us, in enjoying the different views which this most superb city
presents. My companions, who have both seen Constantinople, seem to
reckon it only inferior to that. To begin with the beginning: we
presented on Wednesday our letter to the Père Jourdain, a Jesuit; and
no sooner was it delivered, than, without reading it, or any sort of
preface, except W's reply in the affirmative to the question whether
he was a Catholic, he began a most furious attack on us as rebels
outside of the Church, Protestants, and what not. It so happened,
however, that the points he took were just those which I had most at
command; so he did not get much by his assault, was obliged to beat a
retreat several times, and finally left us all three convinced that
reasoning was not his forte, and that at least in his case the Jesuits
were not employing gentle insinuation as a means of converting, He
has, however, never renewed the battle since, but been very obliging,
and given us every assistance in his power. Among the sights he
directed us to was St. Anne's, a house of barefooted Carmelites, on
the back of the hills some few hundred feet aloft, commanding the most
delicious views of the city, the bay, the sea, and the mountains
round. A straggling and precipitous garden was covered with vines
festooned on trellis work, through which one caught the blue sky, and
water, and towers and domes brought out against them with full effect.
Then, after seeing the long, cool corridors inside, each of which had
a window opening on this gorgeous scene, and the little chamber of
each brother, furnished with a poor bed, some little pictures, a
crucifix, and the most necessary furniture; and on hearing the quiet
tenor of every day's life, the only fear was, whether there was enough
of the cross in it. But doubtless the being under obedience, the
having every day's work portioned out for one, supplies all that is
wanted; and however calm it seemed, every chamber, as it had the
figure of the Crucified, so it was conscious of the secret cross borne
by its occupant. They are occupied in instruction, and have a school
of novices. Genoa is particularly rich in charitable foundations; her
merchant princes cannot be accused of neglecting the poor and
suffering, nor of so assisting them as to show that they thought
poverty a crime and an offence. We have seen three great buildings
which have moved our admiration in this way. The Ospitaletto contains
444 sick men and women: it is served by six Capucins and fifteen
sisters of charity. Mass is said every day at half-past-five and six
o'clock, at altars so placed in the different wards that every person
can see. They are confessed by the Capucins, and communicate
every fortnight. All Genoese are received freely here, others pay a
small sum. Again, the hospital called Pammatone, endowed by various
noble Genoese, can receive 1000 sick; it had more this last winter. It
is served by eighteen Capucins and thirty-four sisters. We saw here,
in a shrine over the altar, the body of St. Catherine of Genoa, who
died in 1510, after serving thirty-two years as a sister here. It is
apparently solid and quite uncorrupt. The other great building, which
we saw yesterday, is the Albergo dei Poveri--a poor house in fact, but
as unlike an English poor house, as poverty in the person of the
Blessed Virgin and our Lord is unlike poverty as treated by a board of
guardians, and kept alive on the smallest pittance they can devise. It
is a most magnificent building, with four huge courts, the chapel in
the centre, of which the altar is commanded on one side by a great
chamber for the men, and on the other side by one for the women; while
in front it is open to the public, and behind to an infirmary for the
sick.
In all these buildings what most pleases one is the bringing home the
entire offices, hopes, and consolations of religion to every
individual soul. I do not see how this can be done without sisters of
charity, and the system of confession. Everything I see impresses on
me more and more our own need of a complete renovation and
restoration, if we would rise as a communion to be a reality and not a
sham. Yesterday we visited the Fieschine, an institution for educating
orphan girls, of which it now holds 187. They are taught reading and
writing and work of all kinds, the most beautiful embroidery,
artificial flowers, &c. It was founded by the Count Fieschi, and is in
the patronage of his family, directed by a chaplain, and a superior,
with the rules of a convent, but without any vows, as a great many
marry out of it. The full recognition of the ascetic and monastic
life, as a Christian state, and the highest in its kind, is of
incalculable importance. For want of this, all our great institutions,
whether for the maintenance of learning, or the direction of youth, or
the care of the sick, fail just where they ought to be strong; they
have no _authority_; the world, its views, and principles, and
measures, rule in them as in ordinary life; and the reason why is,
that the very life which alone is above the world, its wants, and its
measures, is excluded and condemned. We have men, we have minds, we
have money; but how are we to get back principles which we have in
practice given up? The under-valuing celibacy, the not possessing
religious orders, seems a system of christianity without the cross.
_July 21._--We go on to Milan by the courier to-day, and I shall post
this letter on our arrival there to-morrow, after that to
Venice, which is my farthest point. I shall return through Basle, to
which place write me a line as soon as you receive this. The heat here
is overwhelming,--there is no getting cool, even at night. Instead of
a bonnet, all women here, ladies and commonalty, wear a muslin shawl,
which is pinned on the top of the head, and descends down behind to
the waist: it is most pleasing and graceful. They are, besides, often
good looking, and have a natural breeding and look of blood about them
which seems quite extinct in France. The majority of the women over
the men in the churches here is as great as in France. The buildings
themselves are full of various marbles, painting and gilding,
sometimes to excess, but often the effect is very beautiful. The music
is much too theatrical for my taste. Several masses going on at once
in a church strike one as strange, and for devotion, at least
habitually, I prefer the Low Mass which one can follow without
difficulty, and which is of a moderate length, to the accompaniment
with music, which distracts. Their evening service, when they have
any, is the Benediction, or exposition of the Holy Sacrament. The
Jesuits here seem to have plenty to do; the professed house is
supported by charity alone. When we go to visit Père Jourdain, he
seats us on his bed, for chairs he has not for company: I believe they
may not possess anything as private property, not even a souvenir of
friends. There is a reality about that order at least which
ensures respect.
* * * * *
Yours very sincerely,
T. W. ALLIES.
Milan, July 23. 1847.
MY DEAR ----.
We took our letter to Manzoni last night, and found him sitting, after
dinner, with Madame. Considering that he lives very retired, we may
think ourselves three fortunate birds of passage to have had an hour's
conversation with the author of the Promessi Sposi. He is from 60 to
65 years of age, with greyish hair and a pleasing kind look. He spoke
of James Hope and Gladstone; with great warmth of the latter, saying
it was a satisfaction to speak with such a man. Newman he regretted
not having seen as he passed through, being then in the country. I
mentioned his great reputation with us. "He has the same here," he
said. I inquired if he could tell us anything about the Estatica and
Addolorata, who are not far from Trent, and whom we wish to see. He
replied that one person of his acquaintance who had seen the
Addolorata was profoundly struck, and quite convinced of the reality
of her state. On further conversation, it turned out that this person
was no other than his wife's son by a former marriage, who was
at this moment gone on a second visit to the Addolorata with a
physician, for the purpose of taking an accurate account of her state.
He is to return on Monday, and then we hope to hear his report. I
asked if the clergy here were learned; he said there were learned men
among them, but the Church was held in a state of most oppressive
thraldom by the government; the bishops cannot hold a visitation, nor
communicate with Rome, without permission, nor punish a parish priest
without the sentence of a tribunal directed by laymen. This thraldom
dates from the emperor Joseph II. What seemed most to interest
Manzoni, and on which he spoke at length, was the philosophical system
of his friend Rosmini; a complete system, according to his account, of
great originality, thoroughly opposed to the _sensuous_ philosophy of
modern times, and preparing the mind for the faith. He made all error
to consist in the _will_, not in the _mind_; and was a most
inexorable logician, carrying out every principle, and never leaving a
fact in abeyance. Manzoni seemed thoroughly interested in Rosmini, and
expects great results from his works, of which there are already
fifteen vols. published, which have begun to make an impression. He
got more and more animated as our visit went on. I found his Italian
clear and easy to understand; nor did he address us at all in French,
which his lady (a second wife) seemed to prefer. He spoke with
compassion of the miserably infidel state of France, and quite
admitted my remark that a great change seemed to be passing over the
mind of men everywhere, and that they were in the process of being won
back to the faith, as in the last century they were falling from it.
The Church was the best friend of all governments, for they must be
bad indeed for the clergy not to support them; and yet their position
was one of jealousy towards the Church. As we bowed ourselves out of
the room, he came forward cordially and said "Shake hands," the only
words not Italian which he had spoken; and so we left him much
gratified, and with the prospect of another visit on Monday. We were
several hours in the cathedral yesterday; and at five this morning
mounted to see the early morning view outside. The view, when clear,
is most wondrous, embracing the range of Alps for a couple of hundred
miles. This morning it was only partially open, just to the north, but
still very fine. Shelley's lines on the Euganean Hills are most
thoroughly Italian, and render the scene, so far as words can:--
"Beneath is spread, like a green sea,
The waveless plain of Lombardy,
Bounded by the vaporous air,
Islanded by cities fair;
Underneath day's azure eyes,
Ocean's nursling, Venice, lies," &c.
As for describing the building inside or out, it is utterly vain to
attempt it. Suffice it to say, that the greatest of all Gothic
cathedrals must be allowed to be a beautiful bastard, full of
inconsistencies and irregularities, and even serious faults, yet so
grand and profoundly religious, that one gives up all criticism in
disgust. As we walked on the marble roof this morning, and watched
that multitude of aerial pinnacles so clearly defined against the cool
blue sky, I thought it would be as utterly beyond Walter Scott or
Victor Hugo, or any other master of human language, as it was beyond
me, to convey to one who never saw it any idea of this building. Human
language, then, being an instrument confessedly so poor and weak, what
extreme folly it is to rest upon it in religious mysteries; to think
that we can penetrate into realities by its aid, when we cannot even
describe the objects of sense. If Milan cathedral be indescribable, it
would be strange indeed if words could exhibit the mystery of the
Trinity. We must wait for intuition before we approach eternal things;
that is, we must be beyond the bounds of time ere we can comprehend
what does not exist in time. Prayers may be said to be always going
on, at least during the day, here; as we entered, a Mass was already
proceeding: there is a succession of them from dawn till noon. I
confess I prefer one daily celebration, at which all who are
disposed, especially clergy, should assist, not merely as reverencing
the mystery, (which, however, is far and far beyond our manner of
neglecting it,) but as partaking of it. On the other hand, this mode
sets forth a continual worship; the building itself seems a perpetual
offering made to God; by day and night it pleads the Passion of His
Son and the graces of His saints. I do not know whether this mute
intercession is most striking when it is crowded with worshippers, or
when, as we saw it at eight last night, two single lamps twinkled in
its immense obscurity, and the last light of day was feebly visible
through the coloured windows. As we were standing thus under the
lantern, we heard a voice at the other end of the church, "_si
chiude, si chiude_." One could hardly help wishing to stay there the
night. It would certainly require a bold heart, but I think I could do
it, if I thought I could get an answer to one or two questions. The
shrine of St. Charles Borromeo, a pope's nephew--nobleman, archbishop,
and cardinal--who was worn out with austerities at forty-six, seems a
fit approach to the invisible world: where Ambrose taught, and
Augustine was converted, and over all the Blessed Virgin's hands are
stretched--a fit place for reaching the truth. We intend to go on
towards Venice on Tuesday; we think of stopping at Verona, and going
north into the Tyrol, to see the Addolorata. I do no not know if
you have heard of her. She has now been many years subsisting almost
without nourishment, having on her hands, feet, and side the marks of
our Saviour's wounds, and on her head a series of punctures
representing the Crown of Thorns. Blood drops from all of these on
Friday. I spoke with an eye-witness of this at Paris. The thing seems
marvellous enough to go a hundred miles out of one's way to see it.
Yours very sincerely,
T. W. ALLIES.
_Account of a Visit to the Addolorata and Estatica, in the Tyrol._
Trent, August 1, 1847.
MY DEAR ----.
Since I last wrote to you, I have seen two sights more remarkable than
any that ever fell under my own observation before, and than any that
are likely to fall again. I mean to give you as short an account of
them as will convey a real notion of them.
Maria Domenica Lazzari, daughter of a poor miller now dead, lives in
the wild Alpine village of Capriana, in the Italian Tyrol, which we
had a walk of four hours through the mountains to reach. She was born
March 16. 1815, and up to the year 1833 lived the ordinary life of a
peasant, blameless and religious, but in no respect otherwise
remarkable. In August, 1833, she had an illness, not in the first
instance of an extraordinary nature; but it took the form of an
intermittent fever, confining her completely to her bed, and finally
contracting the nerves of her hands and feet, so as to cripple them.
On the 10th of January, 1834, she received on her hands, feet, and
left side, the marks of our Lord's five wounds; the first appearance
of these was a gradual reddening of the various points beneath the
skin; this was strongly marked on a Thursday, and on the following day
the wounds were open, blood flowed, and since that time they have
never undergone any material change. Three weeks afterwards her family
found her in the morning with a handkerchief covering her face, in a
state of great delight, a sort of trance; on removing the
handkerchief, letters were found on it marked in blood, and Domenica's
brow had a complete impression of the Crown of Thorns, in a line of
small punctures, about a quarter of an inch apart, from which the
blood was flowing freshly. They asked her who had torn her so (chi
l'aveva così pettinata?) she replied, "A very fair lady had come in
the night and adorned her." On the 10th of April, 1834, she took a
little water with a morsel of bread steeped in it; from that day to
this she has taken no nourishment whatever, save the Holy Sacrament,
which she receives weekly once or twice, in the smallest possible
quantity. Some years ago, when the priest had given her the Host,
sudden convulsions came on, and she was unable to swallow It; the
priest tried repeatedly to withdraw It, but in vain, the convulsions
returning as often as he attempted it, and so It remained forty days,
when It was at last removed untouched. We were assured of this by the
Prince-Bishop of Trent. From the time that she first received the
stigmata in January, 1834, to the present time, the wounds have bled
every Friday with a loss of from one to two ounces of blood, beginning
early in the morning, and on Friday only: the quantity of blood which
now flows is less than it used to be. The above information we
received chiefly from Signor Yoris, a surgeon of Cavalese, the chief
village of the district in which Capriana lies. We carried him a
letter from Signor S. Stampa, son-in-law of Manzoni, whom we met at
Milan last Sunday, and who had just returned from a visit to Domenica,
exactly a week before our own. He appeared quite overwhelmed at what
he had seen, and gave us an exact account, which our own eyes
subsequently verified. We reached Cavalese from Neumarkt on Thursday,
having taken especial care so to time our visit that we might see
Domenica first on Thursday evening and then on Friday morning, so as
to be able to observe that marvellous flow of blood which is said to
take place on Friday. Signor Yoris most obligingly offered to
accompany us; accordingly we left Cavalese shortly after one o'clock
on Thursday, and reached Capriana by a wild road through a mountainous
valley, in four hours. As we got near the place Signor Yoris said, "I
will tell you a curious instance of Domenica's acuteness of hearing.
My wife and I were going once to visit her; when we were eighty or a
hundred yards from her house, I whispered to my wife to go quietly,
that we might take her by surprise. We did so accordingly, but much to
our astonishment she received us with a smile, saying that she had not
been taken by surprise, and alluding to the very words I had used." He
showed us the spot where this had occurred, and it was certainly an
acuteness of sense far beyond anything I can conceive possible. We
went straight to Domenica's cottage, and knocked at the door. Her
sister was out, but in a few minutes she came from a cottage a little
below, and let us in. At the inner end of a low room near the wall, in
a bed hardly larger than a crib, Domenica lay crouched up, the hands
closely clasped over the breast, the head a little raised, the legs
gathered up nearly under her, in a way the bed clothes did not allow
us to see. About three quarters of an inch under the roots of the hair
a straight line is drawn all round the forehead, dotted with small
punctures a quarter of an inch apart; above this the flesh is of the
natural colour, perfectly clear and free from blood; below the face is
covered down to the bottom of the nose, and the cheeks to the same
extent, with a dry crust or mask of blood. Her breast heaved with a
sort of convulsion, and her teeth chattered. On the outside of both
hands, as they lie clasped together, in a line with the second finger,
about an inch from the knuckle, is a hard scar, of dark-colour, rising
above the flesh, half an inch in length, by about three-eighths of an
inch in width; round these the skin slightly reddened, but quite free
from blood. From the position of the hands it is not possible to see
well inside, but stooping down on the right of her bed I could almost
see an incision answering to the outward one, and apparently deeper. I
leant over her head, within a foot of the Corona on the forehead, and
closely observed the wounds. She looked at us very fixedly, but hardly
spoke. We heard her only cry 'Dio mio' several times when her pains
were bad. She seemed to enter into Signor Yoris's conversation, smiled
repeatedly, and bent her head. But it was an effort to her to attend,
and at times the eyes closed and she became insensible. By far the
most striking point in her appearance this evening was that dry mask
of blood descending so regularly from the punctured line round the
forehead; for it must be remarked that the blood has flowed in a
straight line all down the face, as if she were erect, not as it would
naturally flow from the position in which she was lying, that is, off
the middle to the sides of the face. And what is strangest of all,
there is a space all round the face, from the forehead down to the
jaw, by the ears, quite free from blood, and of the natural colour:
which is just that part to which the blood, as she lies, ought most to
run. After about three-quarters of an hour we took leave, intending to
return the first thing in the morning. Don Michele Santuari, the
parish priest, on whom we called, was out; he returned our visit for a
minute or two, very early the next morning, but was going to his
brother's again.
_Friday evening, July 30th._--When we visited Domenica at half-past
five this morning, the change was very remarkable. The hard scars on
the outside of her hands had sunk to the level of the flesh, and
become raw and fresh running wounds, but without indentation, from
which there was a streak of blood running a finger's length, _not_
perpendicularly, but down the middle of the wrist. The wound inside
the left hand seemed on the contrary deep and furrowed, much blood had
flowed, and the hand seemed mangled; the wound of the right hand
inside could not be seen. The punctures round the forehead had been
bleeding, and were open, so that the mask of blood was thicker,
and very terrible to look at. The darkest place of all was the tip of
the nose, a spot, which, as she was lying, the blood in its natural
course could not reach at all. It must be observed again, that the
blood flows as it would flow if she were suspended, and not recumbent.
The sight is so fearful that a person of weak nerves would very
probably be overcome by it; indeed, Signor Stampa and his servant were
both obliged to leave the room. While we were there Domenica's sister,
who lives alone with her, stood at the head of her crib with her hands
under her head, occasionally raising her. We fanned her alternately
with a large feathered fan, which alone seemed to relieve her; for she
is in a continual fever, and her window remains open day and night,
summer and winter, in the severest cold. She seemed better this
morning, and more able to speak, and at intervals did speak several
times. I asked her to pray for us, she replied, "Questo farò ben
volentieri." "Prega che l'Inghilterra sia tutta Cattolica, che non ci
sia che una religione, perchè adesso ci sono molte." She replied, I
believe in the very words of the Catechism, "Si; non vi é che una sola
religione Cattolica Romana; fuori di questa non si deve aver
speranza." She observed, that other English had asked the same thing
of her. She has light and sparkling grey eyes, which she fixed
repeatedly on us, looking at us severally with great interest.
We told her that the Bishop of Trent had requested us to call on him,
and give him a report of her; and asked her if she had anything to
say. She replied, "Tell him that I desire his benediction, and that I
resign myself in every thing to the will of God and that of the
bishop. Ask him to intercede for me with the Bishop of all." I said,
"Piu si patisce qui, piu si gode dopo." She replied, "Si: si deve
sperarlo." Before we left, W---- repeated, "You will pray for us," she
bowed her head; "and for all England:" she replied, "Quanto io posso."
After nearly an hour's stay we took leave, hoping that we might all
meet in Paradise. There is an altar in her room, at which Mass is
celebrated once a week, and many small pictures of saints. Every thing
betokens the greatest poverty.
It is most hard to realise such a life as Domenica's continued during
thirteen years. The impression left on my mind as to her state is that
of one who suffers with the utmost resignation a wonderful and
inexplicable disease, on which the tokens of our Saviour's Passion are
miraculously and most awfully impressed.
The points in her case which are beyond and contrary to nature are
these:
1st. For thirteen years she has neither eaten nor drunken, except that
very small portion of the Host which she receives once or twice weekly.
2d. On the hands and feet, inside and outside, she bears the wounds of
our Lord; both sides run with blood; whether the wounds go through is
not known; and on the left side is a wound which runs also.
3d. She has on the brow, as I saw and have described, and I believe
all round the head, the mark of the crown of thorns, a series of
punctures, and a red line as if of something pressing on the head.
4th. All these wounds run with blood at present, and during thirteen
years have done the like, regularly, and at an early hour on Friday,
and on that day alone.