In favour of either the second or third hypothesis there is no direct

evidence whatever. If Ferdinando de' Medici had to be tried for

the murder, he must according to all the evidence we have, be most

undoubtedly acquitted. But nobody at the time seems to have believed in

the two deaths having happened from natural causes. Then the popular

hypothesis was the second. Notwithstanding the certificates of court

physicians, the statements of the progress of the malady, and the

post–mortem examinations, people found it very difficult to believe

that two such opportune deaths should occur all but simultaneously

by natural causes, the assigned nature of which did not admit of any

question of contagion. If anybody was so unlucky as to have conceived

the idea, that this death might have "come riding" to Poggio–a–Cajano

from Rome, of course he very carefully suppressed all utterance of it.

But it was universally believed that Bianca was capable of any amount

of treachery, craft, and crime. The story of the poisoned pastry,

and the dramatic events it gave rise to, made exactly one of those

narratives, rich in varied emotions and in retributive justice, which

storytellers like to tell, and their audience like to hear. And it was

perfectly safe to cast as much odium as any brain could imagine on the

hated Bianca. To do so indeed was to fall in with the court humour, and

to share the feelings of the new sovereign, who would never speak of

her, or permit her to be spoken of as the late Grand Duchess, and who

never himself named her otherwise, than as "the wretch Bianca,"—_la

pessima Bianca_.[220]

The second hypothesis therefore was the popular one among those who

could not accept the official account of the matter as credible, and

has continued to be the received version with the numerous novelists

and dramatists who have made increment of the tragedy.

In favour of the third, it has been already admitted that no tittle of

_direct_ evidence can be produced. The value of the guess hazarded at

the meaning conveyed in those enigmatical phrases at the commencement

of Signor Soderini's letter will be different to different minds.

Signor Guerrazzi, the discoverer and first editor of this extraordinary

letter, has evidently not been struck by the idea that any such sense

could be seen in the words. On the contrary, he considers the letter

as conclusive against the poisoning, either by the Cardinal or by

Bianca. But it may be stated on the other hand, that the interpretation

above suggested has seemed probable to other Italians versed in the

history of the time, and practised in extracting their secrets from the

wrappages in which writers who lived under the survey of unscrupulous

despots were commonly wont to conceal their meaning.

Further, in a subsequent part of this same letter, which is of great

length, occupying no less than nineteen closely printed post octavo

pages, there are statements which seem hardly compatible with the

supposition that Francesco died of an illness, which gradually reached

its conclusion at the end of several days.

"He—the Grand Duke—made no will either before, or at this time.[221]

Only he signed an order for fifty thousand crowns to be distributed

among the court servants. Father Maranto confessed him; and he tells

me, that the Grand Duke did not specify the number of crowns to be

distributed, but desired in general terms, that the servants should

be remunerated, and that it grieved him that he could not live long

enough to do it himself. The confessor _was not in time_ to remind him,

by asking if he wished to make any further provision for his friends;

for he shut his eyes, and could neither move his tongue, nor shake his

head."

Surely all these evidences of haste, and deficiency of time for the

arrangement of matters, which the dying man professes his wish to

have settled, if a few more moments had been allowed him, are scarcely

compatible with the supposition of an illness of several days.

[Sidenote: PROBABILITIES.]

At a subsequent page of his letter, Signor Soderini drops a few words

respecting the new Grand Duke's manner some hours after the death of

Francesco, which are not without their significance. He makes the

number of hours which elapsed between the two deaths eleven only.

Francesco's death at "four hours and a half after sunset," would have

taken place according to our mode of keeping time between nine and ten.

And at three in the morning, says the letter, the Cardinal left Bianca

still living, "and at half–past seven arrived at the Prato gate." (He

was therefore four hours and a half travelling twelve miles);—"where

meeting the first Captain of the Lancers, he said doubtingly,[222] with

fear, and a trembling voice,—as I suppose by reason of the suddenness

of the change,—'Henceforward, Captain, you must be as faithful to me,

as you have hitherto been to my brother.'"

Signor Soderini may attribute, since he deemed it safest to do so, the

new Duke's trepidation and fear–marked manner to an innocent cause. But

it can hardly but be felt, that such a manner is a weight in the scale

against a man, when the probabilities of his having come fresh from the

perpetration of fratricide are being balanced.

Then the question of motives must be taken into consideration; and it

must be seen at once that the reasons Ferdinando had for wishing Bianca

removed were of the very strongest nature. For the last ten years and

more, she had been a constant thorn in his side, the ever recurring

difficulty in all his schemes for aggrandising the family, the wreck

of all his strivings for the support of the decorum and respectability

of the Medicean name, and the ground of discord and hatred between

him and his brother. She had made the Grand Duke the laughing–stock

of Italy, and odious as well as contemptible to his own subjects.

Her blood–stained practising had succeeded in foisting one base–born

plebeian of alien blood into the family. She was continually attempting

still worse frauds to wrong him of his birthright; and though by the

exertion of extreme vigilance her schemes had been hitherto foiled,

what possible security, short of her death, could be had against

the success of future attempts of the same sort. A De Medici, and a

sixteenth century Cardinal may well have persuaded himself that he was

justified under the circumstances, in adopting the only possible means

of providing against such treason, pregnant with such results.

But his brother? Can it be shown that Ferdinando had sufficient motive

to wish his brother's death, as to favour the probability that he was

his murderer? It can only be said, that there was old hate between

them, constantly stimulated and embittered by fresh provocations of the

most galling sort on the part of the elder brother; hate, made more

dangerous by the necessity for carefully suppressing all manifestation

of it for long years of self–restraining dissimulation; that from

the manner in which Francesco had received the proposals of a second

marriage after the death of his first wife, there was very little room

to hope that Bianca's death would be followed by any marriage, which

might put the prospects of the family on a satisfactory footing; that

to have taken off Bianca and left her husband alive would have been an

exceedingly dangerous step, for _then_ the inquiries, the suspicions,

the post–mortem examinations, and the investigations, would, of course,

have been of a very different sort, and, under the circumstances, very

difficult to deal with; that, finally, last, though far from least,

Ferdinando was a De Medici.

[Sidenote: HER BURIAL.]

That shrewd and sagacious old man, Pope Sixtus V., saw at once,[223] on

hearing of what had happened, that suspicion of the double murder would

fall on the Cardinal; and it may perhaps be said, without much chance

of inaccuracy, that the balance of opinion among those most qualified

to judge, has, in modern times, inclined in that direction.

But to return from the region of conjecture to that of historical

certainty, a few words will suffice to tell all that remains of

Bianca's story. As soon as the breath had left her body, the Bishop

Abbioso, who had been left at Poggio–a–Cajano by Ferdinando, wrote to

him:

"This instant, at eight o'clock—'quindici ore'—her Most Serene Highness

the Grand Duchess passed to another life. The present messenger is sent

in haste to receive the orders of your Highness as to the disposition

of her body."

Orders were sent back that the body should "_be kept intact till the

evening_," and then opened, as has been said. The same night it was

buried, "so that no memorial of her should remain;" the new sovereign's

reply to the application for orders on this head being, "We will have

none of her among our dead!"

The hatred of the Florentines for both Francesco and Bianca was

intense. If anything, the latter was yet more detested than her

husband. In addition to all the grounds of hatred common to both of

them, she was a foreigner, and "a witch," a practiser of black art. And

this accusation, more than aught else, made the burden of the abuse

that was heaped upon her. Of course, it was not safe to say much of the

deceased sovereign. But satirists, libellers, pasquinade–writers, and

epigraph–mongers, had full licence to exercise their wit at the expense

of the "pessima Bianca."

Here are specimens of their expressions of the popular estimate of her,

which were current in the city immediately after her death. They are

taken from the same letter of Signor Soderini, so often quoted:

"Qui giace in un avel pien di malie

E pien di vizi la Bianca Cappella,

Bagasica, strega, maliarda e fella,

Che sempre favorì furfanti e spie."

In English:

"Here in a grave, brimful of vices foul

And evil sorceries, Bianca lies,

A huzzy, witch, and mistress of fell spells;

In life the dearest friend of rogues and spies."

Another runs as follows:

"In questa tomba, in questa oscura buca

Ch'è fossa a quei che non hanno sepoltura,

Opra d'incanti, e di malie fattura

Giace la Bianca, moglie del Granduca."

Which may stand, if the absence of the rhyme be excused, in English

thus:

"Within this tomb, this undistinguished hole,

The grave of those who sepulture have none,

That worker of black arts and evil charms,

Bianca lies, the wife of our Grand Duke."

[Sidenote: FERDINANDO SUCCEEDS.]

The Cardinal Ferdinando succeeded to his brother's throne without

disturbance or difficulty; slipped off his priesthood by dispensation,

seeing that it was for the benefit of mankind that he should do so;

manifested, as Sismondi says,[224] "as much talent for government as is

compatible with the absence of all virtue, and as much pride, as can

exist without nobility of mind;" merited the affection of his subjects

by taking off, among sundry mint and cumin dues, the tax upon cat's

meat;[225] married Cristina, daughter of Charles Duke of Lorraine, and

succeeded in accomplishing the great and beneficent task of preserving

the Medicean stock to Italy and mankind.

OLYMPIA PAMFILI.

(1594—1656.)

Pope Joan rediviva—Olympia's outlook on life—Her mode of "opening

the oyster"—She succeeds in opening it—Olympia's son—Olympia at home

in the Vatican—Her trade—A Cardinal's escape from the purple—Olympia

under a cloud—Is once more at the head of the field—And in at the

death—A conclave—Olympia's star wanes—Pœna pede claudo.

In the ninth century, the outlying Catholic world to the north of the

Alps was horrified by reports, that a woman was occupying the chair of

Peter, and the office of Heaven's vicegerent. A fact so scandalous and

so extraordinary found ready credence among the monks and prelates of

Germany. The reports of pious pilgrims who had returned from Rome, and

testified that Christ's church was governed by a woman, were cited with

every appearance of good faith and authenticity. And the story of Pope

Joan, thus generated, rapidly acquired a worldwide acceptation, and

was for ages believed, both within and without the pale of the Church,

as a veritable historical fact. And a vast mass of learned, satirical,

controversial, scandalous, and antiquarian letter–press has resulted

from it.

[Sidenote: THE POPE JOAN STORY.]

But the huge fiction, which grew to be so large and so strong as to

require the united efforts of several able literary men armed with many

heavy volumes to kill it, was, like so many another dangerous mistake,

a very small and innocent error at its birth. The pious pilgrim _had_

come back from Rome. He _had_ brought with him a whole budget of

stories of the scandalous corruptions and wickedness he had witnessed

in the metropolis of Christendom. He _had_ asserted, and probably

frequently repeated, that a female ruled the Church. He _had_ asserted

the astounding fact, that a woman was now Pope of Rome. And the

scandalised reporter of the abominations he had witnessed in that far

distant southern land across the mountains, spoke with all sincerity.

He little dreamed of letting loose a falsehood, which as soon as ever

it had escaped from "the enclosure of his teeth," as old Homer says,

forthwith began to race with unovertakeable swiftness round the world,

like the unbagged demon of a mediæval goblin–story. He simply spoke

figuratively. And his simple–minded, untravelled, wonder–loving auditor

or auditors received his words literally.

That was all! But with what a mass of infinitely more deadly error has

that same little difference between the speaker and his hearers, filled

the world!

The ninth century pilgrim merely intended to convey to his hearers, in

the strongest manner he could, the fact that the Pontiff was so wholly

influenced and governed by a woman, that she held all the power in her

hands, and _might be said_, indeed, to be Pope herself, rather than the

weak puppet who was her slave.

And if in the seventeenth century communications between one part of

the world and another had been as rare and as difficult as in the

ninth; if men had been then as ignorant, as simple, and greedy of the

marvellous; if the press, which is to such error what a terrier is to

a rat, had not been in existence, the historians of Europe might have

chronicled a second she–pontiff, the "Pope Olympia," as having ascended

the papal throne in the year 1644. For assuredly no John, Benedict, nor

Boniface of the worst and darkest age of the Church ever lived more

scandalously under petticoat government, or gave greater occasion to

the assertion, that a woman was the real Pope in his stead, than did

Giovanni Batista Pamfili, who was elected in that year.

Pope Olympia was born in 1594, at Viterbo. A daughter of the noble and

ancient, but poor, family of the Maidalchini, she was, as the daughters

of impoverished nobles generally were, destined for the Church from

her infancy, and educated in a convent. But as this branch of the

ecclesiastical profession could lead to nothing, at the best, more

exalted than the station of a lady Abbess, Donna Olympia, who felt

herself to have a soul above bead–counting, intimated, with a firmness

and decision all her own, her intention of marrying. And an alliance

was accordingly formed for her with a provincial gentleman, as noble

and as poor as herself. As Giovanni Batista Pamfili, afterwards Pope

by the name of Innocent X., was past eighty when he died in 1655, and

must accordingly have been born in or before the year 1575; and as his

brother, Donna Olympia's husband, must have been an elder brother, it

follows that this poor noble, whom the ambitious and shrewd lady chose

to wed, rather than accept the nullity of a cloister life, was more

than nineteen years her senior. Nor does it appear that he had any

requisite, either of station, function, or talent, which might have

seemed capable of affording assistance to Olympia's views of rising in

the world.

[Sidenote: SACERDOTAL CELIBACY.]

But the noble Roman maiden, who had already, we are told, given a

specimen of her talent for governing, by exerting sway over her

companions in the convent seminary, had looked out on the Roman world

with a shrewd and observant eye, and knew well what she was about.

What had the poor country noble to render him worthy of Olympia's hand

and adapted to her views? He had a brother. Men who marry don't rise

in the ecclesiastical states. And you can't marry a Cardinal, nor

even a Bishop. Yet to hook yourself more or less indissolubly on to

something of this sort, is the only possible means by which "excelsior"

aspirations can be gratified in the world of Rome.

Man, even when tonsured and gowned, was not made to live alone. And

although sacerdotal policy has with marvellous success contrived

to cut off its priests from the great family of mankind, fence out

their hearts from all the most sanctifying and ennobling sympathies

of humanity, and make their interests, affections, prejudices,

ambitions, always distinct from, and often hostile to those of

their fellow–creatures;—though all this has with fatal skill been

accomplished by the ordinance of celibacy; still in this, as in every

other case of battle with the laws of nature, the measure of success

accomplished does not attain to the reversal of these laws; but is

limited to causing them to operate evilly instead of beneficially for

mankind.

The priest–world of Rome accordingly, while deprived of the legitimate

and beneficial influence of woman, has in most ages been more subjected

than other social systems to her abnormal and mischievous power. And

Donna Olympia was perfectly well aware, that the needful hooking–on

process above mentioned might be accomplished with sufficient solidity

for her purpose without any coupling gear of Hymen's forging.

But, as injury, done to any wheel or spring of a beautiful piece of

mechanism, deranges the working of the whole, fatally in proportion

to the perfection of the entire contrivance, so the celibacy law in

its fight against nature turns other portions of human passion to evil

issues, which otherwise and elsewhere work to good. The sacred family

tie, which in other communities produces so much that is great and

virtuous, becomes the abomination of nepotism at Rome, and affords

the only other channel besides the one alluded to above, by which

the grandeurs and pomps and wealth of sacerdotal success can be made

available to the weaker sex.

To command, therefore, both these avenues to the temple of Fortuna

Sacerdotalis—to hang on to the gown by both these ties of connection—to

contrive by one step to obtain the means of action in both these

ways—this was the master–stroke, which the high–looking Roman maiden

accomplished by her marriage with the poor and no longer young noble to

whom she gave her hand. The husband with his poverty–stricken coronet

was in himself altogether useless to his aspiring wife's ambitious

views. But of a brother–in–law with the tonsure, something might be

made. A priest, noble, not without capacity, unburdened with scruples,

already employed in some subaltern affairs, of malleable material—give

her such an one for an ally, and the papal court for an arena, and

Donna Olympia felt, that she could do the rest.

[Sidenote: ROMAN HISTORIANS.]

It is curious, and characteristic of Roman life and literature, that we

are unable to ascertain what manner of man, as to outward appearance,

was this "onestissimo vice–marito,"[226] to whom Olympia thus united

herself. Hatreds run high at Rome. And though material daggers are not

wanting there on occasion, the natural instinct of gowned nature is to

_speak_ them. The Church, as we know, abhors blood, and her sons wear

no swords. But bloodless calumny is a quiet, decorous weapon, always at

hand, perfectly compatible with sacerdotal proprieties, and unsparingly

used accordingly to gratify partisan rancour, in a state of society

in which every man's hopes and fortunes depend on party successes

or failures. The historical value of Roman contemporary writers,

therefore, is often very doubtful. And even in a matter so unimportant,

so matter–of–fact, and so easily ascertainable as to the stature of a

Pope, we are left in uncertainty by the conflicting statements of his

contemporaries. While those, who profited by and therefore approved of

the election of Innocent X., represent him as a man of tall stature

and majestic port, dignified in bearing, and of venerable aspect, the

greater number who suffered by, and hated him, assure us that he was

short, deformed, and hideously ugly in feature.

The discrepancy in testimony is more valuably instructive than certain

information on the subject in dispute would have been.

No such doubt, however, obscures the fact, that his career abundantly

justified the wisdom of Donna Olympia's speculation. Between them they

accomplished what certainly neither of them would have been able to

do asunder. The partnership was a highly "successful" one. Acting

with wise docility, entirely by his able sister–in–law's advice, the

rising churchman soon became a man of note; was employed in various

affairs of state; charged with a diplomatic mission to Spain (which

though directed, as far as letters could avail, by Olympia, yet led

the diplomatist to complain, that things did not go so well with him

without her at his side); and, finally, was made Cardinal in 1629, when

he was about fifty–four, and she thirty–five years of age.

Olympia's foot had thus gained the first round of the ladder, which

might lead her to the consummation of her highest hopes. But the

climbing was arduous! Now was the time to put forth all her ability,

her knowledge of the Roman world, and of priestly nature.

It was fifteen years from Pamfili's nomination to the purple, to his

election to the papacy. And these years were to be spent, under his

guardian angel's tutorship, in carefully studied appearances and

unsleeping vigilance. His life was to be a continual canvassing,

without permitting the smallest appearance of overt candidateship for

the great prize to appear.

To be chosen the infallible head of Christ's church, to hold the

power of the keys, and be Heaven's vicegerent on earth, he of all the

Christians on it!—how was he to cause such a choice to fall on him?—how

appear to be the best, the most devout, the wisest, the most learned,

or even the ablest man for the purpose? Donna Olympia knew better than

to suppose that it was necessary or even desirable to appear anything

of all this. She knew that there would be candidates in the conclave

relying on none of such good gifts, but solely on the backing of the

great powers of Europe. She knew that her candidate would not be

looked to by either of these pope–making monarchs. But she knew also,

that their influence might neutralise the power of each other, and that

in such a case some man, who was obnoxious to no party, feared by none,

and deemed a safe compromise by all, might have a very promising chance

of finding himself elected, as many a Pope has been on the _pis–aller_

principle.

[Sidenote: ELECTION OF INNOCENT X.]

This was the game which the shrewd Olympia played and won. When

the great Barberini Pope, Urban VIII., died, after a long papacy

of twenty–one years, neither of the great parties in Europe, as

represented by their friends and creatures among the Cardinals,

was strong enough to make its own Pope in spite of the determined

opposition of its opponent. The Conclave was at a dead lock. And at

last a compromise was found in the election of Innocent X., then

seventy, or all but seventy years old. The real acting Pope, Olympia,

was just fifty.

There were eleven years of harvest–time before her for the gathering in

of the crop, which she had spent her life in assiduously preparing. The

time might easily have been less, and she could scarcely have expected

that it should be more; for the new Pope was already an infirm man, and

Olympia lost no time in making her hay while the Roman sun shone.

Her husband had died some time previously, leaving her one son, the

Prince Camillo, who was forthwith made a Cardinal. The step was a

strange one, and quite in discord with the ordinary traditions of Roman

family policy. For Camillo was the sole scion of the Pamfili race, at

least of the descendants of the Pope's father; and, though the purple

might lead to more immediate personal distinction, the continuation

of the family name was cut off by this means, and the usual master

passion of an ambitious Italian noble frustrated. The making Camillo a

Cardinal, moreover, seemed still more unaccountable, when the personal

qualities of the young man were considered. For he was so wholly

uneducated, and incapable, that not even a Papal uncle could succeed

in thrusting greatness upon him. His nomination thus took from him the

capability of serving the family interests in the only way in which he

was available, by continuing the race and the name; while it exposed

him and his uncle and mother to a host of mortifications arising from

his gross and even rustic incapacity. The total incompetence and

stupidity manifested by him, when it was attempted to entrust to his

hands any of the business that usually fell to the lot of a Cardinal

nephew, was such as to cause constant trouble and humiliation to

Innocent, who, we read, rarely met him without irritable chidings.

The motive of this ill–judged promotion is to be found probably in the

peculiar nature of Olympia's ambition. Unlike other Italian ambitions,

which almost always concentrated themselves on the building up or

aggrandising a family name, that of Donna Olympia seems to have been

wholly personal; the love of power, and still more strongly the love of

wealth, for the sake of her own individual enjoyment of them.

[Sidenote: AT THE VATICAN.]

Fifteen centuries of Papal government had habituated mankind to see

without surprise in Heaven's vicar on earth an amount of dereliction

of duty, and an enormity of distance between profession and practice,

such as has never been recorded in history, or exhibited to the world

in any other department of its affairs. Yet Europe was startled at the

novelty of the position assumed by Olympia immediately on Innocent's

elevation. When, according to Roman custom, as soon as the election

of the new Pope was known, the populace rushed to his palace to make

permitted plunder of its contents, the lady Olympia received them, and

flung open the doors to them—having, as we are told, first taken the

precaution of removing all that was of much value, in anticipation of

the event. She accompanied the new Pope to the Vatican, and established

herself there as its mistress! No step of domestic government or

foreign policy decided on, no grace, favour, or promotion accorded,

no punishment inflicted, was the pontiff's own work. His invaluable

sister–in–law did all. He was absolutely a puppet in her hands. The

keys of St. Peter were strung to her girdle; and the only function in

which she probably never interfered, was blessing the people!

The great object of her unceasing care and diplomacy was, to keep at

a distance from Innocent every person and every influence which could

either lessen her own, or go shares in the profits to be extracted

from it. For this, after all, was the great and ultimate scope of her

exertions. To secure the profits of the papacy in hard cash; this was

the problem. No appointment to office of any kind was made, except in

consideration of a proportionable sum paid down into her own coffers.

This often amounted to three or four years revenue of the place to be

granted. Bishoprics and benefices were sold as fast as they became

vacant. One story is related of an unlucky disciple of Simon, who, on

treating with the Popess for a very valuable see, just fallen vacant,

and hearing from her a price, at which it might be his, far exceeding

all that he could command, persuaded the members of his family to sell

all they had for the purpose of making this profitable investment. The

price was paid, and the bishopric was given him; but with a fearful

resemblance to the case of Ananias, he died within the year; and his

ruined family saw the see a second time sold by the insatiable and

incorrigible Olympia. The incident only served her as a hint always

to exact cash down; and not to content herself with a yearly payment

from the accruing revenue. The criminal judges in Rome were directed

to punish criminals of all degrees in purse instead of person; and

the fines all were paid over with business–like exactitude to the

all–powerful favourite.

As Innocent became older and rapidly more infirm, the incapability of

his nephew became more and more a source of complaint and annoyance to

him. And the young man himself seems to have been weary of a position,

which exposed him to ceaseless objurgations, and to the contempt of all

Rome. For the escape from it, which he effected, appears to have been

of his own plotting. This was nothing less than the resignation of his

Cardinal's hat, obtaining a release from holy orders, and marrying the

recently widowed Princess Rosano, one of the largest fortunes, and most

desirable matches in Rome. So anxious was Innocent, it would seem, to

get rid of his nephew from the court, that he dared to conspire with

him to effect this scheme without the knowledge of Donna Olympia. It

was accomplished with all speed and secrecy. And Camillo had to tell

his mother, that he was neither cardinal nor priest any longer, but

the husband of the beautiful and wealthy Princess Rosano. Olympia's

rage was extreme; the more so, because she feared that the Princess,

who was known as a woman of much capacity, as well as of great beauty,

might not impossibly supplant her at the Vatican. But Innocent had no

thought of liberating himself from his servitude; and was only too glad

to make amends for his share of what had been done, and obtain peace

by banishing his nephew and new niece from Rome. As there was nothing

in the marriage with the Princess that might not have naturally seemed

to the pontiff extremely desirable for his nephew, the Roman gossips

were not a little astonished at seeing the Pope's nephew, and the

favourite's son, an exile.

[Sidenote: "THE MARRIAGE OF THE POPE."]

Meantime, the discontent of Rome, the remonstrances of the Cardinals,

and the contempt and indignation of foreign courts was beginning to

render the position of Innocent and Olympia hardly tenable. One day

a large medal was conveyed into the Pope's hands, on the obverse of

which was represented Olympia, with the pontifical tiara on her head,

and the keys in her hand: while the reverse showed Innocent in a coif,

with a spindle and distaff in his hands. Another day a report was

brought to him from England, that a play had been represented before

Cromwell, called "The Marriage of the Pope;" in which, Donna Olympia is

represented rejecting his addresses on account of his extreme ugliness,

till, having in vain offered her one of the keys to induce her to

consent, he attains his object at the cost of both of them. The Emperor

again had said to the Papal Nuncio, "Your Pope, my lord, has an easy

time of it, with Madame Olympia to put him to sleep."

Driven by these and many other such manifestations of public feeling,

Innocent determined to make a great effort. He announced to Olympia

with every expression of regret for the hard necessity, that she must

quit the Vatican; and knowing well what he would have to endure, if he

exposed himself to her reproaches and entreaties, he forbade her to

come for the future into his presence.

But the weak and infirm old man had far over–calculated his moral

strength. The prop, on which he had relied during the years of his

best vigour, could not be voluntarily relinquished now in the time of

his decrepitude. Very soon Olympia obtained permission to make secret

visits to the Vatican. These were made generally every night; and this

nightly secret coming and going at untimely hours, threatened to become

more ridiculous, if not more seriously scandalous, in the eyes of the

lampooning Roman world, than an acknowledged residence in the Vatican.

Besides they did not adequately meet the necessities of the case.

Olympia pointed out to the infirm old man that her constant care and

superintendence was necessary to his personal comfort—perhaps to his

safety. So Rome very shortly saw the "papessa" once again in her old

home at the Vatican.

And, as from the nature of the circumstances must necessarily have been

the case, her power and entire disposal of the functions and revenues

of the papacy was more absolute than ever.

But the rapidly declining health of Innocent warned her that her

time was short. And prudence might have counselled her to make some

preparation for the storm, which she must have well known she would

have to face after his death, by moderating, if not relinquishing

the corrupt and oppressive practices of all sorts, which were daily

added in the minds of the Romans to the long account against her. Her

observation of the world had however suggested to her a different

policy. If more danger had to be encountered, more money would be

needed to meet it. Donna Olympia's faith in the omnipotence of money

was unbounded. Only let her have money–power enough; and she doubted

not that she should be able to ride out the storm.

[Sidenote: POPE UNDER LOCK AND KEY.]

So she applied herself with more energy and assiduity than ever to the

two objects which shared her entire care—the collection of cash by the

most unblushing and audacious rapine and venality; and the keeping the

breath of life to the last possible instant within the sinking frame of

the old pontiff. The latter task was so important, that both for the

insuring of proper attention, and for providing against the danger of

poison, she kept the Pope almost under lock and key, attending to his

wants with her own hands, and allowing him to touch no food that had

not been prepared under her own eyes. During the last year of his life,

she literally hardly ever quitted him. Once a week, we read, she left

the Vatican, secretly by night, accompanied by several porters carrying

sacks of coin, the proceeds of the week's extortions and sales, to her

own palace. And, during these short absences, she used to lock the Pope

into his chamber, and carry the key with her!

It would be easy to collect from the many biographies that have been

written of Donna Olympia, a great number of anecdotes of her frauds,

simoniacal dealings, selling of pardons, and the like. But most

of these writings have very little of the character of historical

authority. Some of them are anonymous, and appear to be rather

collections of the scandal and gossip of the time in Rome, than

authenticated statements of facts. One there is by the well–known

Gregorio Leti, writing under the name of "the Abate Gualdi," which

has been translated into French. But the general outline of Olympia's

career is sufficiently certain; and the various stories in question are

all to the same purpose, and contribute no additional features to the

picture.

At last the end was visibly at hand. During the last ten days of his

life, the Pope's mind was wholly gone. And in these ten days, by

rapidly selling off for what she could get for them nominations to

vacant benefices and "Prelature," Olympia is said to have amassed half

a million of crowns! Her last transaction, was with a Canon who had

been some time previously in treaty with her for a "Prelatura." He had

offered fifty, while she had stood out for eighty thousand crowns; and

the bargain had gone off. In the last hours of Innocent's life, she

sent for this man, and told him she would take his fifty thousand. He

said he had dissipated twenty thousand of the sum since that time, and

had only thirty thousand left. "Well!" said the unblushing dealer,

"since you can do no better, hand them over, and you shall have the

Prelatura." So the money was paid, and the nomination obtained from the

dying Pope, _in extremis_.

Innocent died on the 7th of January, 1655. Olympia caused the proper

notices to be given to the officials, and immediately left the Vatican,

and retired to her own palace secretly. She had employed the two nights

previous to his death in transporting valuables thither to a great

amount.

[Sidenote: AT BAY!]

And now came for Olympia the great crisis of her fate. Her position

was certainly a terrible one. The instant the Pope's death was known, a

storm of long pent up hatred broke forth in execrations, accusations,

and threats, on all sides. Olympia was under no delusion, as to her

situation, and the general feeling of Rome towards her. She knew how

much and how justly she was hated. She knew that she had been guilty of

crimes abundantly sufficient to put not only her wealth, but her life

in danger; and that a thousand tongues were ready to bear undeniable

witness against her.

But Olympia was very far from giving up the game as lost. She had

enormous command of money; she was well acquainted with the secret

motives and wishes of parties in Rome; thoroughly skilled in the subtle

underhand tactics of trading on every evil passion, which is what is

meant by policy in that ecclesiastical world; and imbued with that

profound faith in the thorough meanness and baseness of the highest

as well as the lowest of mankind, which people of her stamp consider

to be knowledge of the world. Though hated by the great majority of

Cardinals as well as by the people of Rome, she was not without friends

and creatures. Corrupt motives of interest had enabled her some time

previously to Innocent's death, to make alliance with the powerful

faction of the Barberini. And thus strong in these arms and means of

defence, she sat in the privacy of her palace—(for to have appeared

in the streets of Rome, especially during the lawless period of an

interregnum, would have been extremely dangerous) and directed the

intrigues, by means of which she counted on escaping the consequences

of the universal indignation.

Three degrees of successful issue had to be striven for by her. The

first, of which she still nourished sanguine hopes, was that she might

again appear on the public stage influential and powerful. The second,

that the past might be buried in oblivion, and she might be left in the

quiet though obscure enjoyment of her immense wealth. The third, that

even if she were compelled to disgorge a great part, or even the whole

of it, she might yet be safe in person.

All these issues, of course, depended on the election of a new Pope.

And when the disposition towards her of the great body of the Cardinals

is remembered, it seems strange that she could have had any hope as

to the result. She contrived, however, to form an independent party

in the Conclave, which was known in Rome at the time as "the flying

squadron"—_squadrone volante_, the avowed object of which was, to

enable either of the other contending parties to elect any pope,

who would secure Olympia's safety, and to impede the election of an

enemy. And the clever management of this _squadron_ kept the Cardinals

imprisoned for three months.

At length wearied out by this long confinement, and convinced of the

impossibility of electing either of the favourite candidates of the

leading parties, the Conclave was driven in despair to the _pis–aller_

of electing one recommended only by his good character and apparent

fitness for the office. This was Fabio Chigi of Siena, who became Pope,

as Alexander the Seventh, with the consent of the squadrone volante,

who thought that, as he had been raised to the purple by Innocent, and

was considered a moderate man, he would not be likely to molest the

"relict" of his old patron.

[Sidenote: ALEXANDER VII.]

Olympia was well satisfied with the result of the election. It seems

never to have occurred to her or her friends, that the new Pope might

demand a strict account from her, merely from considerations of

abstract right and justice. She sent among the first to compliment him

on his accession; and shortly asked for an audience. The answer was not

calculated to reassure her. Alexander sent her word that it was not

his intention to receive ladies, except on urgent matters of business.

Still determined not to give up the game, she repeated her application

to be allowed to speak with his Holiness, with increased urgency; but

she only obtained the still more alarming reply, that "Donna Olympia

had had but too much conversation with Popes, and that she must

understand, that things would henceforth be very different."

So much time elapsed, however, before any step was taken with regard to

her, that Olympia, though convinced that all hope of further influence

on public affairs was out of the question, yet imagined that she was

to be let alone with her enormous hoards; but Alexander, unwilling to

incur the blame of acting passionately or hastily on the subject, was

listening to the innumerable proofs of her ill–doings, and quietly

making up his mind on the matter. Meantime it was debated by Olympia

and her friends, whether her most prudent course would be to quit Rome,

to go, say, to Loreto, on pretext of a pilgrimage; but the heirs of the

wretched woman, and especially her son Camillo, feeling that however

such a course might secure her person, it would in all probability lead

to the confiscation of her wealth, persuaded her that such a step was

an unwise admission of guilt, and that her case was not so hopeless.

Suddenly an order reached her to quit Rome within three days, and to be

at Orvieto within eight. It came upon her like a thunderbolt; for she

felt that it was the beginning of the end.

A commissary was sent after her thither to require a strict account

from her of all the state monies that had passed into her hands,

immediate restitution of the jewels and other valuables carried off by

her from the Vatican, and her answer to the innumerable charges against

her of selling offices, benefices, and pardons.

She answered by general denials, and by asserting, that whatever money

had passed through her hands had been paid over by her to Innocent.

The next step, it was expected, would have been her imprisonment. But

at this stage of the business an unexpected and terrible ally stepped

in to save—not the miserable woman herself—but at least her infamously

gotten wealth to the Pamfili family. This ally was the pestilence,

which invaded Italy, and especially Rome, with such violence, that it

threw other matters into abeyance, by concentrating on itself all the

care and attention of Alexander and his government.

But the pestilence, which thus saved her moneybags, did not spare her

to the enjoyment of them; for on its appearance in Orvieto, Olympia was

one of the first victims.

No further steps were taken by the government in the matter; and

Camillo Pamfili, her son, inherited quietly the almost incredible sums

she had amassed. It was said that, besides the vast estates which

she had acquired, and an immense amount of precious stones, and gold

uncoined, more than two millions of crowns in money were found in her

coffers.

[Sidenote: POPESS THE SECOND—AND LAST.]

Such was the story of the second female Pope, who has grasped St.

Peter's keys. And if a similar scandal has not reproduced itself in an

equal degree of intensity, it is one to which the peculiar constitution

of the Papal government and society, must be ever especially liable.

ELISABETTA SIRANI.

(1638–1665.)

CHAPTER I.

HER LIFE.

In the vast and magnificent church of the Dominicans at Bologna, in the

handsome chapel dedicated to Our Lady of the Rosary, there is a modest

sepulchre belonging to the ancient Guidotti family, which attracts

as large a share of the art–loving pilgrim's notice, as even the

world–famous shrine of the founder of the order with its statues and

bas–reliefs by Niccolò di Pisa, Afonso Lombardo, and Michael Angelo.

For there beneath the same stone were laid the bodies of Guido Reni

and Elisabetta Sirani; he full of years and honours, at the ripe age

of sixty–seven; she cut off untimely in the morning of her working

day at twenty–six. She was no "favourite pupil" of his, as has been

written,[227] for Guido died, when Sirani was four years old; but

her works are interesting to the art–student, as far more accurate

embodiments of the traditions of his school, than the pictures of

most of those who were his immediate pupils; and her short career is

especially worthy of the notice of such as are interested in observing

female capabilities for winning a right to a place on the roll of the

world's worthies.

[Sidenote: HER VOCATION.]

The art–critics assure us that her works are stamped with a vigour,

and bold free precision of outline, which have been rarely attained by

female artists. "It is indeed a wonderful thing," writes Lanzi,[228]

"that a young girl, who lived only six–and–twenty years, should have

painted the vast number of pictures recorded by Malvasia[229]; still

more so, that she should have perfected them with a care and finish

of the highest order; and most wonderful of all, that she should have

reached this perfection in historical pieces of large size, in a style

free from that timidity, which La Fontana, and other painters of her

sex, never got rid of."

It would be easy to multiply citations from the best authorities on

art, to prove the high degree of excellence in her vocation attained

by this girl, at an age when most of her competitors of the stronger

sex were climbing the first steps of the ladder. But taking this

for granted, and leaving the critical appreciation of her works to

those whose studies lead them specially in that direction, it will be

more interesting for us to endeavour to make out for ourselves some

tolerably life–like representation of the young worker as she lived and

laboured a couple of hundred years ago in her home at Bologna.

The picture ought to be, if presented aright, a singularly pleasing

one, healthy in its tone, invigorating in its suggestions, and

addressing itself vividly to the sympathies of every admirer of

honest energetic labour. Of all the types of female character and life

gathered in these volumes from various social conditions, differing

every one of them so widely from our own, this artist figure seems to

claim the closest kin to some living phases of the life around us, and

to be the most readily and advantageously transplantable into our own

social system.

The story of Elisabetta Sirani's untimely death has added a sort of

melodramatic interest to her name, which was not needed to make her

life a noticeable one. Every one who has heard her mentioned has heard

that she died by poison. Her contemporaries suspected that she might

have been poisoned; the following generation said and wrote, that she

probably had been thus destroyed; and Lanzi, and after him the manuals,

and other common sources of information, content themselves with simply

stating that she was poisoned, without expressing any doubt on the

subject. The reader of the following pages will see that there is every

reason to think that she died from natural causes. The circumstances of

her death, however, and the judicial investigations to which they gave

rise, will furnish some of those little traits of the artist–family's

home and mode of life, which, far too trifling ever to have been

recorded as such by contemporaries, are yet in every case more precious

in their suggestiveness than facts of greater importance to those who,

at a distance of a couple of centuries, seek to catch a glimpse of any

life as it passed amid its ordinary every–day environment.

[Sidenote: THE FAMILY.]

The records of the judicial proceedings to which Elisabetta's death

gave rise, were for many years sought for in vain by various writers on

subjects connected with Bolognese art–history. The name of the person

accused of the crime was unknown. And for want of this indication it

was, it seems, impossible, without searching the entire mass of the

archives in question, to find the required papers. At last, however,

in 1833, Signor Mazzoni Toselli had the good fortune to light on them,

and published the result of his discovery in a small pamphlet printed

at Bologna in that year. Since that time another fortunate discovery

has brought to light the "conclusions" submitted to the court by the

advocate employed for the prosecution, as we should say. This document

was not found in company with the records discovered by Signor Toselli;

but was put before the world by Signor Ulisse Guidi, in a pamphlet

printed at Bologna in 1854. So that, besides obtaining from the

evidence of the witnesses examined, those little hints above alluded to

of the manner of life led in the "Casa Sirani," we have now the means

of forming a tolerably well–grounded opinion as to the real cause of

the young artist's death.

The house of Giovanni Andrea Sirani in the Via Urbana at Bologna,

was the home of a family of artists. The father was himself at the

head of a considerable school, in which Guido's second manner was the

standard of excellence aimed at, and by the master himself and some

of his scholars attained with very respectable success. He had a son

who became a physician. But he was the only deserter from the family

profession. The three daughters, Elisabetta, Barbara, and Anna Maria

were all artists. The name of the elder has cast that of her sisters

and even of her father, into the shade. But his works are still well

esteemed in his own city; and there are pictures by Barbara and Anna

Maria Sirani in the churches of Bologna.

Giovanni's wife Margherita, and his sister, who cooked for the

family, together with a female servant, were the other members of his

household. We are told also, that Bartolommeo Zanichelli, Antonio

Donzelli, and Giulio Banzi, his pupils, lived with him upon the footing

of members of his family. The first had "frequented his school" for

fifteen years.

The house in the Via Urbana, which accommodated this numerous family,

and gave the seven painters, out of the ten persons who occupied it,

room to work in, must have been a good sized one. It consisted, we

hear, of two stories, with some large rooms above "for the school."

The sort of industry that prevailed in this hive of workers may be

estimated from the list of Elisabetta's works extant in her own

handwriting. Her rapidity, it is true, was marvellous, and the sureness

of her hand was only equalled by the overflowing abundance of her

thought. We must not, therefore, imagine that all the members of this

busy art–factory contributed to the general production in a similar

degree. Making due allowance for this, however, and remembering that

Elisabetta's works were always highly finished, her methodical and

business–like list will give us some idea of the family produce.

[Sidenote: HER WORKS.]

In the year 1655, which is the first that figures on her catalogue,—and

she was then only seventeen,—she painted two pictures, one for the

Marchese Spada, and one for the Municipality of Trassano. In the year

1656, five pictures. In 1657, seven pictures. In 1658, twelve pictures.

In 1659, ten pictures. In 1660, fourteen pictures. In 1661, fourteen

pictures, of which one ordered by the nuns of St. Catherine contained

half figures of the size of life of the twelve Apostles. In 1662,

forty–nine pictures! Either by an error of the pen these forty–nine

works were the product of two years' labour, which is probable, or the

year 1663 from some unexplained cause, produced nothing. In the year

1664, we find twenty–eight pictures registered. And in the first half

of 1665, the year of her death, she had completed nine works. In the

nine years and a half, from the seventeenth to the twenty–sixth of her

age, she had thus produced a hundred and fifty pictures,[230] many of

them of large size, and all of them carefully finished! Besides this,

she etched occasionally; and many works of this class from her hand are

known to, and much sought by collectors. A record of work honestly and

conscientiously done, as Lanzi may well say, truly wonderful!

Her rapidity of execution, and especially of throwing with a sure

unerring hand her first ideas upon the canvas, was so remarkable,

that to see Elisabetta paint was considered one of the sights at

Bologna most worthy of the attention of strangers. And we find that

few personages of distinction passed through the city without paying a

visit to the artist family in the Via Urbana.

"On the 13th of May, 1664," she records in the list of works, which

seems also to have served as a sort of journal, "His Serene Highness

Cosmo, crown prince of Tuscany, came to our house to see me paint, and

I worked at a picture of the Prince Leopold his uncle in his presence.

Alluding to the three special virtues of that great family"—(Poor

Elisabetta!)—"of Justice, Charity, and Prudence, I introduced figures

of them into the picture, sketching in the infant whom Charity is

nursing, very quickly, while the prince stood by. On leaving me, he

ordered a Holy Virgin for himself, which I executed in time for him to

take with him, when he returned to Florence. It is in an oval, with the

child in the mother's lap, who with his left hand is caressing her,

while the right, with an olive–branch in it, rests on the world; my

intention being to allude to the peace, which, by the negotiations of

his Most Serene father, is preserved to Italy!"

The Duchess of Brunswick, who "came to our house to see me paint, on

the 3rd of January, 1665," was treated, however, it would seem, with a

sly bit of satire, instead of the usual dose of flattery expected by

most personages when they condescend to stand by artists' easels. The

lady, it appears, had the reputation of being possessed by a somewhat

inordinate spirit of self–love. So "I painted her a Cupid, a year old,

looking at himself in the glass, and wounding himself with his own

arrow." And Malvasia, the historian of Bolognese art, who was intimate

with the family, recounts, that while painting this allegorical device,

the young artist kept repeating, "Let those comprehend that can. I know

my own meaning!"

It does not appear that the Duchess left any commission.

Then a visit from the Duca di Mirandola is mentioned; and another from

the Principe di Messerano. And then, "all the Princes and Princesses

who have passed through Bologna this spring, have come to look at my

pictures and to see me work."

We find mention of commissions from the Empress Leonora, from

Prince Leopold of Tuscany, who rewards the artist with a cross set

with fifty–six diamonds,—the most liberal recompense she had ever

received;—from the Duchess of Bavaria, who sends an order for another

picture the following year; from Cardinal Farnese; from the Legate; and

from the "Padre Inquisitore," who orders a Cupid crowned with laurel,

with a sceptre in his hand.

[Sidenote: STYLE OF LIFE.]

All the cash payments earned by this untiring industry, were handed

over to her father to go towards the general maintenance of the family.

But the presents which she received in jewellery and other such matters

were considered her private property, kept in a cupboard sacred to

them, and shown by her mother Margherita to her gossips and the friends

of the family on high days and holidays, with infinite pride and

reverence.

It seems reasonable to suppose, that in a family of six

persons,—leaving the medical son, of whom we find no further mention,

out of the question,—in which four of the members are bread–winners,

and that by industry so energetic, a considerable ease of circumstances

ought to have been found. And perhaps the extreme simplicity of life,

indicated by a few of the circumstances which happen to have been

recorded, is to be attributed rather to the prevailing habits of

frugality of the time, than to poverty. Thus we find that the master's

sister occupied the position of cook in the family. The one other

servant received four pauls, about two francs, a month for wages. And

the family dinner, of which all the members of the household partook

in company, consisted, on one occasion,—recorded not for any special

reason, but accidentally, and therefore affording a sample of the

ordinary fare,—of toasted bread and a little fish. There is a trifling

circumstance also, which may be thought to indicate that it was not

always convenient to disburse cash for this lenten meal. For in the

list of Elisabetta's works, among the pictures executed for churches,

princes, and prelates, occurs one of "Saint Margaret, leading a dragon

with an azure ribband, painted for the fisherman who supplies our

house."

Her music–master also,—for Elisabetta was extremely fond of music, and

a creditable performer,—was, we find, paid by a yearly present of a

picture.

Possibly the father Giovanni Andrea may have been touched with the very

common Italian vice of money–loving, and have been more niggardly in

his disbursements than he ought to have been. For we find that now and

then Elisabetta would sell some unimportant work of hers privately, in

order to supply some little unacknowledged expenses of her mother.

This poor Donna Margherita, who, while her husband and daughters were

at their busy easels, had nothing to do but to "rule her house," seems

to have been the principal cause of any little roughness which ruffled

from time to time the tranquil and cheerful course of successful and

appreciated labour in the industrious artist home. Donna Margherita, it

is to be feared, was afflicted with a sharp tongue; and there are very

unmistakeable symptoms of poor Lucia, the maid, not having earned her

annual four–and–twenty francs too easily.

[Sidenote: DAME MARGHERITA'S TONGUE.]

Again and again she had been on the point of throwing up all the

advantages of her position under the provocation of her mistress's

continual fault–finding. The daily reproach, that she was not worth her

keep, was difficult to bear. Then she was accused of dressing her hair

when there was no due occasion for such display; the immutable rule of

Dame Margherita's house being that the maid was allowed to appear with

her head dressed only when visitors of distinction were expected to see

the Signorina Elisabetta at her easel. Then again, the unreasonable

Lucia wanted to go out occasionally,—gadding about the town, forsooth;

and in Bologna too, of all places in the world, swarming from morn to

night with idle university scholars! Dame Margherita would have no

such doings. Besides, she wished to know what was the reason Lucia was

always so anxious to go down herself and shut the ground–floor shutters

that looked into the street, at night. Idle enough in other matters,

why was she so anxious to perform this duty?

But when these provocations became more than she could bear, and the

poor girl had made up her mind to go, Elisabetta would soothe and

comfort her, with "Come, come, Lucia, don't leave us! Take time to

think of it. Sleep on it this night, and make up your mind in the

morning!" And as Lucia, like every one else in the house, was very fond

of the Signorina Elisabetta, she would be persuaded to think better of

it, and try to put up with Dame Margherita's tongue.

But all these reproaches of seeking occasion to go to the window at

nightfall, anxiety to go out into the town, and untimely indulgences

of hair–decking, were only grounds of suspicion, that Lucia was guilty

of the heinous offence (not even yet in these improved times wholly

extirpated from the race of Abigails)—of possessing a lover;—which

however permissible, under proper regulations, for young persons

inhabiting drawing–rooms, is, as every respectable person knows, most

abominable in those living in kitchens. Still there was nothing

stronger against Lucia than mere suspicion.

But then came one unlucky day a terrible discovery. There passed down

the Via Urbana a tinker in the exercise of his calling. Whereupon

this wicked girl,—who could have thought there had been such deepness

in her! as Dame Margherita (we may be quite sure) said,—bringing her

mistress an old kettle out of the cellar, asked whether it would not be

well to call in the tinker and have it mended. The tinker accordingly

was summoned, and sent under escort of this false serving–maid to do

his duty in such cellar, or outhouse, as may have been adapted to

the business in hand. But Dame Margherita "had her suspicions;" and

despatched two of her younger children to watch secretly the interview

between Lucia and the tinker. The result was a confirmation of the

mistress's worst fears. The first words overheard between them proved

that the tinker was an old love of Lucia's, who had known her when in

her mother's house.

Here was a scope for Mistress Margherita's eloquence! When it was

exhausted, the good man Giovanni Andrea was called on to "speak as he

ought" on the occasion. And he accordingly, we are told, "said some

severe words." Even Elisabetta laughed at poor Lucia, and asked "how

she could be so silly as to look after such a sorry knave?"

Now, to poor Lucia this seems to have been the last drop in the cup;

and she finally made up her mind to leave her place. Thereupon her

master, who was just then confined to his bed by a fit of the gout,

which interrupted his work at the easel from time to time, called her

into his room and remonstrated with her. "Don't you see, ungrateful

girl that you are," he said, "in what a condition you are leaving us?

Here am I unable to leave my bed. Margherita is unwell. Barbara has the

fever. And we have no one to help us." Lucia was inflexible. "Will you

not wait till we have found another servant?"

[Sidenote: LUCIA TRICKED.]

"No, Signor, I cannot!" was the provoked girl's answer.

"Go, then," rejoined her angry master, "wherever God may lead you!"

But Giovanni Sirani could not reconcile it to his conscience to let the

girl go forth unprotected into the city wholly left to her own devices.

And the steps he took to prevent this are curiously illustrative of the

manners of the time. He sent for two men, who were related to the girl;

and privately arranged with them, that they should tell her they had

found her an excellent place with a worthy family, to which they would

at once conduct her. The unsuspecting Lucia departed accordingly; and

was led by them to "the Hospital of St. Gregory, called the Beggar's

Home," where she was forthwith shut up a prisoner! So that it should

seem a master had the power to cause a girl guilty of nothing but

having no home, to be thus imprisoned for her own protection: and yet

that it was necessary to use a ruse to get her there!

The Sirani family were a good deal surprised at Lucia's determination

to leave them just at the time she did. For it wanted only a few days

of the annual fair held on the 24th of August. And a considerable item

in the value of her place consisted in the presents which it was the

custom to give her on this occasion. In the first year of her service

Dame Margherita had given her a muff, and Elisabetta a couple of pauls.

The next year the mistress had given her a shift, and the Signorina

a paul. And now, in the third year, she lost her fairings by abruptly

going away just before the time when they were due.

This was the uncomfortable state of matters in the Sirani family in

August 1665. Elisabetta herself had been for some time past out of her

usual health. But with her ordinary invincible industry, she stuck to

her work. With her father disabled by the gout, her sister Barbara

also down with fever, and unable to earn anything, it was more than

ever necessary that Elisabetta should take the labouring oar. And

fortunately a fresh order for a picture from the Empress Eleonora had

recently been received. And the young artist, answering her mother's

anxious inquiries about a pain, from which she had been suffering,

by saying that "the best way not to feel it was not to think of it,"

bravely set her canvas before her, and bent her mind to the composition

of the new picture.

CHAPTER II.

HER DEATH.

Elisabetta, who had been all her life previously in the enjoyment of

sound and even robust health, had been feeling more or less unwell

ever since the Lent of that year 1665. She suffered from slight pain

in the stomach; and though she could with difficulty be got to speak

on the subject, her loss of colour and of flesh showed unmistakeably

that she was out of health. She was nevertheless as assiduous as ever

at her easel; and in the first days of August was just setting to work

on the picture ordered, as has been said, for the Empress Eleonora.

On the 12th or 13th of that month, the pain from which she suffered

became worse. And as Signor Gallerati, the medical man who attended the

family, called that day to see her sister Barbara, who was ill with

fever, Elisabetta spoke to him about herself. The learned doctor told

her that no medicine could be taken for the present, as the sun was in

the sign of the Lion; that her pain was caused by a cold; and that she

might take a little syrup of vinegar.

On the 24th she was able to go with her mother to see the fair.

But on the 27th, as she was working in an upper room at her picture,

the pain became so violent, that she with difficulty went down stairs

to the room where Barbara was ill in bed, and sitting down on the edge

of it, said, "Oh! sister, I have so dreadful a pain in my stomach, that

I feel as if I were dying!"

Barbara seeing the sudden changes in her colour, and contortions of

her features, feared that she really was about to die; and hurriedly

called their mother, who was in the next room. The mother immediately

got her into bed; and a succession of fainting fits, accompanied by

profuse cold perspirations followed. A messenger sent in haste to Dr.

Gallerati, not finding him at home, brought a Doctor Mattaselani,

who was, it appears, one of the leading physicians of the city. This

gentleman ordered her purgatives, and ointment for exterior use.

Her mother in the meantime had given her a dose of "Theriaca," that

time–honoured Venetian medicine, which was then celebrated all over

Europe. It is a very thick oily substance, compounded of some fifty

different ingredients, the receipt for which is said, with much

probability, to have been brought from the East by the Venetians at

a very early period. It was a specific adapted to the then state of

medical science, no doubt. But it is a curious fact worth noticing,

that this "triaca" as the Lombards call it, is still manufactured at

Venice from the old recipe, is still prepared by the principal—perhaps

only—manufacturer annually on the same fixed day set apart for

generations for this purpose; and quainter still, that on that day the

persons employed in the process, dress themselves in fifteenth century

costume, and thus accoutred make their fire, bring out their cauldrons,

and concoct their medicament on one of the open "campi" of Venice, amid

a concourse of people assembled to watch the annual ceremony. Theriaca

now–a–days hardly finds its way beyond Venice and the neighbouring

parts of Lombardy. But within those limits hardly a peasant's cottage

would be found without its bottle of the drug, in which their ancestors

placed their faith for so many generations.

[Sidenote: THERIACA.]

The Theriaca, however, as may be supposed, availed nothing to our

poor Elisabetta; and the treatment of Dr. Mattaselani as little.

The fainting–fits and cold–sweats continued the whole night. In the

morning of the 28th came Dr. Gallerati, and ordered more purgatives,

more ointment, and the application of the diaphragm of a sheep to the

stomach! And when no advantage was found to result from this, he gave

the patient the celebrated poison antidote "Bezoar," and the "Olio del

Granduca;"—the Grand–duke's oil;—an antidote prepared, it should seem,

in that Medicean laboratory of poisons in the Uffizi at Florence, which

may well be believed to have been more successful in the preparation of

them than in its providing antidotes against them.

When the Bezoar and the Grand–duke's oil failed to produce any

abatement in the symptoms, the parish priest was sent for! And thus

the young artist life, so rich in promise, and in dreams of beauty yet

to be embodied, of long years of labour, and praise to be won, was cut

short in its spring.

Elisabetta, intent only on her art, and habituated to a wholly

objective frame of mind, had made so little account of the symptoms

of malady that had manifested themselves during the last four or five

months of her life, that her death struck her bereaved family as a

wholly sudden and inexplicable calamity. Poison was the first thing

that occurred to them. Indeed the idea had already presented itself

to the physicians, as is evident from the treatment. The practice of

poisoning was so common in Italy in those ages, and the perpetration

of it was rendered so little hazardous by the prevailing ignorance

of pathological anatomy, that every death arising from causes not

understood, was immediately attributed to this crime. And as a medical

decision to that effect was a very convenient screen for medical

ignorance, the faculty were by no means backward in encouraging and

increasing the popular suspiciousness on the subject.

Poor Giovanni, therefore, was readily convinced that his daughter had

died by poison; and ordered a post–mortem examination of her body, as

the first step towards a judicial investigation. So the body was opened

by the hospital barber, the recognised operator on such occasions, in

the presence of Doctors Gallerati and Mattaselani, and other four of

the first practitioners of Bologna.

Gallerati, the family medical man, who had already, it is to be

observed, treated her case as one of poisoning, reported to the father,

as the result of the examination, that a hole was found in the lower

part of the stomach, large enough for a pea to pass, that around the

hole there was a livid circle appearing as if burned with a hot iron,

that the bowels were much inflamed, the diaphragm corroded, and that

these appearances could only have been produced by the action of a

corrosive poison. But on Sirani further questioning him on the nature

of the poison, he answered, that it was certainly corrosive, "but

whether administered to her, or generated naturally, was not a matter

to speak with him—the father—on, as he had already given his opinion in

the consultation of physicians."

[Sidenote: THE POISON.]

The subject of "veleno ingenito," poison developing itself from natural

causes within the organisation, was one much agitated in the medical

world at that time; formed an admirable occasion for the exhibition of

erudition; and was just in that state of partisan debateability least

favourable to the attainment of truth, and most conducive to obstinate

adhesion to foregone conclusions.

It having been thus decided, that poor Elisabetta had been poisoned; of

course the next question that arose was, who was the poisoner?

The Sirani family had no enemies, and many friends; and the number of

persons who could have had access to her or to the food she had taken,

was very small. The members of her own family were plunged in grief

at their bereavement. The three pupils had been sincerely attached to

Elisabetta, and were scarcely less so. There was an old woman, who, on

the day before she had been taken seriously ill, had been employed by

Giovanni to carry a picture to a patron in the city. Fearing that the

messenger might be long detained, he had desired that she might have

some food given her in the house, before she started on her errand.

Lucia had given her some soup from the pot preparing for the family.

The old woman said, that it was insipid. Whereupon, Lucia, who was that

same day, it will be remembered, about to leave her place, took, as the

old woman swore, a paper of powder from her bosom, and shook some of

its contents into the soup, saying "There! take a little cinnamon with

it!" She further deposed that the powder was reddish, but did not taste

like cinnamon; that she ate only a few spoonsful of the soup because

she felt something gritty between her teeth; and, finally, that she

was afterwards taken so ill, as to be obliged to go to the hospital.

The last fact was indubitably true; but it was equally so that she came

out cured, without it ever having occurred to the hospital doctors to

treat her for poison.

Under these circumstances it was decided, that Lucia must be the

poisoner. But she had always been particularly fond of the deceased.

Ah! but then she had a love affair with the tinker, which looked very

bad. She had obstinately determined to leave her place just before

fairing time. That was very suspicious. She had to all appearance

poisoned the old woman also; though nobody seems to have dreamed of

asking for what possible motive she should have committed this second

crime. Then, to clinch all, the reverend Dr. Masi, the Archbishop's

fiscal (a friend of the Sirani family), swore, that on his visiting

Lucia in prison, in order to examine her as to the state of her soul,

she said, "If you mean to hang me, do it at once. At all events, I have

given my soul to the devil!"

So that it was clear, that Lucia was the poisoner. She was arrested,

and the judicial investigations were commenced. Two of the medical men,

who had been present at the post mortem examination, Gallerati and

another, were examined; and, after giving a detailed account of the

appearances they had observed, declared it certain that Elisabetta had

died by poison, either administered to her or "naturally developed,"

but with strong probability in favour of the former hypothesis.

But at this point of the proceeding a curious and characteristic

incident occurred. The ecclesiastical authorities interposed a claim,

that the prisoner should be given up to them, as having been arrested

in a place subjected to ecclesiastical immunities; which was the case

with respect to the poor–house, to which Lucia was taken, as has been

seen, when she left the Sirani house. The claim was admitted; Lucia was

transferred to the hands of the Archbishop's officers, and by them set

at liberty.

[Sidenote: THE EXAMINATION.]

According to the ordinary course of proceeding in such cases, had it

not been for this interposition on the part of the Church, Lucia would

have been put to the torture, to extract from her a confession of her

guilt. And it would seem that she was saved from this barbarity only by

that fortunate interference. But it appears, that all that had taken

place in the matter formed no bar to a new arrest, if the accused could

be caught on unprivileged ground. No further steps however were taken

in the business, till the following April, 1666; when Lucia, who does

not appear to have made any attempt at escape, either by flight or by

remaining in sanctuary, was arrested afresh, as she was walking in the

main street of the city.

The first question put to her was, whether she had any idea of the

cause of her arrest. She answered at once, "The death of La Sirani."

"Are you aware that any painter or other person had any feeling of envy

or hatred against the deceased?"

"I neither know, nor did I ever hear of any body hating the Signora

Elisabetta, from professional jealousy or any other cause."

"What was your reason for so suddenly leaving the family a few days

before the fair?"

"Because I was weary of hearing continual fault–finding."

"Were you then not treated well in the Sirani family?"

"By the gentlemen[231] of the family, I was always well treated; and

especially by the Signora Elisabetta. And if it had not been for her

kindness, I should certainly have left the house long before, so

insupportable were the annoyances of the Signora Margherita. But I

remained for love of the Signora Elisabetta, who was very fond of me."

She was then questioned about the tinker; although her conduct with

respect to him does not appear to have the slightest bearing on the

case. She admitted, that he had been an old sweetheart of hers, when

she lived with her mother, and he had been a lodger in the same house.

Then came the circumstance of the old woman, and the soup, and the red

powder. The woman, by this time, quite recovered from her illness,

swore positively that Lucia had taken the powder from her bosom, and

that it was red, and that she had said that it was cinnamon. Lucia,

confronted with her, swore that she took the powder from a box on a

shelf, that it was pepper, and she put it into the soup in presence of

Giacoma, Sirani's sister, who, as we have seen, was the family cook.

Now, according to the regular practice of the criminal courts, this

contradictory swearing required that the accused should be tortured.

Moreover, Giacoma ought to have been called as a witness. But neither

of these things was done. It seems however, that the judge had

conferred privately with Doctor Mattaselani, and had been satisfied by

him that the old woman had never been poisoned at all.

[Sidenote: LUCIA'S EXILE.]

Lucia was sent back to prison, and ordered to produce her defence in

three days. At the end of that time an advocate presented himself

on her behalf, and showed without difficulty, as may be judged from

what has been related of the accusation, that there was no tittle of

evidence against the prisoner; and he especially demanded that the

other medical men, who had made the post–mortem examination, should

be called to give their evidence. For two only, Gallerati, the family

doctor, and another, had hitherto been examined.

This was done. And Doctor Mattaselani and another, describing the

appearance of the body exactly as the others had done, gave it as their

decided opinion, that the death had been caused by an inflammatory

ulcer arising from natural causes; as any medical man of the present

day would, from the symptoms detailed above, conclude to have been in

all probability the truth.

It having thus become tolerably clear that there was no case whatever

against Lucia Tolomelli, for that was the unlucky girl's name, she was

not condemned as a poisoner, but banished from the Legation.

The Sirani family themselves, however, as well as the judicial

authorities, seem to have on reflection come to the conclusion, that

Lucia was certainly innocent, and her exile unjust. For there is

extant, an instance, signed by Giovanni Sirani, and dated 3rd January,

1668, wherein he formally declares, that he has no complaint to make

against her, and no opposition to offer to the remission of her

sentence of exile.

The amount of public feeling excited in Bologna by Elisabetta Sirani's

untimely death, was extraordinarily great. As usual in similar cases,

the popular regret took the form of indignation, and demanded an

expiatory victim. As usual, also, theories more or less melodramatic,

were invented to account for and adorn the misfortune. It was hardly

to be supposed that Lucia could have had any spite of her own against

her kind young mistress. She must have acted then at the instigation of

another; some powerful person no doubt; some great man, whom the young

artist had offended probably, by the rejection of amatory advances,

said some, or by a satirical use of her pencil, as others supposed.

This explained all the irregularity observed in the process. This was

why Lucia was not tortured, as by good right she ought to have been.

This made it clear why she was set at liberty for a while, till by

practising on the doctors, they could be induced to give such testimony

as would hush the matter up, with a verdict of death from natural

causes. This also, finally, accounted for Lucia's removal for awhile

by exile, till the excitement and curiosity of the public should have

passed.

And as such a theory comfortably explained much which the citizens

were at a loss to comprehend, as it supplied abundant food for gossip,

and under–breath speculations and guesses, and wise looks, as to the

concealed author of all this wickedness, and especially as it made a

good story to tell and to write, this became the accredited version,

till now it is stated, as a simple fact in artistic manuals and

guide–books, that Elisabetta Sirani was poisoned.

[Sidenote: DOCTRINE OF POISONS.]

The real truth is, that there is not a tittle of evidence in favour of

such a supposition, to be opposed to all the insuperable difficulties

in the way of convicting Lucia, the only person whom it was found

possible to suspect. The only fragment of foundation to the entire

fiction consists in Dr. Gallerati's ignorant and learned trash about

administered poisons, and inborn poisons. Even he only ventured to

incline in favour of the probability of the former in this case. And

the direct testimony of Dr. Mattaselani and one of his colleagues,

agreeing as it does with the view which any modern medical man would

take of the case as reported, viz., that the deceased died of inflamed

ulcer in the stomach, may be rightly held to be conclusive on the

subject.

Some letters from persons at Bologna, including two from Giovanni

Sirani, written immediately after Elisabetta's death, to correspondents

at Florence, have recently been published in the "Rivista di Firenze."

The editor thinks that "no doubt remains at the present day, that

her (Elisabetta's) death was caused by poison given her by the maid,

Lucia Tolomelli, the instrument either of the despised love, or of the

offended pride of some powerful personage." To the present writer,

however, the opinion expressed above, which is also that of Signor

Toselli, to whom we are indebted for the discovery and publication of

the records of the trial, appears equally "undoubted."

One of the letters, six in number, is from the physician Gallerati, in

which he details the result of the post–mortem examination as we have

it in his evidence.

Another is from Count Annibale Ranuzzi to the Cardinal Leopoldo de'

Medici, in which he says, "The poor girl was poisoned according to the

unanimous opinion of the medical men, who to the number of seven or

eight were present at the examination of the body." This, as we have

seen, was not true.

A third letter is from Giovanni Sirani to the same Cardinal, in which

he says that his "daughter Elisabetta had been removed from the world

by poison, through envy."

A fourth letter from the same to the Cardinal, says, that he thinks he

shall be obliged "to quit his clime of Bologna, and go where justice

is not suffocated; for this enormous crime has been concealed under

pretext of ecclesiastical immunities."

We knew before that such were the opinions prevalent at Bologna at the

time. But we know also that Giovanni Sirani changed his opinion on the

subject. And it must be borne in mind, that criminal proceedings were

kept strictly secret in the Papal States; and that the public therefore

had not those means of enlightening its judgment on the subject, which

Signor Toselli's pamphlet has supplied to us.

The sorrow for the young artist's untimely death was general in

Bologna, and the manifestations of it may seem to us excessive. But in

that day, when art, though on the decline from its culminating period,

was all that retained any real life in Italy, the artist held a place

in the esteem and interest of his fellow citizens, which, however

honoured, he cannot hope to do in communities where his art is only

one of a hundred manifestations of intellectual life and energy. In

losing her young and rising artist, Bologna lost an important element

of her claim to take rank among her rival municipalities in the scale

of civilisation and renown.

[Sidenote: HER POPULARITY.]

Still this hardly seems to be sufficient to account for the outburst

of wailing and enthusiastic apotheosising which followed Elisabetta's

death. Greater artists died, were mourned, and celebrated with far

less universality of lamentation and eulogistic commemoration. And

on looking over the threnodic expression of Bologna's regret for "La

Sirani," it seems clear that the woman had captivated the affection of

her contemporaries, as much as the artist had excited their admiration.

Judging from the picture in the Ercolani gallery at Bologna, which

represents her in the act of painting a portrait of her father, and

which has been engraved for Signor Toselli's pamphlet, she must have

been very pretty. And it is recorded that her figure was tall and

elegant. She was a good musician, and her conversation is said to have

been witty and sprightly. Yet one of the innumerable sonnets on her

death begins:

"Fui donna in terra, e non conobbi amore."

"A woman while on earth, I yet knew nought of love."

And indeed it may be supposed that she had resolutely determined

to devote herself and her life and energies wholly and exclusively

to her art. For in Italy few marriages are made by women after the

twenty–sixth year.

Her funeral may be said to have been a public one, so extensive were

the absurdities of funeral pomp, and so general the participation in

the ceremony of all classes of the citizens. Malvasia, the historian of

Bolognese art, who was intimate with her and her family, has written

what he calls her life, in his "Felsina Pittrice," really in the tone

of a man beside himself. He is furious that Lucia was not tortured to

make her discoverer the instigator of her supposed crime; he regrets

that "being a Christian and a Priest," he cannot with propriety curse

all persons guilty of her death, as violently as he should like to do;

and altogether has written some score of pages in a style of monstrous

bombast, which seems a caricature of the well–known absurdities of the

Italian style of that epoch.

Finally, there is a volume, entitled, "Il Pennello lagrimato,"

published at Bologna in the year of her death, which consists of a

great variety of orations, odes, sonnets, anagrams, funeral conundrums,

and epitaphs, in Latin and Italian, by all the literary and learned

men of the city, proving the high place poor Elisabetta had held in

the affections and esteem of her contemporaries, and the extremity of

bad taste, puerility, and abasement, into which a century or so of

"orderly" despotism had plunged the nation.

LA CORILLA.

(1740–1800.)

CHAPTER I.

THE APPRENTICESHIP TO THE LAUREL.

In the Via della Forca, at Florence, the eye of an observant

traveller may remark a marble slab let into the front of an otherwise

undistinguished house, and bearing the inscription "Here lived La

Corilla in the eighteenth century." The laconic stone vouchsafes no

further word of enlightenment; those who placed it where it stands,

for the information of future generations, having evidently imagined

that nothing more would be necessary, and that posterity, on seeing the

brief announcement, would gaze on the dirty plaster–coloured tenement

with enthusiasm, while it exclaimed, "Ha! 'twas within these walls,

then, that the bright poet–spirit, the marvel of her age, the divine

Corilla, lived while she was in the flesh!" &c., &c. But posterity

unfortunately has already in the century next after the one so

illustrated begun to exclaim instead, "Corilla lived here! And who the

deuce was Corilla?" And then posterity, it is to be feared, would think

nothing more about the matter.

And yet the question is worth answering. For "La Corilla," forgotten as

she is, and in nowise worthy of being remembered on any other ground,

was the quintessential product and expression of the literary life of

her time and country. And, what is more important, that literature, and

those literary tastes and habits, which may be said to have culminated

in La Corilla, were the normal product, evolved according to certain

unchanging and ascertainable laws, of the general social system then

prevailing in Italy. And this again was with perfect regularity of

cause and effect brought about in due course of historical development;

so that from Dante, who was exiled, to La Corilla, who was crowned at

the Capitol, the march of Italy across the centuries may be traced

almost as surely in the history of its literature, as in that of its

material life and political changes.

Yes. The lady who lived in the Via della Forca in the eighteenth

century was crowned at the Capitol in Rome in the year 1776. This is

the principal fact of her story, tellable in very few words. But for

the reasons stated above, it is worth while to spend a few minutes in

examining what that crowning at the Capitol was and meant, and how La

Corilla came to deserve that remarkable distinction.

We find that she had three predecessors on that throne in the Roman

Campidoglio: Petrarch, Tasso, and "Perfetti." Petrarch and Tasso the

world knows, though it knows little of their Roman crowning. And

diligent Dryasdust researches will discover "Perfetti" to be the

name of a man—and a cavalier—who in that same eighteenth century was

similarly operated on, and whom not even Dryasdust could have dug out

from the underlying strata, had he not been so treated.

And here we are struck by the remarkable fact of the long abeyance of

the laurel crown. From Tasso in the sixteenth, to Perfetti and Corilla

in the eighteenth century, it should seem, none were found crownable in

Italy. Are we to consider that these recent crowned heads take rank in

their country's Pantheon next after the author of the "Gerusalemme"?

Or must it be supposed that the significance of Campidoglio crowning

became changed yet more rapidly than the national literature, fast as

it moved in the same direction, could follow it; so that the knight

Perfetti and the lady Corilla were the first who overtook the standard

of the crown conferrers, and came up to the modern mark?

[Sidenote: HER UN–ARCADIC NAME.]

Let us see whether any explanation of these puzzling circumstances can

be obtained from an examination of La Corilla's titles to her high

honour.

In the vulgar unpoetical world of baptismal registers, milliners'

bills, and such matter–of–fact trivialities, "La Corilla" was known

as Maria Maddalena Morelli. It was only "in Arcadia" that she was "La

Corilla Olympica;" for such was her full Arcadian style and title.

Maria Maddalena Morelli, then, in plain prose, was born of humble

parents at Pistoja, a Tuscan city some twenty miles from Florence, in

the year 1740, and was educated in a better manner than the means of

her parents could have commanded, by the kindness of a noble lady of

that city. When she was only ten years old, her lively gracious manners

and pleasing appearance obtained for her another and more important

patroness. This was the Princess Pallavicini, who took the engaging

child with her to Rome, and there completed her education according to

the best and most perfect literary methods known to an age and people,

who deemed Metastasio "the Prince of Poets."

While still at Rome she began to be favourably known to "the shepherds

and shepherdesses, who owned the gentle sway of the blond–haired god

of the silver bow," in that city for the quickness of her parts, and

inclination towards poetry. And there a third patroness took her by

the hand—the Princess Columbrano—who carried the blossoming muse with

her to Naples, there to rhyme "amore," "a tutte le ore," for the

amusement and admiration of the polite drawing–rooms, whose serene and

illustrious inmates were unable to perform such feats of intellect for

themselves.

Her success in this occupation was great, and was attended by a rapidly

increasing and extending reputation. Amid these early triumphs the

youthful poetess was wooed and won by Fernando Fernandez, a Spanish

gentleman, whose entire biography, so far as recoverable from the

greedy maw of dull oblivion, is narrated in the above words. Having

given the "Zitella" Maddalena Morelli the social status of "La Signora

Fernandez," he retires behind the side–scene, and is no more heard of.

It may be as well to state at once, however, to prevent misconception,

that, notwithstanding the social circumstances which called Don

Fernando to live in the shade, while his wife pursued her calling in

the sunshine, there is no reason to doubt that La Signora Fernandez was

a very good wife to her husband, and devoted herself to her domestic

duties whenever she could get out of "Arcadia" for a season.

As for Don Fernando, the one sole fact of his biography will probably

authorise us to conclude that he was a shrewd gentleman, with a good

eye for the main chance; for in truth the marriage with "La Corilla"

was a very good speculation. And the great Mr. Barnum, had he lived

in those days, would assuredly have put himself into communication

with her, and made arrangements for working the Arcadian farm to their

mutual profit. However inferior to so great a master, Don Fernando

was no doubt awake to the Arcadian yield. And we may picture him

to ourselves as occupied in haunting the antechambers of princes

and cardinals with "programmes" in his pocket, signing and issuing

tickets, bargaining with fiddlers for their accompaniment to the Muse's

improvisation, and doing any other such Arcadian bottle–holding as

might assist in keeping his own and the Muse's pot boiling for the

comfort of their ex–Arcadian existence.

[Sidenote: SAFE LITERATURE.]

It is evident that Corilla's business was a very profitable one. The

highnesses, serenities, eminences, and other minor grandees were

condemned to dreadfully dull lives in those days, and were delighted

with any stimulant of a sufficiently mild nature and thoroughly safe

quality. The world's rulers had long since learned that it was good

to "patronise literature." It was in those days more than ever the

fashion to do so. But literature had of late been exhibiting symptoms

very disquieting to its courtly friends, who found it more than ever

necessary to take precautions for having their literature of the right

sort.

The "difficulty" between literature and princes is one of old date;

and, truth to tell, the connection between them has rarely been

creditable to either party. If Francis I. showed his paternal regard

for learning by limiting the printing–presses in all France to twelve

licensed machines, literature, even as represented by such men as the

historian Robertson, has been flunky enough to extol him as "the father

of letters!" How often has the clause—"but he protected literature and

loved learned men"—been accepted in a historian's summing–up of the

character of some royal scourge of humanity, as a set–off against a

host of abominations wholly incompatible with any real appreciation of

the value of human intellect! It is quite time that the historic claims

of many princely "fathers of literature" to the lenient consideration

of the world on this ground, should be more rightly appreciated. And

the dealings of several of the Italian princes during the last three

hundred years with those "dangerous classes" of their subjects, the

men of the pen, form a very instructive manual of the royal art of

patronising literature.

Cosmo I., Duke of Florence, by the grace of Charles V., was a most

able practitioner in this line. He founded the Florentine Academy,

and regulated its studies and duties in accordance with the great

discovery, that the exercise of men's minds on words might be quite

safe and harmless, if carefully disjoined from any application of

their thoughts to things; nay, might even not only be harmless, but

positively useful in promoting all those qualities which make men

good subjects. And it is quite curious to observe with what unity

of aim, means, and success, the policy so inaugurated by him has

been carried out by those who came after him. Hence the innumerable

"academies" which swarmed in every city of Italy, vieing with each

other in the absurdity of their appellations and the frivolity of their

pursuits. Hence the production of a literature which from generation to

generation grew ever safer and safer, till it culminated in Arcadian

shepherds and shepherdesses, and gave birth to a Corilla, who could be

warranted to produce, in whatever heat of poetical estro and fervid

flow of extempore song, only such strains as were fitted for noble

ears to hear, and were calculated to "encourage the best sentiments in

the masses."

[Sidenote: ARCADIANS.]

The literature thus produced to meet the special requirements of

enlightened princely protectors, and perfectionated by the dwindling

intellect of successive generations to a pitch of imbecility

scarcely credible, instructively illustrates its own birth, descent,

antecedents, and functions, by the consistent and intense falsity

which saturates and gives its character to the entire mass of it.

The exterior and avowed fictions, which turned companies of sober

middle–aged gentlemen, nobles, magistrates, lawyers, physicians, and

divines, into Arcadian shepherds, calling each other by such absurd

_aliases_ as "Parmenio Dirceo," "Prasilio Dedaleo," "Dorillo Dafneio,"

and a thousand such, were but the fitting corporeal manifestation of

a spirit as fictitious. The essence of "Arcadian" citizenship was to

think false thoughts, to speak no word which should be a representation

of any real thing, to cut off with jealous care all possible

communication between the world of "Arcady" and the world of reality,

and to take good heed that no stray tone of the voice of literature

should by chance address itself to any one genuine feeling of the heart

of man, evoke a sincere thought, or appeal to a real interest. It is

easy to see how admirably such a literature was adapted to fulfil the

objects of the princely founders and patrons of "Academies."

Our Olympic Corilla's business therefore throve, as every business does

that produces wares in demand. Shortly after her marriage, the now

celebrated _Improvisatrice_ made a professional tour through Italy,

and was listened to with delight in the patrician saloons of Bologna,

Modena, Parma, Venice, &c. Fresh triumphs, we are told, everywhere

awaited her; and her readiness, nimbleness of wit and tongue, and

facility, became the admiration of all Italy.

The land of the "dolce favella" still brings forth "improvisatori" and

"improvisatrice;" and those who have had an opportunity of hearing

performances of the sort will readily appreciate the quality and amount

of talent needed for the production of them. A dull, unimpressionable

or unimaginative mind would of course entirely fail at any such

exercise. But it is extremely probable, that a profound and suggestive

intellect richly laden with stores of thought, and habitually critical

in the marshalling and effective presentment of those stores, would

be found equally unsuccessful. A light nimble wit of exclusively

objective tendency, unburdened by deep views of things, and unimpeded

by habits of examination and reflection; a ready and copious memory,

well furnished with common–places, a good command of the language and

its inexhaustible rhyming capabilities—that mellifluous language,

of which it may be said, that every child born to the use of it,

"lisps in numbers, for the numbers come" naturally to its attempts to

talk;—and finally, perhaps the most essential qualification of all for

the exercise of the art, a practised dexterity in avoiding any such

treatment of a given subject as might lead to difficulty, a competent

degree of skill in keeping to generals, and in finding some thread of

connection, by virtue of which matter that can be easily said and sung

from the cut and dried assortment of common places in store, is forced

by a gentle compulsion to serve the purpose of more or less pertinently

illustrating the topic in hand;—these are the qualifications which

form the equipment of the "improvisatore." Practice will of course

infinitely increase the performer's capabilities. Of course, too, a

clever and bright professor of the art will string his rhymes with

more play of fancy, and a greater approach to some novelty of poetical

thought, than a stupid one. But it is difficult to believe that

anything worth even the value of the hour spent in hearing him was

ever produced by a practitioner of improvisation. And the habit of

encouraging and admiring such performances is doubtless, to a certain

degree, pernicious to a people who need every possible incitement

to lower their estimate of the value of words as opposed to that of

things, instead of additional temptations to accept mere verbiage in

the place of thought.

[Sidenote: EUROPEAN REPUTATION.]

But among the "distinguished circles" which patronised our Corilla,

this was exactly the article wanted. Accordingly, when Pietro Leopoldo

was to be married to Maria Luisa of Bourbon in 1765, Corilla was

invited by the great Maria Theresa to go to Innspruck "to celebrate the

nuptials." And we can well understand that she did so, eminently to the

satisfaction of her imperial patrons. On returning well remunerated to

Florence, she was appointed court poetess, and received a pension. And

now her reputation had become clearly European in its extent, as far at

least as that could be conferred by the courts of Europe. For Catherine

the Second, thinking that she too would do the royal thing in civilised

style, and patronise literature, sent an invitation to the poetess to

come from Arcady to Russia, and be court poetess there,—not, it is

to be hoped, to sing the "res gestæ" of the sovereign! But Corilla

preferred to be a ducal poetess in "la bella Firenze," rather than an

imperial one in Russia. And Catherine, though refused, nevertheless

marked her appreciation of the claims of literature by conferring a

pension on its court representative. Another invitation came to the

happy shepherdess from Joseph the Second, who, radical reformer as he

was, yet was quite monarchical enough to admire and approve Arcadian

literature. Joseph was also refused; and he too sent magnificent

presents to the recalcitrant Muse.

CHAPTER II.

THE CORONATION.

The celebrated "improvisatrice" had been some time before this

solemnly admitted a member of their Academy by the Arcadians of

Rome. She entered Arcady as the "pastorella, Corilla Olympica;" and

was thenceforth better known by that name than her real one. The

Arcadians were exceedingly proud of their shepherdess; and to make

the most of her, and at the same time get an occasion of parading all

their pastoral absurdities, and obtaining each shepherd his share

of glorification, it was suggested to have a coronation on the old

Capitoline–hill, and try to make believe for a while, that the laurel

bestowed in that time–hallowed spot, had still a value, and represented

something in the eyes of Europe.

There were, however, difficulties in the way, of a nature which are

not apparent in the official records of the ceremony. These are all

to be found in a very handsomely got up volume, printed by Bodoni the

celebrated typographer, at the royal Parma press, in the year 1779.

The publication comprises also the numerous poetical compositions

produced in honour of the occasion, together with "A list of the

gentlemen poets"—"Indice de' Signori Poeti," who took part in the

proceeding. There are no less than sixty–six possessors of the "Os

magna sonaturum!" designed to unapprehensive posterity by such names

and titles as "Antilio Pireatide, a member of the Inextricables of

Parma, called Birdilio among the Academicians of Concord," and, among

vulgar men, professor of rhetoric in the College at Parma;—"Aglauro

of the Reggio Hypochondriacs" (this unfortunate person was a lady

known outside Arcady as the Countess Paradisi);—"Fidauro Tessalide,

a Dominican monk, called Lucio Lentulo among the Strong Academicians

of Rome;"—"L' Intronato, member of the Transformed Ones of Milan;"—"

Nivildo Amaranzio, a priest, called in the outer world, Giovacchino

Pizzi, member of the Academy of Inscriptions at Paris, a Della Cruscan

at Florence, and Custos–General of Arcadia!"—"Parmenio Dirceo of Parma,

called Philander of Crete among the shepherds of Emonia;"—"Telejo

Focidense, an Academician of Florence, Apathist, Vice–Custos of the

Alphean Colony of Arcadians," and among un–Arcadian men professor

of feudal law in the University of Pisa;—"Dr. Agnelli, secretary of

the Intrepid Ones, and Pro–vice–Custos of the Ariostean Colony of

Arcadians;"—and, finally, "Maria Forster, Poetess of the late Princess

of Tuscany, Violante."

[Sidenote: THE LITTLE DIFFICULTY.]

These and a crowd of other strangely nick–named gentlemen and ladies

contribute to fill the superbly printed pages of a book, which, it

may be safely asserted, no human eye has ever perused in its entirety

since it was printed. The Custos–General of Arcadia himself would

probably have been unequal to the task. But the more strictly official

documents of the ceremony contained in the volume have, with toil and

much suffering from nausea, been read by the present writer. And it is

certain that no remotest hint of the difficulties that lay in the way

of this desirable recognition of merit, as mentioned above, is to be

discovered. The "Conservatori" of Rome, we are told, having "specially

observed the transports of affection demonstrated by La Corilla for

this favoured city, the seat of Religion and Virtue, and hearing the

praises into which she continually broke forth in her extemporaneous

songs, of the pacific and well–regulated government, of the greatness

of mind, the invincible justice, and rare piety of the sovereign

recently seated on the throne of St. Peter, on occasion of whose happy

exaltation she had frequently improvised, and finally seeing her so

much honoured, praised, visited, and distinguished by many noble and

conspicuous personages,"—the Conservatori of Rome, duly rating all

these meritorious circumstances, having first presented her with a

diploma of Roman nobility, thought fit to make application to the papal

government for permission to crown her on the Capitol. A most gracious

and benign answer was returned, forwarded to the Custos–General

of all Arcadia; and the whole matter is made to assume the aspect

of a spontaneous homage—if not exactly to merit—at least to those

unpremeditated lays in favour of papal government, and virtue. Pius

the Sixth is touched by the enthusiastic and ingenuous tribute of the

inspired singer, and at once falls in with the wishes of his subjects,

Arcadian and other, to award the laurel to so deserving a shepherdess.

Where is there any difficulty in the matter? Is it to be found

in the shrinking modesty of the poetess? Has any envious brother

shepherd;—(for Arcadia itself was not free from such passions);—raised

an opposing voice to the general wishes?

Not this. But that "amari aliquid," the bill. Benignant Pius and his

pacific government,—break forth into whatever unpremeditated praises of

him you may,—will not lend his Capitoline Hill for you to be crowned on

under forty thousand dollars! A consideration well calculated to make

an aspiring poet pause, and admirably adapted to keep the company of

laurel–crowned heads select! Where was Arcadia to get forty thousand

dollars? Forty thousand sonnets the shepherds and shepherdesses of

its tuneful vales would have gladly advanced at a short notice. But

dollars were another matter. And without the cash down, no crowning!

The encouragement of literature, Rome honouring herself before the

world, asserting ancient supremacy in letters and civilisation, was all

very fine; and the papal government was delighted to encourage merit

... at forty thousand dollars a head; would doubtless even have had the

liberality to crown a dozen for the four hundred thousand dollars; but

upon one single crowning no reduction could be made.

But the Arcadian shepherds, and the gentle "pastorella" more

specially interested had a friend;—one whose flocks were fed not in

Arcady, but on wide–spreading Tuscan pastures;—a man of money, who

was willing to invest the serious sum required in pageantry for the

eternal glorification of Arcadia,—and himself. This public–spirited

individual was the Senator Lorenzo Ginori, who paid the cash, and was,

therefore—to leave Arcady and speak plain truth for awhile;—the real

author and getter up of the entire affair. And the whole carefully

maintained appearance of spontaneity, the high–flown talk of the papal

admiration for the matchless poetess, and honourable encouragement

of letters, the floods of mutual complimentation between all parties

engaged in the grave farce, were all as utterly false and fictitious

as the "literature" to be encouraged, the sentiments expressed, the

designations of the mummers who uttered them, and everything else in

this idyllic Arcady. And everybody knew perfectly well, that everybody

else knew that the whole thing was a sham and a humbug. Yet they

mouthed out their speeches and their odes and sonnets, and said all

that could have been said if the thing had been genuine, with grave

decorum, without laughing in each other's faces; and found the doing so

an exceedingly agreeable pastime.

[Sidenote: QUINTESSENTIAL HUMBUG.]

Not a hint of the real nature of the business is to be found in the

records of it, above mentioned. What does Arcady know of dollars?

Of "Phœbus the blond ruler of Parnassus," of Arcadian shepherds in

conclave, and of the lofty meed of glorious song, we read much. But of

the Senator Lorenzo Ginori and his forty thousand good dollars, not a

word; which seems rather hard on so munificent a patron of Arcadia.

The narrative of the proceedings on the occasion, ridiculous enough

even if they had been genuine, becomes infinitely more absurd when read

by the light of the real facts of the case. It was pretended that the

Academy of Arcadians were to adjudge and decree the crown. And they

were to make believe to subject the aspirant to a tremendously severe

ordeal; on which it was supposed their judgment was to be based. In

solemn Arcadian conclave accordingly it was arranged that the poetess

should be called on to extemporise on twelve "subjects of science and

art." And twelve experienced shepherds are gravely appointed by the

conclave to propose themes on the following subjects:—

1. Sacred history. 7. Legislation.

2. Revealed religion. 8. Eloquence.

3. Moral philosophy. 9. Mythology.

4. Physical science. 10. Harmony.

5. Metaphysics. 11. The fine arts.

6. Heroic poetry. 12. Pastoral poetry.

When poor Corilla should have produced a sufficient extempore poem

on each of these subjects, she was to be declared worthy of the

laurel–crown! Sacred history was assigned to Bishop Giovardi, who was

"Dean of Arcadia." And the Archbishop of Apamea undertook revealed

religion. Physical science was entrusted to the Pope's physician; the

other subjects confided to equally able shepherds.

Three days were appointed for the solemn trial; four poems per day

being deemed as much as the poet or the audience could endure. And on

each of these, four of the appointed twelve examiners were to hand in

a theme in a paper carefully sealed, to show that it could not have

been communicated previously to the candidate. And of course everybody

pretended to consider this as proof perfectly conclusive on that point.

The first examination was to take place at the house of Prince Gonzago

di Castiglione; and all "the cream" of the Roman world was there.

"The improvisatrice," says the record, "entered the saloon with some

appearance of apprehension, seeing herself exposed to so arduous an

ordeal, and to the judgment of the public. The signal was given to the

violins to begin their harmonious sounds for the purpose of stirring

up the poetess—_per iscuotere la poetessa_—and while everybody was

expecting some well–considered exordium, she looked around as if lost

and stupefied; and seeing at that moment one of her Arcadian friends

enter, she burst into song imploring of him prompt and well–timed

aid. Then as if repenting of the weakness, and disdaining all human

assistance, she invoked the mighty name of God; which produced a tender

commotion in the audience. Then blazing up into a wonderful estro of

song, the poetess, continually changing her metre and rhythm, ran over

all the varied scientific topics proposed to her with an inexhaustible

vein of poesy."

[Sidenote: THE FIRST DAY.]

The tournament began with pastoral poetry. And the examiner appointed

for this subject handed in a sealed paper, which when opened in the

presence of the expectant company, was found to contain this novel and

difficult theme: "The advantages of a city life compared with those of

the country."

This topic having been most triumphantly disposed of, the examiner in

physical science stepped forward and requested—by intervention of a

similarly sealed paper—that the "pastorella" would favour the company

with a poem "on the properties of light, explaining at the same time

how the images of objects are painted in the eye."

The shepherdess made no more difficulty about this than she had about

the more manageable theme which had preceded it.

Then came the eloquence examiner, who "invited her to explain the

nature and degree of the fatal blow which eloquence received at the

violent death of Marcus Tullius Cicero." This, too, was successfully

despatched. And the harmony delegate next proposed a poem on the

properties of harmony, subjoining—with a malicious significance, one

might think, if it were possible for Arcadian souls to be guilty of

espièglerie—"an explanation why harmonious sounds, which delight us

for a while, bore us when too long continued."

This was explained to the perfect satisfaction of the company. And

then, the programme of that evening's business having been thus

completed, "after a short pause for a magnificent collation, Corilla,

without manifesting the slightest sign of exhaustion," and utterly

insensible to the great truth she had been illustrating in her fourth

poem, "demanded more themes!"

Whereupon an Abate among the company proposed, "Without religion there

is no true virtue." And this thesis was handled in such style that

"the audience were carried away with inexplicable (!) admiration and

delight at hearing with what grace, learning, eloquence and fire the

above theme was treated, in the poetical exposition of which the great

improvisatrice demonstrated how truly prodigious enthusiasm is the

animating spirit of poets."

On the second evening "all the magistracy of Arcadia" was present,

besides "many other illustrious Arcadians, most ornate prelates,

foreigners, distinguished by birth or learning" (the Duke of Gloucester

was one of the former sort), "renowned monks, and twelve virtuous Roman

ladies." On this occasion the four themes seem to have been given to

the fair candidate all together.

That on revealed religion was, "Of what nature and how revealed was the

first revealed religion?"

On sacred history: "The miraculous passage of the Red Sea."

On mythology: "Why does mythology represent Love to be blind, while at

the same time it gives him a bow and arrows to shoot a certain mark?"

[Sidenote: SECOND AND THIRD DAYS.]

On legislation: "An European endeavouring to instruct a savage in the

advantages of legislation."

On these subjects "the learned poetess fully satisfied with her sublime

song the utmost expectation of the public. She sang in various choice

Tuscan metres upon each of the enumerated topics, mixing them up

occasionally one with another;" which, considering the nature of them,

must have produced at all events some originality of treatment, it may

be supposed.

On this occasion, also, the inexhaustible shepherdess, having made an

end of this supply, demanded more. Whereupon one of the twelve virtuous

ladies suggested, "The death of Pyramus and Thisbe;" and another, "the

elegant problem, Whether constancy was most found in men or in women?"

"The new and spontaneous graces which Corilla manifested in singing on

these themes were truly prodigious; and by her treatment of the first,

several of the audience"—some of the renowned monks, perhaps—"were

visibly moved to tears."

On the third and last evening the audience was so great, that not only

the saloon prepared for the purpose, but the adjoining rooms were

"filled with literature and the nobility." And the following were the

subjects given.

On the fine arts: "Which among them is the most useful and delightful?"

"And a charming thing it was to hear how the able improvisatrice

extolled them all, but awarded the highest place to painting."

In epic poetry: "A specimen of the sublime style proper to epic poetry

in the delineation of the character of some luminous hero?" The

execution of this task was received with an outburst of applause when

it appeared that the most "luminous hero" the judicious poetess could

think of was His Holiness Pope Pius the Sixth!

In metaphysics she was required to set forth the physical and moral

proofs of the immortality of the soul.

The remaining twelfth examination, in moral philosophy, seems by

some error or accident to have been omitted. But the indefatigable

_pastorella_, "in nowise tired or exhausted," demanded, as on the other

occasions, fresh subjects. So the Countess Isabella Soderini proposed

to her, "The lament of a _pastorella_ abandoned by her _pastor_." And

when this had been duly sung, it was proposed to her by a bishop to

conclude her performances with "An invocation to the gods, entreating

them to be propitious on the day of her coronation, and to come down

all of them on the Tarpeian rock to render the solemnity more enviable

and immortal." We are assured that "no language can express the grace

with which the poetess gave a most unexpected turn to this argument,"

by declaring that she needed no other gods and goddesses at her

coronation than those now around her. And the wonderful effect produced

by this "is testified by those who had the good fortune to be present

at this last most marvellous extempore poem."

When it was done, the three hundred persons forming the audience

"partook of abundant refreshments. _So that_ nothing was wanting to

render these literary sessions, noble, brilliant, magnificent, and

delicious."

A most satisfactory testimonial was of course drawn up in due form,

and signed by the examiners. It is dated, "From the shepherd's hut (la

capanna) of the magnanimous and erudite Arcadian shepherd, Emireno

Alantino;" and was formally presented to the Academy and government

as the motive and authorisation for the coronation ceremony. This was

fixed for the 31st of August. And we have next a minutely detailed

description of all the upholstery magnificences, and the preparations

for seats of various dignity; one eminently glorious reserved for the

Duke of Gloucester, "who deigned to come in from Marino" to be present

at the ceremony; and the musicians, and the "Magistracy of Arcadia,"

and that of Rome, &c. &c.

[Sidenote: THE CORONATION.]

The nature of the ceremony itself may be easily imagined. The laurel

crown was placed on her head by the Conservatori of the city, as

she kneeled before them, with these words. "_Eximium hoc laudis

poeticæ decus, quod tuo capiti impono sub felicissimis auspiciis

sanctissimi Domini nostri Papæ Pii Sexti, Mulier egregia et nobilis

nostra Civis, sit publici non minus erga te studii argumentum,

quam obsequentissimi animi significatio erga amplissimam illam, et

plane regiam benevolentiam, qua decoraris._" To which she, still

kneeling, responded, "_Poetica laurus immeritæ imposita fronti,

excelsam sanctissimi Patris ac Principis Papæ Pii Sexti munificentiam,

effusamque Senatus Populique Romani erga me voluntatem testatur, quarum

utraque aut honore dignos invenit, aut facit_."

Then of course there was cannon firing and trumpet sounding ad libitum;

and recitations not equally ad libitum. For all Arcadia, as the record

says, would willingly have availed themselves of the opportunity of

indulging in the delight of reciting their compositions to an audience

who could not escape from them. It was therefore absolutely necessary

to stem in some degree the threatening flood of song; and it was

determined that, besides the performances of the _pastorella_ herself,

there should be permitted only one prose recitation, six sonnets, and

one ode. The latter was taken as the lion's share by the "Custos of all

Arcadia;" and the others distributed by lot among the Arcadians.

The prose man abused his opportunity shamefully, speaking sixteen

octavo pages, in which he resumed all the topics treated by Corilla in

her twelve examinations, and set forth how entirely she had satisfied

her Arcadian judges, "all of them," as he said, "swans of an immortal

wing"—"Cigni tutti d'eterne penne!" The sonnetteers were happily

restrained by the immutable rules of their craft. But the great Custos

indulged in some couple of hundred lines of "terza rima."

When all this had been got through, the _pastorella_ herself was called

on to "sing the praises of mighty Rome, and the honour of the laurel

crown." And when she had done this, it was proposed to her to set

forth "the falsity and injustice of the opinion of those, who maintain

that the Christian religion is, by reason of its being founded in

humility, not fitted to encourage talent or foster art." Finally, she

was required to point out "the superiority of modern philosophy to the

ancient."

"With this last extemporaneous poem, the poetess determined to put the

seal to her glory, by running over with wonderful rapidity all the

philosophical systems of ancient and modern times (!), and finally

awarding the pre–eminence to the present age. In the whole course of

this last song, the sensibility and gratitude of the poetess for the

honour she had received carried her away; and in it the praises of

Rome, for the protection it accords to talent and the fine arts, held

the foremost place."

[Sidenote: THE LAST LAUREL.]

Then came universal congratulations from "the princes and princesses,

cavaliers, and noble foreigners, especially the magnanimous Duke of

Gloucester."

And so terminated the last adjudication of the laurel crown on the

hill of the Capitol; a symbol which, once invested with true and high

significance, had dwindled in perfect sympathy with all around it,

till, like so many another superannuated embodiment of human thought,

it had become a mere trading imposture, symbolising nothing but the

utter hollowness and intense falsity of the social system, of which it

was an unhealthy excrescence.

But it must not be imagined, that even in Rome in 1776, the decorous

farce with which princes, and eminences, and Arcadian bishops, and

"renowned monks," amused themselves, was universally accepted at more

than its real worth in less polite circles outside the official and

Arcadian world. Old Pasquin asserted his immemorial privileges on

the occasion. An immense number of satires and libels were current

in Rome, in which our poor Corilla was treated in a way that she at

least seems in no degree to have deserved, for all that we hear of her

private life, represents her to have been a good and estimable woman.

Among other lampoons, the following is to be found recorded by Signor

Vannucci in an article on Corilla in the "Raccolta Biographica" of

Tipaldo. It marks the popular estimate of the value of Senator Ginori's

forty–thousand scudi bargain:—

"Ordina e vuole Monsignor Missei

Che se passa Corilla coll'alloro,

Non le si tirin bucce o pomidoro,

Sotto la pena di baiocchi sei."

Monsignor Missei was governor of Rome. And the ordinance attributed to

him by Pasquin, may be read somewhat thus:—

"By Monsignor Missei's decree, whoever

Shall pelt Corilla in her laurel crown

With love–apples or parings whatsoever,

Must pay the penalty of threepence down."

The innocent _pastorella_, however, soon withdrew herself from the

Arcadian honours and popular gibes of the Eternal City; and carried

her crown and her reputation home to her native Tuscany. The former

she devoutly dedicated to the Virgin, over one of whose altars, in the

city of Pistoja, it may yet be seen. The latter, as has been said,

had not been barren; but had procured for her the means of making a

comfortable home for herself and her husband in the Via della Forca in

fair Florence. She had one child, who died in its infancy. As for her

husband, it may be remarked, that on the great day of the coronation,

among all the detail of seats set apart for this and the other

functionary and notability, we do not meet with any mention of the

smallest stool appropriated to the Arcadian king–consort. He rises to

the surface no more, except to have his death chronicled in 1790. His

wife survived him only two years. But she had lived long enough to see

Arcadia desolate, and the literary fashions and traditions of her palmy

day, scattered before the morning wind of another epoch.

APPENDIX

TO