose exploits in sharp-shooting the newspapers manufactured
such marvellous stories. Colonel Peard assured us that he never _did_
keep a written account of the men he killed, for we were particular in
our inquiries on this interesting subject; but we know that as a
volunteer he fought under Garibaldi throughout the Lombard campaign and
followed his General into Sicily, where, facing the enemy most manfully,
Garibaldi promoted him from the rank of Captain to that of
Lieutenant-Colonel. It is good to meet a person like Colonel Peard,--to
see a man between fifty and sixty years of age, with noble head and gray
hair and a beard that any patriarch might envy surmounting a figure of
fine proportions endowed with all the robustness of healthy
maturity,--to see intelligence and years and fine appearance allied to
great amiability and a youthful enthusiasm for noble deeds, an
enthusiasm which was ready to give blood and treasure to the cause it
espoused from love. Such a reality is most exhilarating and delightful,
a fact that makes us take a much more hopeful view of humanity. We value
our photograph of Colonel Peard almost as highly as though the
picturesque _poncho_ and its owner had seen service in America instead
of Italy. His battle-cry is ours,--"Liberty!"
There, too, we met Frances Power Cobbe, author of that admirable book,
"Intuitive Morals." In her preface to the English edition of Theodore
Parker's works, of which she is the editor, Miss Cobbe has shown herself
as large by the heart as she is by the head. That sunny day in Florence,
when she, one of a chosen band, followed the great Crusader to his
grave, is a sad remembrance to us, and it seemed providentially ordained
that the apostle who had loved the man's _soul_ for so many years should
be brought face to face with the _man_ before that soul put on
immortality. Great was Miss Cobbe's interest in the bust of Theodore
Parker executed by the younger Robert Hart from photographs and casts,
and which is without doubt the best likeness of Parker that has yet been
taken. Its merits as a portrait-bust have never been appreciated, and
the artist, whose sad death occurred two years ago, did not live to
realize his hope of putting it into marble. The clay model still remains
in Florence.
Miss Cobbe is the embodiment of genial philanthropy, as delightful a
companion as she is heroic in her great work of social reform. A true
daughter of Erin, she excels as a _raconteur_, nor does her philanthropy
confine itself to the human race. Italian maltreatment of animals has
almost reduced itself to a proverb, and often have we been witness to
her righteous indignation at flagrant cruelty to dumb beasts. Upon
expostulating one day with a coachman who was beating his poor straw-fed
horse most unmercifully, the man replied, with a look of wonderment,
"_Ma, che vole, Signora? non e Cristiano!_" (But what would you have,
Signora? he is not a Christian!) Not belonging to the Church, and having
no soul to save, why should a horse be spared the whip? The reasoning is
not logical to our way of thinking, yet it is Italian, and was delivered
in good faith. It will require many Miss Cobbes to lead the Italians out
of their Egypt of ignorance.
It was at Villino Trollope that we first saw the wonderfully clever
author, George Eliot. She is a woman of forty, perhaps, of large frame
and fair Saxon coloring. In heaviness of jaw and height of cheek-bone
she greatly resembles a German; nor are her features unlike those of
Wordsworth, judging from his pictures. The expression of her face is
gentle and amiable, while her manner is particularly timid and retiring.
In conversation Mrs. Lewes is most entertaining, and her interest in
young writers is a trait which immediately takes captive all persons of
this class. We shall not forget with what kindness and earnestness she
addressed a young girl who had just begun to handle a pen, how frankly
she related her own literary experience, and how gently she _suggested_
advice. True genius is always allied to humility, and in seeing Mrs.
Lewes do the work of a good Samaritan so unobtrusively, we learned to
respect the woman as much as we had ever admired the writer. "For
years," said she to us, "I wrote reviews because I knew too little of
humanity." In the maturity of her wisdom this gifted woman has startled
the world with such novels as "Scenes from Clerical Life," "Adam Bede,"
"Mill on the Floss," and "Silas Marner," making an era in English
fiction, and raising herself above rivalry. Experience has been much to
her: her men are men, her women women, and long did English readers rack
their brains to discover the sex of George Eliot. We do not aver that
Mrs. Lewes has actually encountered the characters so vividly portrayed
by her. Genius looks upon Nature, and then creates. The scene in the
pot-house in "Silas Marner" is as perfect as a Dutch painting, yet the
author never entered a pot-house. Her strong _physique_ has enabled her
to brush against the world, and in thus brushing she has gathered up the
dust, fine and coarse, out of which human beings great and small are
made. It is a powerful argument in the "Woman Question," that--without
going to France for George Sand--"Adam Bede" and the wonderfully unique
conception "Paul Ferroll" are women's work and yet real. Men cannot know
women by knowing men; and a discriminating public will soon admit, if it
has not done so already, that women are quite as capable of drawing male
portraits as men are of drawing female. Half a century ago a woman
maintained that genius had no sex;--the dawn of this truth is only now
flashing upon the world.
We know not whether George Eliot visited Florence _con intenzione_, yet
it almost seems as though "Romola" were the product of that fortnight's
sojourn. It could scarce have been written by one whose eye was
unfamiliar with the _tone_ of Florentine localities. As a novel,
"Romola" is not likely to be popular, however extensively it may be
read; but viewed as a sketch of Savonarola and his times, it is most
interesting and valuable. The deep research and knowledge of mediaeval
life and manners displayed are cause of wonderment to erudite
Florentines, who have lived to learn from a foreigner. "_Son
rimasti_" to use their own phraseology. The _couleur locale_ is
marvellous;--nothing could be more delightfully real, for example, than
the scenes which transpire in Nello's barber's-shop. Her _dramatis
personae_ are not English men and women in fancy-dress, but true Tuscans
who express themselves after the manner of natives. It would be
difficult to find a greater contrast than exists between "Romola" and
the previous novels of George Eliot: they have little in common but
genius; and genius, we begin to think, has not only no sex, but no
nationality. "Romola" has peopled the streets of Florence still more
densely to our memory.
It would seem as though the newly revived interest in Savonarola, after
centuries of apathy, were a sign of the times. Uprisings of peoples and
wars for "ideas" have made such a market for martyrs as was never known
before. Could we jest upon what is a most encouraging trait in present
humanity, we should say that martyrs were fashionable; for even
Toussaint L'Ouverture has found a biographer, and _Frenchmen_ are
writing Lives of Jesus. Yet Orthodoxy stigmatizes this age of John
Browns as irreligious:--rather do we think it the dawn of the true
faith. It is to another _habitue_ of Villino Trollope, Pasquale Villari,
Professor of History at Pisa, that we owe in great part the revival of
Savonarola's memory; and it must have been no ordinary love for his
noble aspirations that led the young Neopolitan exile to bury the ten
best years of his life in old Florentine libraries, collecting material
for a full life of the friar of San Marco. So faithfully has he done his
work, that future writers upon Savonarola will go to Villari, and not to
Florentine manuscripts for their facts. This history was published in
1859, and it may be that "Romola" is the flower of the sombre Southern
plant. Genius requires but a suggestion to create,--though, indeed, Mr.
Lewes, who is a wonderfully clever man, _au fait_ in all things, from
acting to languages, living and dead, and from languages to natural
history, may have anticipated Villari in that suggestion.
Villino Trollope introduced us to "Owen Meredith," the poet from
melody,--one far older in experience than in years, looking like his
poetry, just so polished and graceful, just so sweetly in tune, just so
Gallic in taste, and--shall we say it?--just so _blase_! We doubt
whether Robert Lytton, the diplomate, will ever realize the best
aspirations of "Owen Meredith," the poet. Good came out of Nazareth, but
it is not in our faith to believe that foreign courts can bear the rare
fruit of ideal truth and beauty.--Then there was Blumenthal, the
composer, who talked Buckle in admirable English, and played his own
Reveries most daintily,--Reveries that are all languor, sighs, and
tears, whose fitting home is the boudoirs of French marquises.
Blumenthal is a Thalberg in small.--We have pleasant recollections of
certain clever Oxonians, "Double-Firsts," potential in the classics and
mathematics. A "Double-First" is the incarnation of Oxford, a
masterpiece of Art. All that he knows he knows profoundly, nor does it
require an Artesian bore to bring that knowledge bubbling to the
surface. His mastery over his intellect is as great as that of Liszt
over the piano-forte,--it is a slave to do his bidding. He is the result
of a thousand years of culture. A "Double-First" never gives way to
enthusiasms; his heart never gets into his head. Impulse is snubbed as
though it were a poor relation; and argument is carried on by clear,
acute reason, independent of feeling. Woe unto the American who loses
his temper while duelling mentally with a "Double-First"! Oxford phlegm
will triumph. Of course a "Double-First" is conservative; he disbelieves
in republics and universal suffrage, attends the Established Church, and
won't publicly deny the Thirty-Nine Articles, whatever maybe his _very_
private opinion of them. He writes brilliant articles for the "Saturday
Review," (familiarly known among Liberals as the "Saturday Reviler,")
and ends by being a learned and successful barrister, or a Gladstone, or
both. Genius will rarely subscribe to the Thirty-Nine Articles. With all
his conservatism and want of what the French call _effusion_, a
"Double-First" can be a delightful companion and charming man,--even to
a democratic American.
We well remember with what admiring curiosity the Italians regarded Mrs.
Stowe one evening that she passed at Villino Trollope. "_E
la Signora Stowe?_"--"_Davvero?_"--"_L'autrice di 'Uncle
Tom'?_"--"_Possibile?_"--were their oft-repeated exclamations; for
"Uncle Tom's Cabin" is the one American book in which Italians are
deeply read. To most of them, Byron and "Uncle Tom" comprehend the whole
of English literature. However poorly informed an Italian may be as
regards America in other respects, he has a very definite idea of
slavery, thanks to Mrs. Stowe. To read "Uncle Tom's Cabin" aloud in
Italian to an Italian audience is productive of queer sensations. This
office an American woman took upon herself for the enlightenment of some
_contadine_ of Fiesole with whom she was staying. She appealed to a
thoroughly impartial jury. The verdict would have been balm of Gilead to
long-suffering Abolitionists. So admirable an idea of justice had these
acute peasant-women, so exalted was their opinion of America, which they
believed to be a model republic where all men were born free and equal,
that it was long before the reader could impress upon her audience the
fact of the existence of slavery there. When this fact _did_ take root
in their simple minds, their righteous indignation knew no bounds, and,
unlike the orator of the Bird o' Freedom, they thanked God that they
were _not_ Americans.
Then----But our recollections are too numerous for the patience of those
who do not know Villino Trollope; and we shut up in our thoughts many
"pictures beautiful that hang on Memory's walls," turning their faces so
that we, at least, may see and enjoy them.
But ere turning away, we pause before one face, now no longer of the
living, that of Mrs. Frances Trollope. Knowing how thoroughly erroneous
an estimate has been put upon Mrs. Trollope's character in this country,
we desire to give a glimpse of the real woman, now that her death has
removed the seal of silence.
Frances Trollope, daughter of the Reverend William Milton, a fellow of
New College, Oxford, was born at Stapleton, near Bristol, where her
father had a curacy. She died in Florence, on the sixth of October,
1863, at the advanced age of eighty-three. In 1809 she married Thomas
Anthony Trollope, barrister-at-law, by whom she had six children: Thomas
Adolphus, now of Florence,--Henry, who died unmarried at Bruges, in
Flanders, in 1834,--Arthur, who died under age,--Anthony, the well-known
novelist,--Cecilia, who married John Tilley, Assistant-Secretary of the
General Post-Office, London,--and Emily, who died under age.
Mr. Thomas Anthony Trollope married and became the father of a family as
presumptive heir to the good estate of an uncle. The latter, however, on
becoming a widower, unexpectedly married a second time, and in his old
age was himself a father. The sudden change thus caused in the position
and fortune of Mr. Trollope so materially deranged his affairs as to
necessitate the breaking-up of his establishment at Harrow-on-the-Hill,
near London. It was at this time that Miss Fanny Wright (whom Mr. and
Mrs. Trollope met at the country-house of Lafayette, when visiting the
General in France) persuaded Mrs. Trollope to proceed to America with
the hope of providing a career for her second son, Henry. Miss Wright
was then bent on founding an establishment, in accordance with her
cherished principles, at Nashaba, near Memphis, and the career marked
out for Henry Trollope was in connection with this scheme, the fruit of
which was disappointment to all the parties concerned. Mrs. Trollope
afterwards endeavored to establish her son in Cincinnati; but these
attempts were ill managed, and consequently proved futile. Both mother
and son then returned to England, the former taking with her a mass of
memoranda and notes which she had made during her residence in the
United States. These were shown to Captain Basil Hall, whose then recent
work on America had encountered bitterly hostile criticism and denial
with respect to many of its statements. Finding that Mrs. Trollope's
account of various matters was corroborative of his own, Basil Hall for
this reason, as also from friendly motives, urged Mrs. Trollope to bring
out a work on America. "The Domestic Manners of the Americans" was the
result, and so immense was its success that at the age of fifty Mrs.
Trollope adopted literature as a profession.
In the eyes of the patriots of thirty years ago Mrs. Trollope committed
the unpardonable sin, when she published her book on America; and
certainly no country ever rendered itself more ridiculous than did ours,
when it made the welkin ring with cries of indignation. The sensible
American of to-day reads this same book and wonders how his countrymen
lashed themselves into such a violent rage. In her comments upon America
Mrs. Trollope is certainly frequently at fault, but unintentionally. She
firmly believed all that she wrote, and did _not_ romance, as Americans
were wont to declare. When she finds fault with the disgusting practice
of tobacco-chewing, assails the too common custom of dram-drinking, and
complains of a want of refinement in some parts of the country, she
certainly has the right on her side. When she speaks of Jefferson's
_dictum_, "All men are born free and equal," as a phrase of mischievous
sophistry, and refers to his posthumous works as a mass of mighty
mischiefs,--when she accuses us of being drearily cold and lacking
enthusiasm, and regards the American women as the most beautiful in the
world, but the least attractive,--we may naturally differ from her, but
we have no right to tyrannize over her convictions. That she bore us no
malice is the verdict of every one who knew her ever so slightly; and
her sons, who were greatly subjected to her influence, entertain the
kindest and most friendly sentiments towards the United States.
Mrs. Trollope's works, beginning with the "Domestic Manners of the
Americans," published in 1832, and ending with "Paris and London," which
appeared in 1856, amount to _one hundred and fourteen_ volumes, all, be
it remembered, written after her fiftieth year. Of her novels perhaps
the most successful and widely known were the "Vicar of Wrexhill," a
violent satire on the Evangelical religionists, published in
1837,--"Widow Barnaby," in 1839,--and "The Ward of Thorpe Combe," in
1847. "Michael Armstrong," printed in 1840, was written with a view to
assist the movement in favor of protection to the factory-operatives,
which resulted in the famous "Ten-Hour Bill." The descriptions were the
fruits of a personal visit to the principal seats of factory-labor. At
the time, this book created considerable sensation.
Two works of travel and social sketches, "Paris and the Parisians," and
"Vienna and the Austrians," were also very extensively read. With regard
to the second we deem it proper to observe that Mrs. Trollope suffered
herself to be so far dazzled by the very remarkable cordiality of her
reception in the exclusive society of Vienna, and by the flattering
intimacy with which she was honored by Prince Metternich and his circle,
as to have been led to regard the then dominant Austrian political and
social system in a more favorable light than was consistent with the
generally liberal tone of her sentiments and opinions.
Though late in becoming an author, Mrs. Trollope had at all periods of
her life been inclined to literary pursuits, and in early youth enjoyed
the friendship of many distinguished men, among whom were Mathias, the
well-known author of the "Pursuits of Literature," Dr. Nott, the Italian
scholar, one of the few foreigners who have been members of the Della
Crusca,--General Pepe, the celebrated defender of Venice, whom she knew
intimately for many years,--General Lafayette,--and others.
Both before and after she achieved literary celebrity, Mrs. Trollope was
very popular in society, for the pleasures of which she was especially
fitted by her talents. In Florence she gathered around her persons of
eminence, both foreign and native, and her interest in men and things
remained undiminished until within a very few years of her death. Even
at an advanced age her mind was ready to receive new ideas and to deal
with them candidly. We have in our possession letters written by her in
'54 and '55 on the much-abused subject of Spiritualism, which was then
in its infancy. They are addressed to an American literary gentleman
then resident in Florence, and give so admirable an idea of Mrs.
Trollope's clearness of mental vision and the universally inquisitive
tendency of her mind that we insert them at large.--Dec. 21st, 1854,
Mrs. Trollope writes: "I am afraid, my dear Sir, that I am about to take
an unwarrantable liberty by thus intruding on your time, but I must
trust to your indulgence for pardon. During the few minutes that I had
the pleasure of speaking with you, the other evening, on the subject of
spiritual visitations, there was in your conversation a tone so equally
removed from enthusiasm on one side and incredulity on the other that I
felt more satisfaction in listening to you than I have ever done when
this subject has been the theme. That so many thousands of educated and
intelligent people should yield their belief to so bold a delusion as
this must be, if there be _no_ occult cause at work, is inconceivable.
By _occult_ cause I mean, of course, nothing at all analogous to hidden
_trickery_, but to the interference of some power with which the earth
has been hitherto unacquainted. If it were not taking too great a
liberty, I would ask you to call upon me,... that I might have the
pleasure and advantage of having your opinion more at length upon one or
two points connected with this most curious subject." The desired
interview took place, and a week later Mrs. Trollope returned a pamphlet
on spiritual manifestations with the following note: "Many thanks, my
dear Sir, for your kindness in permitting me a leisurely perusal of the
inclosed. It is a very curious and interesting document, and I think it
would be impossible to read it without arriving at the conviction that
the writer deserves to be listened to with great attention and great
confidence. But as yet I feel that we have no sure ground under our
feet. The only idea that suggests itself to me is that the medium is in
a mesmeric condition; and after giving considerable time and attention
to these mysterious mesmeric symptoms, I am persuaded that a patient
liable to such influence is in a diseased state. It has often appeared
to me that the soul was _partially_, as it were, disentangled from the
body. I have watched the ---- sisters (the well-known patients of Dr.
Elliotson) for more than a year, during which interval they were
perfectly, as to the mind, in an abnormal state,--not recognizing
father, mother, or brothers, or remembering _anything_ connected with
the year preceding their mesmeric condition. They learned everything
which was submitted to their _intellect_ during this interval with
something very like _supernatural_ intelligence. Emma, another
well-known patient of Dr. Elliotson, constantly described herself, when
in a mesmeric state, as 'greatly better than well,' and this was always
said with a countenance expressive of very sublime happiness,--but as if
her hearers were not capable of comprehending it. I shall feel very
anxious to hear the results of your own experience; for it appears to me
that you are in a state of mind equally unlikely to mistake truth for
falsehood, or falsehood for truth." Upon receiving a second pamphlet
treating on the same subject, Mrs. Trollope wrote as follows: "The
document you have sent me, my dear Sir, is indeed full of interest. Had
it been less so, I should not have retained it so long. In speaking of a
state of mesmerism as being one of disease, I by no means infer that the
mesmeric influence is either the cause or effect of disease, but that
only diseased persons are liable to it. I have listened to statements
from more than one physician in great practice tending very clearly to
show that the manifestations of this semi-spiritual state are never
observed in perfectly healthy persons. One gentleman in large practice
told me that he had almost constantly perceived in the last stage of
pulmonary consumption a manifest brightening of the intellect; and
children, at the moment of passing from this state to that which follows
it, will often (as I well know) speak with a degree of high intelligence
that strongly suggests the idea that _there are moments when the two
conditions touch_. That the region next above us is occupied by the
souls of men about to be made perfect, I have not the shadow of a doubt.
The puzzling part of the present question is this,--Why do we get a dark
and uncertain peep at this stage of existence, when philosophy has so
long been excluded from it? and I am inclined to say in reply, 'Be
patient and be watchful, and we shall all know more anon.'"--Such is the
character of notes that Mrs. Trollope wrote at the age of seventy-five.
Mrs. Trollope realized from her writings the large sum of one hundred
thousand dollars; but generous tastes and a numerous family created as
large a demand as there was supply, and kept her pen constantly busy.
She wrote with a rapidity which seems to have been inherited by both her
sons, more particularly by Anthony Trollope. One of her novels was
written in three weeks; another she wrote at the bedside of a son dying
of consumption, she being bound by contract to finish the work at a
given time. Acting day and night as nurse, the overtasked mother was
obliged to stimulate her nervous system by a constant use of strong
coffee, and betweenwhiles would turn to the unfinished novel and write
of fictitious joys and sorrows while her own heart was bleeding for the
beloved son dying beside her. It was no doubt owing to this constant
taxation of the brain that her intellect was but a wreck of its former
self during the last four years of her life. During this time her
condition was but a living death, though she was physically well. She
was watched over and cared for with the most unselfish devotion by her
son Thomas Adolphus and his wife, who gave up all pleasures away from
home to be near their mother. The favorite reading in these last days
was her son Anthony's novels.
And Thomas Trollope, writing of his mother's death, says: "Though we
have been so long prepared for it, and though my poor dear mother has
been in fact dead to us for many months past, and though her life, free
from suffering as it was, was such as those who loved her could not have
wished prolonged, yet for all this the last separation brings a pang
with it. She was as good and dear a mother as ever man had; and few sons
have passed so large a portion of their lives in such intimate
association with their mother as I have for more than thirty years."
This is a noble record for both mother and son. To her children Mrs.
Trollope was a providence and support in all time of sorrow or
trouble,--a cause of prosperity, a confidant, a friend, and a companion.
A grateful American makes this humble offering to her memory in the name
of justice.
There is a villa too, near Florence, "on the link of Bellosguardo," as
dear from association as Villino Trollope. It has for a neighbor the
Villa Mont' Auto, where Hawthorne lived, and which he transformed by the
magic of his pen into the Monte Bene of the "Marble Faun." Not far off
is the "tower" wherein Aurora Leigh sought peace,--and found it. The
inmate of this villa was a little lady with blue-black hair and
sparkling jet eyes, a writer whose dawn is one of promise, a chosen
friend of the noblest and best, and on her terrace the Brownings, Walter
Savage Landor, and many choice spirits have sipped tea while their eyes
drank in such a vision of beauty as Nature and Art have never equalled
elsewhere.
"No sun could die, nor yet be born, unseen
By dwellers at my villa: morn and eve
Were magnified before us in the pure
Illimitable space and pause of sky,
Intense as angels' garments blanched with God,
Less blue than radiant. From the outer wall
Of the garden dropped the mystic floating gray
Of olive-trees, (with interruptions green
From maize and vine,) until 't was caught and torn
On that abrupt line of dark cypresses
Which signed the way to Florence. Beautiful
The city lay along the ample vale,--
Cathedral, tower and palace, piazza and street;
The river trailing like a silver cord
Through all, and curling loosely, both before
And after, over the whole stretch of land,
Sown whitely up and down its opposite slopes
With farms and villas."
What Aurora Leigh saw from her tower is almost a counterpart of what
Mrs. Browning gazed upon so often from the terrace of Villa Brichieri.
Florence without the Trollopes and our Lady of Bellosguardo would be
like bread without salt. A blessing, then, upon houses which have been
spiritual asylums to many forlorn Americans!--a blessing upon their
inmates, whose hearts are as large and whose hands are as open as their
minds are broad and catholic!