In our visits to the different churches in Ferrara we noticed devotion
in classes of people who are devout nowhere else in Italy. Not only
came solid-looking business men to say their prayers, but gay young
dandies, who knelt and repeated their orisons and then rose and went
seriously out. In Venice they would have posted themselves against a
pillar, sucked the heads of their sticks, and made eyes at the young
ladies kneeling near them. This degree of religion was all the more
remarkable in Ferrara, because that city had been so many years
under the Pope, and His Holiness contrives commonly to prevent the
appearance of religion in young men throughout his dominions.
Valery speaks of the delightful society which he met in the gray old
town; and it is said that Ferrara has an unusual share of culture in
her wealthy class, which is large. With such memories of learning and
literary splendor as belong to her, it would be strange if she did
not in some form keep alive the sacred flame. But, though there may
be refinement and erudition in Ferrara, she has given no great name to
modern Italian literature. Her men of letters seem to be of that race
of grubs singularly abundant in Italy,--men who dig out of archives
and libraries some topic of special and momentary interest and print
it, unstudied and unphilosophized. Their books are material, not
literature, and it is marvelous how many of them are published. A
writer on any given subject can heap together from them a mass of fact
and anecdote invaluable in its way; but it is a mass without life or
light, and must be vivified by him who uses it before it can serve the
world, which does not care for its dead local value. It remains to be
seen whether the free speech and free press of Italy can reawaken the
intellectual activity of the cities which once gave the land so many
literary capitals.
What numbers of people used to write verses in Ferrara! By operation
of the principle which causes things concerning whatever subject you
happen to be interested in to turn up in every direction, I found a
volume of these dead-and-gone immortals at a book-stall, one day, in
Venice. It is a curiously yellow and uncomfortable volume of the year
1703, printed all in italics. I suppose there are two hundred odd
rhymers selected from in that book,--and how droll the most of them
are, with their unmistakable traces of descent from Ariosto, Tasso,
and Guarini! What acres of enameled meadow there are in those pages!
Brooks enough to turn all the mills in the world go purling through
them. I should say some thousands of nymphs are constantly engaged
in weaving garlands there, and the swains keep such a piping on those
familiar notes,--_Amore, dolore, crudele_, and _miele_. Poor little
poets! they knew no other tunes. Do not now weak voices twitter from a
hundred books, in unconscious imitation of the hour's great singers?
I think some of the pleasantest people in Italy are the army
gentlemen. There is the race's gentleness in their ways, in spite of
their ferocious trade, and an American freedom of style. They brag in
a manner that makes one feel at home immediately; and met in travel,
they are ready to render any little kindness.
The other year at Reggio (which is not far from Modena) we stopped to
dine at a restaurant where the whole garrison had its coat off and was
playing billiards, with the exception of one or two officers, who were
dining. These rose and bowed as we entered their room, and when the
waiter pretended that such and such dishes were out (in Italy the
waiter, for some mysterious reason, always pretends that the best
dishes are out), they bullied him for the honor of Italy, and made him
bring them to us. Indeed, I am afraid his life was sadly harassed by
those brave men. We were in deep despair at finding no French bread,
and the waiter swore with the utmost pathos that there was none; but
as soon as his back was turned, a tightly laced little captain rose
and began to forage for the bread. He opened every drawer and cupboard
in the room, and finding none, invaded another room, captured several
loaves from the plates laid there, and brought them back in triumph,
presenting them to us amid the applause of his comrades. The dismay of
the waiter, on his return, was ineffable.
Three officers, who dined with us at the _table d'hôte_ of the Stella
d'Oro in Ferrara (and excellent dinners were those we ate there), were
visibly anxious to address us, and began not uncivilly, but still
in order that we should hear, to speculate on our nationality among
themselves. It appeared that we were Germans; for one of these
officers, who had formerly been in the Austrian service at Vienna,
recognized the word _bitter_ in our remarks on the _beccafichi_. As I
did not care to put these fine fellows to the trouble of hating us for
others' faults, I made bold to say that we were not Germans, and to
add that _bitter_ was also an English word. Ah! yes, to be sure, one
of them admitted; when he was with the Sardinian army in the Crimea,
he had frequently heard the word used by the English soldiers. He
nodded confirmation of what he said to his comrades, and then was good
enough to display what English he knew. It was barely sufficient to
impress his comrades; but it led the way to a good deal of talk in
Italian.
"I suppose you gentlemen are all Piedmontese?" I said.
"Not at all," said our Crimean. "I am from Como; this gentleman, il
signor Conte, (il signor Conte bowed,) is of Piacenza; and our friend
across the table is Genoese. The army is doing a great deal to unify
Italy. We are all Italians now, and you see we speak Italian, and not
our dialects, together."
My cheap remark that it was a fine thing to see them all united under
one flag, after so many ages of mutual hate and bloodshed, turned the
talk upon the origin of the Italian flag; and that led our Crimean to
ask what was the origin of the English colors.
"I scarcely know," I said. "We are Americans."
Our friends at once grew more cordial. "Oh, Americani!" They had great
pleasure of it. Did we think Signor Leencolen would be reëlected?