May 25th.--As I said last night, we left Foligno betimes in the morning,
which was bleak, chill, and very threatening, there being very little
blue sky anywhere, and the clouds lying heavily on some of the
mountain-ridges. The wind blew sharply right in U----'s face and mine,
as we occupied the coupe, so that there must have been a great deal of
the north in it. We drove through a wide plain--the Umbrian valley, I
suppose--and soon passed the old town of Spello, just touching its
skirts, and wondering how people, who had this rich and convenient plain
from which to choose a site, could think of covering a huge island of
rock with their dwellings,--for Spello tumbled its crooked and narrow
streets down a steep descent, and cannot well have a yard of even space
within its walls. It is said to contain some rare treasures of ancient
pictorial art.
I do not remember much that we saw on our route. The plains and the
lower hillsides seemed fruitful of everything that belongs to Italy,
especially the olive and the vine. As usual, there were a great many
shrines, and frequently a cross by the wayside. Hitherto it had been
merely a plain wooden cross; but now almost every cross was hung with
various instruments, represented in wood, apparently symbols of the
crucifixion of our Saviour,--the spear, the sponge, the crown of thorns,
the hammer, a pair of pincers, and always St. Peter's cock, made a
prominent figure, generally perched on the summit of the cross.
From our first start this morning we had seen mists in various quarters,
betokening that there was rain in those spots, and now it began to
spatter in our own faces, although within the wide extent of our prospect
we could see the sunshine falling on portions of the valley. A rainbow,
too, shone out, and remained so long visible that it appeared to have
made a permanent stain in the sky.
By and by we reached Assisi, which is magnificently situated for
pictorial purposes, with a gray castle above it, and a gray wall around
it, itself on a mountain, and looking over the great plain which we had
been traversing, and through which lay our onward way. We drove through
the Piazza Grande to an ancient house a little beyond, where a hospitable
old lady receives travellers for a consideration, without exactly keeping
an inn.
In the piazza we saw the beautiful front of a temple of Minerva,
consisting of several marble pillars, fluted, and with rich capitals
supporting a pediment. It was as fine as anything I had seen at Rome,
and is now, of course, converted into a Catholic church.
I ought to have said that, instead of driving straight to the old lady's,
we alighted at the door of a church near the city gate, and went in to
inspect some melancholy frescos, and thence clambered up a narrow street
to the cathedral, which has a Gothic front, old enough, but not very
impressive. I really remember not a single object that we saw within,
but am pretty certain that the interior had been stuccoed and
whitewashed. The ecclesiastics of old time did an excellent thing in
covering the interiors of their churches with brilliant frescos, thus
filling the holy places with saints and angels, and almost with the
presence of the Divinity. The modern ecclesiastics do the next best
thing in obliterating the wretched remnants of what has had its day and
done its office. These frescos might be looked upon as the symbol of the
living spirit that made Catholicism a true religion, and glorified it as
long as it did live; now the glory and beauty have departed from one and
the other.
My wife, U----, and Miss Shepard now set out with a cicerone to visit the
great Franciscan convent, in the church of which are preserved some
miraculous specimens, in fresco and in oils, of early Italian art; but as
I had no mind to suffer any further in this way, I stayed behind with
J----- and R-----, who we're equally weary of these things.
After they were gone we took a ramble through the city, but were almost
swept away by the violence of the wind, which struggled with me for my
hat, and whirled R----- before it like a feather. The people in the
public square seemed much diverted at our predicament, being, I suppose,
accustomed to these rude blasts in their mountain-home. However, the
wind blew in momentary gusts, and then became more placable till another
fit of fury came, and passed as suddenly as before. We walked out of the
same gate through which we had entered,--an ancient gate, but recently
stuccoed and whitewashed, in wretched contrast to the gray, venerable
wall through which it affords ingress,--and I stood gazing at the
magnificent prospect of the wide valley beneath. It was so vast that
there appeared to be all varieties of weather in it at the same instant;
fields of sunshine, tracts of storm,--here the coming tempest, there the
departing one. It was a picture of the world on a vast canvas, for there
was rural life and city life within the great expanse, and the whole set
in a frame of mountains,--the nearest bold and dust-net, with the rocky
ledges showing through their sides, the distant ones blue and dim,--so
far stretched this broad valley.
When I had looked long enough,--no, not long enough, for it would take a
great while to read that page,--we returned within the gate, and we
clambered up, past the cathedral and into the narrow streets above it.
The aspect of everything was immeasurably old; a thousand years would be
but a middle age for one of those houses, built so massively with huge
stones and solid arches, that I do not see how they are ever to tumble
down, or to be less fit for human habitation than they are now. The
streets crept between them, and beneath arched passages, and up and down
steps of stone or ancient brick, for it would be altogether impossible
for a carriage to ascend above the Grand Piazza, though possibly a donkey
or a chairman's mule might find foothold. The city seems like a stony
growth out of the hillside, or a fossilized city,--so old and singular it
is, without enough life and juiciness in it to be susceptible of decay.
An earthquake is the only chance of its ever being ruined, beyond its
present ruin. Nothing is more strange than to think that this now dead
city--dead, as regards the purposes for which men live nowadays--was,
centuries ago, the seat and birthplace almost of art, the only art in
which the beautiful part of the human mind then developed itself. How
came that flower to grow among these wild mountains? I do not conceive,
however, that the people of Assisi were ever much more enlightened or
cultivated on the side of art than they are at present. The
ecclesiastics were then the only patrons; and the flower grew here
because there was a great ecclesiastical garden in which it was sheltered
and fostered. But it is very curious to think of Assisi, a school of art
within, and mountain and wilderness without.
My wife and the rest of the party returned from the convent before noon,
delighted with what they had seen, as I was delighted not to have seen
it. We ate our dejeuner, and resumed our journey, passing beneath the
great convent, after emerging from the gate opposite to that of our
entrance. The edifice made a very good spectacle, being of great extent,
and standing on a double row of high and narrow arches, on which it is
built up from the declivity of the hill.
We soon reached the Church of St. Mary of the Angels, which is a modern
structure, and very spacious, built in place of one destroyed by an
earthquake. It is a fine church, opening out a magnificent space in its
nave and aisles; and beneath the great dome stands the small old chapel,
with its rude stone walls, in which St. Francis founded his order. This
chapel and the dome appear to have been the only portions of the ancient
church that were not destroyed by the earthquake. The dwelling of St.
Francis is said to be also preserved within the church; but we did not
see it, unless it were a little dark closet into which we squeezed to see
some frescos by La Spagna. It had an old wooden door, of which U----
picked off a little bit of a chip, to serve as a relic. There is a
fresco in the church, on the pediment of the chapel, by Overbeck,
representing the Assumption of the Virgin. It did not strike me as
wonderfully fine. The other pictures, of which there were many, were
modern, and of no great merit.
We pursued our way, and came, by and by, to the foot of the high hill on
which stands Perugia, and which is so long and steep that Gaetano took a
yoke of oxen to aid his horses in the ascent. We all, except my wife,
walked a part of the way up, and I myself, with J----- for my companion,
kept on even to the city gate,--a distance, I should think, of two or
three miles, at least. The lower part of the road was on the edge of the
hill, with a narrow valley on our left; and as the sun had now broken
out, its verdure and fertility, its foliage and cultivation, shone forth
in miraculous beauty, as green as England, as bright as only Italy.
Perugia appeared above us, crowning a mighty hill, the most picturesque
of cities; and the higher we ascended, the more the view opened before
us, as we looked back on the course that we had traversed, and saw the
wide valley, sweeping down and spreading out, bounded afar by mountains,
and sleeping in sun and shadow. No language nor any art of the pencil
can give an idea of the scene. When God expressed himself in the
landscape to mankind, he did not intend that it should be translated into
any tongue save his own immediate one. J----- meanwhile, whose heart is
now wholly in snail-shells, was rummaging for them among the stones and
hedges by the roadside; yet, doubtless, enjoyed the prospect more than he
knew. The coach lagged far behind us, and when it came up, we entered
the gate, where a soldier appeared, and demanded my passport. We drove
to the Grand Hotel de France, which is near the gate, and two fine little
boys ran beside the carriage, well dressed and well looking enough to
have been a gentleman's sons, but claiming Gaetano for their father. He
is an inhabitant of Perugia, and has therefore reached his own home,
though we are still little more than midway to our journey's end.
Our hotel proves, thus far, to be the best that we have yet met with. We
are only in the outskirts of Perugia; the bulk of the city, where the
most interesting churches and the public edifices are situated, being far
above us on the hill. My wife, U----, Miss Shepard, and R----- streamed
forth immediately, and saw a church; but J-----, who hates them, and I
remained behind; and, for my part, I added several pages to this volume
of scribble.
This morning was as bright as morning could be, even in Italy, and in
this transparent mountain atmosphere. We at first declined the services
of a cicerone, and went out in the hopes of finding our way to whatever
we wished to see, by our own instincts. This proved to be a mistaken
hope, however; and we wandered about the upper city, much persecuted by a
shabby old man who wished to guide us; so, at last, Miss Shepard went
back in quest of the cicerone at the hotel, and, meanwhile, we climbed to
the summit of the hill of Perugia, and, leaning over a wall, looked forth
upon a most magnificent view of mountain and valley, terminating in some
peaks, lofty and dim, which surely must be the Apennines. There again a
young man accosted us, offering to guide us to the Cambio or Exchange;
and as this was one of the places which we especially wished to see, we
accepted his services. By the by, I ought to have mentioned that we had
already entered a church (San Luigi, I believe), the interior of which we
found very impressive, dim with the light of stained and painted windows,
insomuch that it at first seemed almost dark, and we could only see the
bright twinkling of the tapers at the shrines; but, after a few minutes,
we discerned the tall octagonal pillars of the nave, marble, and
supporting a beautiful roof of crossed arches. The church was neither
Gothic nor classic, but a mixture of both, and most likely barbarous; yet
it had a grand effect in its tinted twilight, and convinced me more than
ever how desirable it is that religious edifices should have painted
windows.
The door of the Cambio proved to be one that we had passed several times,
while seeking for it, and was very near the church just mentioned, which
fronts on one side of the same piazza. We were received by an old
gentleman, who appeared to be a public officer, and found ourselves in a
small room, wainscoted with beautifully carved oak, roofed with a coved
ceiling, painted with symbols of the planets, and arabesqued in rich
designs by Raphael, and lined with splendid frescos of subjects,
scriptural and historical, by Perugino. When the room was in its first
glory, I can conceive that the world had not elsewhere to show, within so
small a space, such magnificence and beauty as were then displayed here.
Even now, I enjoyed (to the best of my belief, for we can never feel sure
that we are not bamboozling ourselves in such matters) some real pleasure
in what I saw; and especially seemed to feel, after all these ages, the
old painter's devout sentiment still breathing forth from the religious
pictures, the work of a hand that had so long been dust.
When we had looked long at these, the old gentleman led us into a chapel,
of the same size as the former room, and built in the same fashion,
wainscoted likewise with old oak. The walls were also frescoed, entirely
frescoed, and retained more of their original brightness than those we
had already seen, although the pictures were the production of a somewhat
inferior hand, a pupil of Perugino. They seemed to be very striking,
however, not the less so, that one of them provoked an unseasonable
smile. It was the decapitation of John the Baptist; and this holy
personage was represented as still on his knees, with his hands clasped
in prayer, although the executioner was already depositing the head in a
charger, and the blood was spouting from the headless trunk, directly, as
it were, into the face of the spectator.
While we were in the outer room, the cicerone who first offered his
services at the hotel had come in; so we paid our chance guide, and
expected him to take his leave. It is characteristic of this idle
country, however, that if you once speak to a person, or connect yourself
with him by the slightest possible tie, you will hardly get rid of him by
anything short of main force. He still lingered in the room, and was
still there when I came away; for, having had as many pictures as I could
digest, I left my wife and U---- with the cicerone, and set out on a
ramble with J-----. We plunged from the upper city down through some of
the strangest passages that ever were called streets; some of them,
indeed, being arched all over, and, going down into the unknown darkness,
looked like caverns; and we followed one of them doubtfully, till it
opened out upon the light. The houses on each side were divided only by
a pace or two, and communicated with one another, here and there, by
arched passages. They looked very ancient, and may have been inhabited
by Etruscan princes, judging from the massiveness of some of the
foundation stones. The present inhabitants, nevertheless, are by no
means princely,--shabby men, and the careworn wives and mothers of the
people,--one of whom was guiding a child in leading-strings through these
antique alleys, where hundreds of generations have trod before those
little feet. Finally we came out through a gateway, the same gateway at
which we entered last night.
I ought to have mentioned, in the narrative of yesterday, that we crossed
the Tiber shortly before reaching Perugia, already a broad and rapid
stream, and already distinguished by the same turbid and mud-puddly
quality of water that we see in it at Rome. I think it will never be so
disagreeable to me hereafter, now that I find this turbidness to be its
native color, and not (like that of the Thames) accruing from city sewers
or any impurities of the lowlands.
As I now remember, the small Chapel of Santa Maria degl' Angeli seems to
have been originally the house of St. Francis.
May 29th.--This morning we visited the Church of the Dominicans, where we
saw some quaint pictures by Fra Angelico, with a good deal of religious
sincerity in them; also a picture of St. Columba by Perugino, which
unquestionably is very good. To confess the truth, I took more interest
in a fair Gothic monument, in white marble, of Pope Benedict XII.,
representing him reclining under a canopy, while two angels draw aside
the curtain, the canopy being supported by twisted columns, richly
ornamented. I like this overflow and gratuity of device with which
Gothic sculpture works out its designs, after seeing so much of the
simplicity of classic art in marble.
We then tried to find the Church of San Pietro in Martire, but without
success, although every person of whom we inquired immediately attached
himself or herself to us, and could hardly be got rid of by any efforts
on our part. Nobody seemed to know the church we wished for, but all
directed us to another Church of San Pietro, which contains nothing of
interest; whereas the right church is supposed to contain a celebrated
picture by Perugino.
Finally, we ascended the hill and the city proper of Perugia (for our
hotel is in one of the suburbs), and J----- and I set out on a ramble
about the city. It was market-day, and the principal piazza, with the
neighboring streets, was crowded with people. . . .
The best part of Perugia, that in which the grand piazzas and the
principal public edifices stand, seems to be a nearly level plateau on
the summit of the hill; but it is of no very great extent, and the
streets rapidly run downward on either side. J----- and I followed one
of these descending streets, and were led a long way by it, till we at
last emerged from one of the gates of the city, and had another view of
the mountains and valleys, the fertile and sunny wilderness in which this
ancient civilization stands.
On the right of the gate there was a rude country-path, partly overgrown
with grass, bordered by a hedge on one side, and on the other by the gray
city wall, at the base of which the track kept onward. We followed it,
hoping that it would lead us to some other gate by which we might
re-enter the city; but it soon grew so indistinct and broken, that it
was evidently on the point of melting into somebody's olive-orchard or
wheat-fields or vineyards, all of which lay on the other side of the
hedge; and a kindly old woman of whom I inquired told me (if I rightly
understood her Italian) that I should find no further passage in that
direction. So we turned back, much broiled in the hot sun, and only now
and then relieved by the shadow of an angle or a tower.
A lame beggar-man sat by the gate, and as we passed him J----- gave him
two baiocchi (which he himself had begged of me to buy an orange with),
and was loaded with the pauper's prayers and benedictions as we entered
the city. A great many blessings can be bought for very little money
anywhere in Italy; and whether they avail anything or no, it is pleasant
to see that the beggars have gratitude enough to bestow them in such
abundance.
Of all beggars I think a little fellow, who rode beside our carriage on a
stick, his bare feet scampering merrily, while he managed his steed with
one hand, and held out the other for charity, howling piteously the
while, amused me most.