proofreading team sketches and studies in italy and greece by john addington symonds author of "renaissance in italy", "studies of the greek poets," etc first series new edition london john murray, albemarle street, w. prefatory note in preparing this new edition of the late j.a. symonds's three volumes of travels, 'sketches in italy and greece,' 'sketches and studies in italy,' and 'italian byways,' nothing has been changed except the order of the essays. for the convenience of travellers a topographical arrangement has been adopted. this implied a new title to cover the contents of all three volumes, and 'sketches and studies in italy and greece' has been chosen as departing least from the author's own phraseology. horatio f. brown. venice: _june_ . contents the love of the alps winter nights at davos bacchus in graubÜnden old towns of provence the cornice ajaccio monte generoso lombard vignettes como and il medeghino bergamo and bartolommeo colleoni crema and the crucifix cherubino at the scala theatre a venetian medley the gondolier's wedding a cinque cento brutus two dramatists of the last century sketches and studies in italy and greece _the love of the alps_[ ] of all the joys in life, none is greater than the joy of arriving on the outskirts of switzerland at the end of a long dusty day's journey from paris. the true epicure in refined pleasures will never travel to basle by night. he courts the heat of the sun and the monotony of french plains,--their sluggish streams and never-ending poplar trees--for the sake of the evening coolness and the gradual approach to the great alps, which await him at the close of the day. it is about mulhausen that he begins to feel a change in the landscape. the fields broaden into rolling downs, watered by clear and running streams; the green swiss thistle grows by riverside and cowshed; pines begin to tuft the slopes of gently rising hills; and now the sun has set, the stars come out, first hesper, then the troop of lesser lights; and he feels--yes, indeed, there is now no mistake--the well-known, well-loved magical fresh air, that never fails to blow from snowy mountains and meadows watered by perennial streams. the last hour is one of exquisite enjoyment, and when he reaches basle, he scarcely sleeps all night for hearing the swift rhine beneath the balconies, and knowing that the moon is shining on its waters, through the town, beneath the bridges, between pasture-lands and copses, up the still mountain-girdled valleys to the ice-caves where the water springs. there is nothing in all experience of travelling like this. we may greet the mediterranean at marseilles with enthusiasm; on entering rome by the porta del popolo, we may reflect with pride that we have reached the goal of our pilgrimage, and are at last among world-shaking memories. but neither rome nor the riviera wins our hearts like switzerland. we do not lie awake in london thinking of them; we do not long so intensely, as the year comes round, to revisit them. our affection is less a passion than that which we cherish for switzerland. why, then, is this? what, after all, is the love of the alps, and when and where did it begin? it is easier to ask these questions than to answer them. the classic nations hated mountains. greek and roman poets talk of them with disgust and dread. nothing could have been more depressing to a courtier of augustus than residence at aosta, even though he found his theatres and triumphal arches there. wherever classical feeling has predominated, this has been the case. cellini's memoirs, written in the height of pagan renaissance, well express the aversion which a florentine or roman felt for the inhospitable wildernesses of switzerland.[ ] dryden, in his dedication to 'the indian emperor,' says, 'high objects, it is true, attract the sight; but it looks up with pain on craggy rocks and barren mountains, and continues not intent on any object which is wanting in shades and green to entertain it.' addison and gray had no better epithets than 'rugged,' 'horrid,' and the like for alpine landscape. the classic spirit was adverse to enthusiasm for mere nature. humanity was too prominent, and city life absorbed all interests,--not to speak of what perhaps is the weightiest reason--that solitude, indifferent accommodation, and imperfect means of travelling, rendered mountainous countries peculiarly disagreeable. it is impossible to enjoy art or nature while suffering from fatigue and cold, dreading the attacks of robbers, and wondering whether you will find food and shelter at the end of your day's journey. nor was it different in the middle ages. then individuals had either no leisure from war or strife with the elements, or else they devoted themselves to the salvation of their souls. but when the ideas of the middle ages had decayed, when improved arts of life had freed men from servile subjection to daily needs, when the bondage of religious tyranny had been thrown off and political liberty allowed the full development of tastes and instincts, when, moreover, the classical traditions had lost their power, and courts and coteries became too narrow for the activity of man,--then suddenly it was discovered that nature in herself possessed transcendent charms. it may seem absurd to class them all together; yet there is no doubt that the french revolution, the criticism of the bible, pantheistic forms of religious feeling, landscape-painting, alpine travelling, and the poetry of nature, are all signs of the same movement--of a new renaissance. limitations of every sort have been shaken off during the last century; all forms have been destroyed, all questions asked. the classical spirit loved to arrange, model, preserve traditions, obey laws. we are intolerant of everything that is not simple, unbiassed by prescription, liberal as the wind, and natural as the mountain crags. we go to feed this spirit of freedom among the alps. what the virgin forests of america are to the americans, the alps are to us. what there is in these huge blocks and walls of granite crowned with ice that fascinates us, it is hard to analyse. why, seeing that we find them so attractive, they should have repelled our ancestors of the fourth generation and all the world before them, is another mystery. we cannot explain what rapport there is between our human souls and these inequalities in the surface of the earth which we call alps. tennyson speaks of some vague emotion of delight in gazing up an alpine height, and its vagueness eludes definition. the interest which physical science has created for natural objects has something to do with it. curiosity and the charm of novelty increase this interest. no towns, no cultivated tracts of europe however beautiful, form such a contrast to our london life as switzerland. then there is the health and joy that comes from exercise in open air; the senses freshened by good sleep; the blood quickened by a lighter and rarer atmosphere. our modes of life, the breaking down of class privileges, the extension of education, which contribute to make the individual greater and society less, render the solitude of mountains refreshing. facilities of travelling and improved accommodation leave us free to enjoy the natural beauty which we seek. our minds, too, are prepared to sympathise with the inanimate world; we have learned to look on the universe as a whole, and ourselves as a part of it, related by close ties of friendship to all its other members shelley's, wordsworth's, goethe's poetry has taught us this; we are all more or less pantheists, worshippers of 'god in nature,' convinced of the omnipresence of the informing mind. thus, when we admire the alps, we are after all but children of the century. we follow its inspiration blindly; and while we think ourselves spontaneous in our ecstasy, perform the part for which we have been trained from childhood by the atmosphere in which we live. it is this very unconsciousness and universality of the impulse we obey which makes it hard to analyse. contemporary history is difficult to write; to define the spirit of the age in which we live is still more difficult; to account for 'impressions which owe all their force to their identity with themselves' is most difficult of all. we must be content to feel, and not to analyse. rousseau has the credit of having invented the love of nature. perhaps he first expressed, in literature, the pleasures of open life among the mountains, of walking tours, of the '_école buissonnière_,' away from courts, and schools, and cities, which it is the fashion now to love. his bourgeois birth and tastes, his peculiar religious and social views, his intense self-engrossment,--all favoured the development of nature-worship. but rousseau was not alone, nor yet creative, in this instance. he was but one of the earliest to seize and express a new idea of growing humanity. for those who seem to be the most original in their inauguration of periods are only such as have been favourably placed by birth and education to imbibe the floating creeds of the whole race. they resemble the first cases of an epidemic, which become the centres of infection and propagate disease. at the time of rousseau's greatness the french people were initiative. in politics, in literature, in fashions, and in philosophy, they had for some time led the taste of europe. but the sentiment which first received a clear and powerful expression in the works of rousseau, soon declared itself in the arts and literature of other nations. goethe, wordsworth, and the earlier landscape-painters, proved that germany and england were not far behind the french. in england this love of nature for its own sake is indigenous, and has at all times been peculiarly characteristic of our genius. therefore it is not surprising that our life and literature and art have been foremost in developing the sentiment of which we are speaking. our poets, painters, and prose writers gave the tone to european thought in this respect. our travellers in search of the adventurous and picturesque, our alpine club, have made of switzerland an english playground. the greatest period in our history was but a foreshadowing of this. to return to nature-worship was but to reassume the habits of the elizabethan age, altered indeed by all the changes of religion, politics, society, and science which the last three centuries have wrought, yet still, in its original love of free open life among the fields and woods, and on the sea, the same. now the french national genius is classical. it reverts to the age of louis xiv., and rousseauism in their literature is as true an innovation and parenthesis as pope-and-drydenism was in ours. as in the age of the reformation, so in this, the german element of the modern character predominates. during the two centuries from which we have emerged, the latin element had the upper hand. our love of the alps is a gothic, a teutonic, instinct; sympathetic with all that is vague, infinite, and insubordinate to rules, at war with all that is defined and systematic in our genius. this we may perceive in individuals as well as in the broader aspects of arts and literatures. the classically minded man, the reader of latin poets, the lover of brilliant conversation, the frequenter of clubs and drawing-rooms, nice in his personal requirements, scrupulous in his choice of words, averse to unnecessary physical exertion, preferring town to country life, _cannot_ deeply feel the charm of the alps. such a man will dislike german art, and however much he may strive to be catholic in his tastes, will find as he grows older that his liking for gothic architecture and modern painting diminish almost to aversion before an increasing admiration for greek peristyles and the medicean venus. if in respect of speculation all men are either platonists or aristotelians, in respect of taste all men are either greek or german. at present the german, the indefinite, the natural, commands; the greek, the finite, the cultivated, is in abeyance. we who talk so much about the feeling of the alps, are creatures, not creators of our _cultus_,--a strange reflection, proving how much greater man is than men, the common reason of the age in which we live than our own reasons, its constituents and subjects. perhaps it is our modern tendency to 'individualism' which makes the alps so much to us. society is there reduced to a vanishing point--no claims are made on human sympathies--there is no need to toil in yoke-service with our fellows. we may be alone, dream our own dreams, and sound the depths of personality without the reproach of selfishness, without a restless wish to join in action or money-making or the pursuit of fame. to habitual residents among the alps this absence of social duties and advantages may be barbarising, even brutalising. but to men wearied with too much civilisation, and deafened by the noise of great cities, it is beyond measure refreshing. then, again, among the mountains history finds no place. the alps have no past nor present nor future. the human beings who live upon their sides are at odds with nature, clinging on for bare existence to the soil, sheltering themselves beneath protecting rocks from avalanches, damming up destructive streams, all but annihilated every spring. man, who is paramount in the plain, is nothing here. his arts and sciences, and dynasties, and modes of life, and mighty works, and conquests and decays, demand our whole attention in italy or egypt. but here the mountains, immemorially the same, which were, which are, and which are to be, present a theatre on which the soul breathes freely and feels herself alone. around her on all sides is god, and nature, who is here the face of god and not the slave of man. the spirit of the world hath here not yet grown old. she is as young as on the first day; and the alps are a symbol of the self-creating, self-sufficing, self-enjoying universe which lives for its own ends. for why do the slopes gleam with flowers, and the hillsides deck themselves with grass, and the inaccessible ledges of black rock bear their tufts of crimson primroses and flaunting tiger-lilies? why, morning after morning, does the red dawn flush the pinnacles of monte rosa above cloud and mist unheeded? why does the torrent shout, the avalanche reply in thunder to the music of the sun, the trees and rocks and meadows cry their 'holy, holy, holy'? surely not for us. we are an accident here, and even the few men whose eyes are fixed habitually upon these things are dead to them--the peasants do not even know the names of their own flowers, and sigh with envy when you tell them of the plains of lincolnshire or russian steppes. but indeed there is something awful in the alpine elevation above human things. we do not love switzerland merely because we associate its thought with recollections of holidays and joyfulness. some of the most solemn moments of life are spent high up above among the mountains, on the barren tops of rocky passes, where the soul has seemed to hear in solitude a low controlling voice. it is almost necessary for the development of our deepest affections that some sad and sombre moments should be interchanged with hours of merriment and elasticity. it is this variety in the woof of daily life which endears our home to us; and perhaps none have fully loved the alps who have not spent some days of meditation, or it may be of sorrow, among their solitudes. splendid scenery, like music, has the power to make 'of grief itself a fiery chariot for mounting above the sources of grief,' to ennoble and refine our passions, and to teach us that our lives are merely moments in the years of the eternal being. there are many, perhaps, who, within sight of some great scene among the alps, upon the height of the stelvio or the slopes of mürren, or at night in the valley of courmayeur, have felt themselves raised above cares and doubts and miseries by the mere recognition of unchangeable magnificence; have found a deep peace in the sense of their own nothingness. it is not granted to us everyday to stand upon these pinnacles of rest and faith above the world. but having once stood there, how can we forget the station? how can we fail, amid the tumult of our common cares, to feel at times the hush of that far-off tranquillity? when our life is most commonplace, when we are ill or weary in city streets, we can remember the clouds upon the mountains we have seen, the sound of innumerable waterfalls, and the scent of countless flowers. a photograph of bisson's or of braun's, the name of some well-known valley, the picture of some alpine plant, rouses the sacred hunger in our souls, and stirs again the faith in beauty and in rest beyond ourselves which no man can take from us. we owe a deep debt of gratitude to everything which enables us to rise above depressing and enslaving circumstances, which brings us nearer in some way or other to what is eternal in the universe, and which makes us know that, whether we live or die, suffer or enjoy, life and gladness are still strong in the world. on this account, the proper attitude of the soul among the alps is one of silence. it is almost impossible without a kind of impiety to frame in words the feelings they inspire. yet there are some sayings, hallowed by long usage, which throng the mind through a whole summer's day, and seem in harmony with its emotions--some portions of the psalms or lines of greatest poets, inarticulate hymns of beethoven and mendelssohn, waifs and strays not always apposite, but linked by strong and subtle chains of feeling with the grandeur of the mountains. this reverential feeling for the alps is connected with the pantheistic form of our religious sentiments to which i have before alluded. it is a trite remark, that even devout men of the present generation prefer temples _not_ made with hands to churches, and worship god in the fields more contentedly than in their pews. what mr. ruskin calls 'the instinctive sense of the divine presence not formed into distinct belief' lies at the root of our profound veneration for the nobler aspects of mountain scenery. this instinctive sense has been very variously expressed by goethe in faust's celebrated confession of faith, by shelley in the stanzas of 'adonais,' which begin 'he is made one with nature,' by wordsworth in the lines on tintern abbey, and lately by mr. roden noel in his noble poems of pantheism. it is more or less strongly felt by all who have recognised the indubitable fact that religious belief is undergoing a sure process of change from the dogmatic distinctness of the past to some at present dimly descried creed of the future. such periods of transition are of necessity full of discomfort, doubt, and anxiety, vague, variable, and unsatisfying. the men in whose spirits the fermentation of the change is felt, who have abandoned their old moorings, and have not yet reached the haven for which they are steering, cannot but be indistinct and undecided in their faith. the universe of which they form a part becomes important to them in its infinite immensity. the principles of beauty, goodness, order and law, no longer connected in their minds with definite articles of faith, find symbols in the outer world. they are glad to fly at certain moments from mankind and its oppressive problems, for which religion no longer provides a satisfactory solution, to nature, where they vaguely localise the spirit that broods over us controlling all our being. to such men goethe's hymn is a form of faith, and born of such a mood are the following far humbler verses:-- at mürren let the morning lead thee out to walk upon the cold and cloven hills, to hear the congregated mountains shout their pæan of a thousand foaming rills. raimented with intolerable light the snow-peaks stand above thee, row on row arising, each a seraph in his might; an organ each of varied stop doth blow. heaven's azure dome trembles through all her spheres, feeling that music vibrate; and the sun raises his tenor as he upward steers, and all the glory-coated mists that run below him in the valley, hear his voice, and cry unto the dewy fields, rejoice! there is a profound sympathy between music and fine scenery: they both affect us in the same way, stirring strong but undefined emotions, which express themselves in 'idle tears,' or evoking thoughts 'which lie,' as wordsworth says, 'too deep for tears,' beyond the reach of any words. how little we know what multitudes of mingling reminiscences, held in solution by the mind, and colouring its fancy with the iridescence of variable hues, go to make up the sentiments which music or which mountains stir! it is the very vagueness, changefulness, and dreamlike indistinctness of these feelings which cause their charm; they harmonise with the haziness of our beliefs and seem to make our very doubts melodious. for this reason it is obvious that unrestrained indulgence in the pleasures of music or of scenery may tend to destroy habits of clear thinking, sentimentalise the mind, and render it more apt to entertain embryonic fancies than to bring ideas to definite perfection. if hours of thoughtfulness and seclusion are necessary to the development of a true love for the alps, it is no less essential to a right understanding of their beauty that we should pass some wet and gloomy days among the mountains. the unclouded sunsets and sunrises which often follow one another in september in the alps, have something terrible. they produce a satiety of splendour, and oppress the mind with a sense of perpetuity. i remember spending such a season in one of the oberland valleys, high up above the pine-trees, in a little châlet. morning after morning i awoke to see the sunbeams glittering on the eiger and the jungfrau; noon after noon the snow-fields blazed beneath a steady fire; evening after evening they shone like beacons in the red light of the setting sun. then peak by peak they lost the glow; the soul passed from them, and they stood pale yet weirdly garish against the darkened sky. the stars came out, the moon shone, but not a cloud sailed over the untroubled heavens. thus day after day for several weeks there was no change, till i was seized with an overpowering horror of unbroken calm. i left the valley for a time; and when i returned to it in wind and rain, i found that the partial veiling of the mountain heights restored the charm which i had lost and made me feel once more at home. the landscape takes a graver tone beneath the mist that hides the higher peaks, and comes drifting, creeping, feeling, through the pines upon their slopes--white, silent, blinding vapour-wreaths around the sable spires. sometimes the cloud descends and blots out everything. again it lifts a little, showing cottages and distant alps beneath its skirts. then it sweeps over the whole valley like a veil, just broken here and there above a lonely châlet or a thread of distant dangling torrent foam. sounds, too, beneath the mist are more strange. the torrent seems to have a hoarser voice and grinds the stones more passionately against its boulders. the cry of shepherds through the fog suggests the loneliness and danger of the hills. the bleating of penned sheep or goats, and the tinkling of the cowbells, are mysteriously distant and yet distinct in the dull dead air. then, again, how immeasurably high above our heads appear the domes and peaks of snow revealed through chasms in the drifting cloud; how desolate the glaciers and the avalanches in gleams of light that struggle through the mist! there is a leaden glare peculiar to clouds, which makes the snow and ice more lurid. not far from the house where i am writing, the avalanche that swept away the bridge last winter is lying now, dripping away, dank and dirty, like a rotting whale. i can see it from my window, green beech-boughs nodding over it, forlorn larches bending their tattered branches by its side, splinters of broken pine protruding from its muddy caves, the boulders on its flank, and the hoarse hungry torrent tossing up its tongues to lick the ragged edge of snow. close by, the meadows, spangled with yellow flowers and red and blue, look even more brilliant than if the sun were shining on them. every cup and blade of grass is drinking. but the scene changes; the mist has turned into rain-clouds, and the steady rain drips down, incessant, blotting out the view. then, too, what a joy it is if the clouds break towards evening with a north wind, and a rainbow in the valley gives promise of a bright to-morrow! we look up to the cliffs above our heads, and see that they have just been powdered with the snow that is a sign of better weather. such rainy days ought to be spent in places like seelisberg and mürren, at the edge of precipices, in front of mountains, or above a lake. the cloud-masses crawl and tumble about the valleys like a brood of dragons; now creeping along the ledges of the rock with sinuous self-adjustment to its turns and twists; now launching out into the deep, repelled by battling winds, or driven onward in a coil of twisted and contorted serpent curls. in the midst of summer these wet seasons often end in a heavy fall of snow. you wake some morning to see the meadows which last night were gay with july flowers huddled up in snow a foot in depth. but fair weather does not tarry long to reappear. you put on your thickest boots and sally forth to find the great cups of the gentians full of snow, and to watch the rising of the cloud-wreaths under the hot sun. bad dreams or sickly thoughts, dissipated by returning daylight or a friend's face, do not fly away more rapidly and pleasantly than those swift glory-coated mists that lose themselves we know not where in the blue depths of the sky. in contrast with these rainy days nothing can be more perfect than clear moonlight nights. there is a terrace upon the roof of the inn at courmayeur where one may spend hours in the silent watches, when all the world has gone to sleep beneath. the mont chétif and the mont de la saxe form a gigantic portal not unworthy of the pile that lies beyond. for mont blanc resembles a vast cathedral; its countless spires are scattered over a mass like that of the duomo at milan, rising into one tower at the end. by night the glaciers glitter in the steady moon; domes, pinnacles, and buttresses stand clear of clouds. needles of every height and most fantastic shapes rise from the central ridge, some solitary, like sharp arrows shot against the sky, some clustering into sheaves. on every horn of snow and bank of grassy hill stars sparkle, rising, setting, rolling round through the long silent night. moonlight simplifies and softens the landscape. colours become scarcely distinguishable, and forms, deprived of half their detail, gain in majesty and size. the mountains seem greater far by night than day--higher heights and deeper depths, more snowy pyramids, more beetling crags, softer meadows, and darker pines. the whole valley is hushed, but for the torrent and the chirping grasshopper and the striking of the village clocks. the black tower and the houses of courmayeur in the foreground gleam beneath the moon until she reaches the edge of the cramont, and then sinks quietly away, once more to reappear among the pines, then finally to leave the valley dark beneath the shadow of the mountain's bulk. meanwhile the heights of snow still glitter in the steady light: they, too, will soon be dark, until the dawn breaks, tinging them with rose. but it is not fair to dwell exclusively upon the more sombre aspect of swiss beauty when there are so many lively scenes of which to speak. the sunlight and the freshness and the flowers of alpine meadows form more than half the charm of switzerland. the other day we walked to a pasture called the col de checruit, high up the valley of courmayeur, where the spring was still in its first freshness. gradually we climbed, by dusty roads and through hot fields where the grass had just been mown, beneath the fierce light of the morning sun. not a breath of air was stirring, and the heavy pines hung overhead upon their crags, as if to fence the gorge from every wandering breeze. there is nothing more oppressive than these scorching sides of narrow rifts, shut in by woods and precipices. but suddenly the valley broadened, the pines and larches disappeared, and we found ourselves upon a wide green semicircle of the softest meadows. little rills of water went rushing through them, rippling over pebbles, rustling under dock leaves, and eddying against their wooden barriers. far and wide 'you scarce could see the grass for flowers,' while on every side the tinkling of cow-bells, and the voices of shepherds calling to one another from the alps, or singing at their work, were borne across the fields. as we climbed we came into still fresher pastures, where the snow had scarcely melted. there the goats and cattle were collected, and the shepherds sat among them, fondling the kids and calling them by name. when they called, the creatures came, expecting salt and bread. it was pretty to see them lying near their masters, playing and butting at them with their horns, or bleating for the sweet rye-bread. the women knitted stockings, laughing among themselves, and singing all the while. as soon as we reached them, they gathered round to talk. an old herdsman, who was clearly the patriarch of this arcadia, asked us many questions in a slow deliberate voice. we told him who we were, and tried to interest him in the cattle-plague, which he appeared to regard as an evil very unreal and far away--like the murrain upon pharaoh's herds which one reads about in exodus. but he was courteous and polite, doing the honours of his pasture with simplicity and ease. he took us to his châlet and gave us bowls of pure cold milk. it was a funny little wooden house, clean and dark. the sky peeped through its tiles, and if shepherds were not in the habit of sleeping soundly all night long, they might count the setting and rising stars without lifting their heads from the pillow. he told us how far pleasanter they found the summer season than the long cold winter which they have to spend in gloomy houses in courmayeur. this, indeed, is the true pastoral life which poets have described--a happy summer holiday among the flowers, well occupied with simple cares, and harassed by 'no enemy but winter and rough weather.' very much of the charm of switzerland belongs to simple things--to greetings from the herdsmen, the 'guten morgen,' and 'guten abend,' that are invariably given and taken upon mountain paths; to the tame creatures, with their large dark eyes, who raise their heads one moment from the pasture while you pass; and to the plants that grow beneath your feet. the latter end of may is the time when spring begins in the high alps. wherever sunlight smiles away a patch of snow, the brown turf soon becomes green velvet, and the velvet stars itself with red and white and gold and blue. you almost see the grass and lilies grow. first come pale crocuses and lilac soldanellas. these break the last dissolving clods of snow, and stand upon an island, with the cold wall they have thawed all round them. it is the fate of these poor flowers to spring and flourish on the very skirts of retreating winter; they soon wither--the frilled chalice of the soldanella shrivels up and the crocus fades away before the grass has grown; the sun, which is bringing all the other plants to life, scorches their tender petals. often when summer has fairly come, you still may see their pearly cups and lilac bells by the side of avalanches, between the chill snow and the fiery sun, blooming and fading hour by hour. they have as it were but a pisgah view of the promised land, of the spring which they are foremost to proclaim. next come the clumsy gentians and yellow anemones, covered with soft down like fledgling birds. these are among the earliest and hardiest blossoms that embroider the high meadows with a diaper of blue and gold. about the same time primroses and auriculas begin to tuft the dripping rocks, while frail white fleur-de-lis, like flakes of snow forgotten by the sun, and golden-balled ranunculuses join with forget-me-nots and cranesbill in a never-ending dance upon the grassy floor. happy, too, is he who finds the lilies-of-the-valley clustering about the chestnut boles upon the colma, or in the beechwood by the stream at macugnaga, mixed with garnet-coloured columbines and fragrant white narcissus, which the people of the villages call 'angiolini.' there, too, is solomon's seal, with waxen bells and leaves expanded like the wings of hovering butterflies. but these lists of flowers are tiresome and cold; it would be better to draw the portrait of one which is particularly fascinating. i think that botanists have called it _saxifraga cotyledon_; yet, in spite of its long name, it is beautiful and poetic. london-pride is the commonest of all the saxifrages; but the one of which i speak is as different from london-pride as a plantagenet upon his throne from that last plantagenet who died obscure and penniless some years ago. it is a great majestic flower, which plumes the granite rocks of monte rosa in the spring. at other times of the year you see a little tuft of fleshy leaves set like a cushion on cold ledges and dark places of dripping cliffs. you take it for a stonecrop--one of those weeds doomed to obscurity, and safe from being picked because they are so uninviting--and you pass it by incuriously. but about june it puts forth its power, and from the cushion of pale leaves there springs a strong pink stem, which rises upward for a while, and then curves down and breaks into a shower of snow-white blossoms. far away the splendour gleams, hanging like a plume of ostrich-feathers from the roof of rock, waving to the wind, or stooping down to touch the water of the mountain stream that dashes it with dew. the snow at evening, glowing with a sunset flush, is not more rosy-pure than this cascade of pendent blossoms. it loves to be alone--inaccessible ledges, chasms where winds combat, or moist caverns overarched near thundering falls, are the places that it seeks. i will not compare it to a spirit of the mountains or to a proud lonely soul, for such comparisons desecrate the simplicity of nature, and no simile can add a glory to the flower. it seems to have a conscious life of its own, so large and glorious it is, so sensitive to every breath of air, so nobly placed upon its bending stem, so royal in its solitude. i first saw it years ago on the simplon, feathering the drizzling crags above isella. then we found it near baveno, in a crack of sombre cliff beneath the mines. the other day we cut an armful opposite varallo, by the sesia, and then felt like murderers; it was so sad to hold in our hands the triumph of those many patient months, the full expansive life of the flower, the splendour visible from valleys and hillsides, the defenceless creature which had done its best to make the gloomy places of the alps most beautiful. after passing many weeks among the high alps it is a pleasure to descend into the plains. the sunset, and sunrise, and the stars of lombardy, its level horizons and vague misty distances, are a source of absolute relief after the narrow skies and embarrassed prospects of a mountain valley. nor are the alps themselves ever more imposing than when seen from milan or the church-tower of chivasso or the terrace of novara, with a foreground of italian cornfields and old city towers and rice-ground, golden-green beneath a lombard sun. half veiled by clouds, the mountains rise like visionary fortress walls of a celestial city--unapproachable, beyond the range of mortal feet. but those who know by old experience what friendly châlets, and cool meadows, and clear streams are hidden in their folds and valleys, send forth fond thoughts and messages, like carrier-pigeons, from the marble parapets of milan, crying, 'before another sun has set, i too shall rest beneath the shadow of their pines!' it is in truth not more than a day's journey from milan to the brink of snow at macugnaga. but very sad it is to _leave_ the alps, to stand upon the terraces of berne and waft ineffectual farewells. the unsympathising aar rushes beneath; and the snow-peaks, whom we love like friends, abide untroubled by the coming and the going of the world. the clouds drift over them--the sunset warms them with a fiery kiss. night comes, and we are hurried far away to wake beside the seine, remembering, with a pang of jealous passion, that the flowers on alpine meadows are still blooming, and the rivulets still flowing with a ceaseless song, while paris shops are all we see, and all we hear is the dull clatter of a paris crowd. _the alps in winter_ the gradual approach of winter is very lovely in the high alps. the valley of davos, where i am writing, more than five thousand feet above the sea, is not beautiful, as alpine valleys go, though it has scenery both picturesque and grand within easy reach. but when summer is passing into autumn, even the bare slopes of the least romantic glen are glorified. golden lights and crimson are cast over the grey-green world by the fading of innumerable plants. then the larches begin to put on sallow tints that deepen into orange, burning against the solid blue sky like amber. the frosts are severe at night, and the meadow grass turns dry and wan. the last lilac crocuses die upon the fields. icicles, hanging from watercourse or mill-wheel, glitter in the noonday sunlight. the wind blows keenly from the north, and now the snow begins to fall and thaw and freeze, and fall and thaw again. the seasons are confused; wonderful days of flawless purity are intermingled with storm and gloom. at last the time comes when a great snowfall has to be expected. there is hard frost in the early morning, and at nine o'clock the thermometer stands at °. the sky is clear, but it clouds rapidly with films of cirrus and of stratus in the south and west. soon it is covered over with grey vapour in a level sheet, all the hill-tops standing hard against the steely heavens. the cold wind from the west freezes the moustache to one's pipe-stem. by noon the air is thick with a coagulated mist; the temperature meanwhile has risen, and a little snow falls at intervals. the valleys are filled with a curious opaque blue, from which the peaks rise, phantom-like and pallid, into the grey air, scarcely distinguishable from their background. the pine-forests on the mountain-sides are of darkest indigo. there is an indescribable stillness and a sense of incubation. the wind has fallen. later on, the snow-flakes flutter silently and sparely through the lifeless air. the most distant landscape is quite blotted out. after sunset the clouds have settled down upon the hills, and the snow comes in thick, impenetrable fleeces. at night our hair crackles and sparkles when we brush it. next morning there is a foot and a half of finely powdered snow, and still the snow is falling. strangely loom the châlets through the semi-solid whiteness. yet the air is now dry and singularly soothing. the pines are heavy with their wadded coverings; now and again one shakes himself in silence, and his burden falls in a white cloud, to leave a black-green patch upon the hillside, whitening again as the imperturbable fall continues. the stakes by the roadside are almost buried. no sound is audible. nothing is seen but the snow-plough, a long raft of planks with a heavy stone at its stem and a sharp prow, drawn by four strong horses, and driven by a young man erect upon the stem. so we live through two days and nights, and on the third a north wind blows. the snow-clouds break and hang upon the hills in scattered fleeces; glimpses of blue sky shine through, and sunlight glints along the heavy masses. the blues of the shadows are everywhere intense. as the clouds disperse, they form in moulded domes, tawny like sunburned marble in the distant south lands. every châlet is a miracle of fantastic curves, built by the heavy hanging snow. snow lies mounded on the roads and fields, writhed into loveliest wreaths, or outspread in the softest undulations. all the irregularities of the hills are softened into swelling billows like the mouldings of titanic statuary. it happened once or twice last winter that such a clearing after snowfall took place at full moon. then the moon rose in a swirl of fleecy vapour--clouds above, beneath, and all around. the sky was blue as steel, and infinitely deep with mist-entangled stars. the horn above which she first appears stood carved of solid black, and through the valley's length from end to end yawned chasms and clefts of liquid darkness. as the moon rose, the clouds were conquered, and massed into rolling waves upon the ridges of the hills. the spaces of open sky grew still more blue. at last the silver light came flooding over all, and here and there the fresh snow glistened on the crags. there is movement, palpitation, life of light through earth and sky. to walk out on such a night, when the perturbation of storm is over and the heavens are free, is one of the greatest pleasures offered by this winter life. it is so light that you can read the smallest print with ease. the upper sky looks quite black, shading by violet and sapphire into turquoise upon the horizon. there is the colour of ivory upon the nearest snow-fields, and the distant peaks sparkle like silver, crystals glitter in all directions on the surface of the snow, white, yellow, and pale blue. the stars are exceedingly keen, but only a few can shine in the intensity of moonlight. the air is perfectly still, and though icicles may be hanging from beard and moustache to the furs beneath one's chin, there is no sensation of extreme cold. during the earlier frosts of the season, after the first snows have fallen, but when there is still plenty of moisture in the ground, the loveliest fern-fronds of pure rime may be found in myriads on the meadows. they are fashioned like perfect vegetable structures, opening fan-shaped upon crystal stems, and catching the sunbeams with the brilliancy of diamonds. taken at certain angles, they decompose light into iridescent colours, appearing now like emeralds, rubies, or topazes, and now like labrador spar, blending all hues in a wondrous sheen. when the lake freezes for the first time, its surface is of course quite black, and so transparent that it is easy to see the fishes swimming in the deep beneath; but here and there, where rime has fallen, there sparkle these fantastic flowers and ferns and mosses made of purest frost. nothing, indeed, can be more fascinating than the new world revealed by frost. in shaded places of the valley you may walk through larches and leafless alder thickets by silent farms, all silvered over with hoar spangles--fairy forests, where the flowers and foliage are rime. the streams are flowing half-frozen over rocks sheeted with opaque green ice. here it is strange to watch the swirl of water freeing itself from these frost-shackles, and to see it eddying beneath the overhanging eaves of frailest crystal-frosted snow. all is so silent, still, and weird in this white world, that one marvels when the spirit of winter will appear, or what shrill voices in the air will make his unimaginable magic audible. nothing happens, however, to disturb the charm, save when a sunbeam cuts the chain of diamonds on an alder bough, and down they drift in a thin cloud of dust. it may be also that the air is full of floating crystals, like tiniest most restless fire-flies rising and falling and passing crosswise in the sun-illumined shade of tree or mountain-side. it is not easy to describe these beauties of the winter-world; and yet one word must be said about the sunsets. let us walk out, therefore, towards the lake at four o'clock in mid-december. the thermometer is standing at °, and there is neither breath of wind nor cloud. venus is just visible in rose and sapphire, and the thin young moon is beside her. to east and south the snowy ranges burn with yellow fire, deepening to orange and crimson hues, which die away and leave a greenish pallor. at last, the higher snows alone are livid with a last faint tinge of light, and all beneath is quite white. but the tide of glory turns. while the west grows momently more pale, the eastern heavens flush with afterglow, suffuse their spaces with pink and violet. daffodil and tenderest emerald intermingle; and these colours spread until the west again has rose and primrose and sapphire wonderfully blent, and from the burning skies a light is cast upon the valley--a phantom light, less real, more like the hues of molten gems, than were the stationary flames of sunset. venus and the moon meanwhile are silvery clear. then the whole illumination fades like magic. all the charms of which i have been writing are combined in a sledge-drive. with an arrowy gliding motion one passes through the snow-world as through a dream. in the sunlight the snow surface sparkles with its myriad stars of crystals. in the shadow it ceases to glitter, and assumes a blueness scarcely less blue than the sky. so the journey is like sailing through alternate tracts of light irradiate heavens, and interstellar spaces of the clearest and most flawless ether. the air is like the keen air of the highest glaciers. as we go, the bells keep up a drowsy tinkling at the horse's head. the whole landscape is transfigured--lifted high up out of commonplaceness. the little hills are monte rosas and mont blancs. scale is annihilated, and nothing tells but form. there is hardly any colour except the blue of sky and shadow. everything is traced in vanishing tints, passing from the almost amber of the distant sunlight through glowing white into pale greys and brighter blues and deep ethereal azure. the pines stand in black platoons upon the hillsides, with a tinge of red or orange on their sable. some carry masses of snow. others have shaken their plumes free. the châlets are like fairy houses or toys, waist-deep in stores of winter fuel. with their mellow tones of madder and umber on the weather-beaten woodwork relieved against the white, with fantastic icicles and folds of snow depending from their eaves, or curled like coverlids from roof and window-sill, they are far more picturesque than in the summer. colour, wherever it is found, whether in these cottages or in a block of serpentine by the roadside, or in the golden bulrush blades by the lake shore, takes more than double value. it is shed upon the landscape like a spiritual and transparent veil. most beautiful of all are the sweeping lines of pure untroubled snow, fold over fold of undulating softness, billowing along the skirts of the peaked hills. there is no conveying the charm of immaterial, aërial, lucid beauty, the feeling of purity and aloofness from sordid things, conveyed by the fine touch on all our senses of light, colour, form, and air, and motion, and rare tinkling sound. the magic is like a spirit mood of shelley's lyric verse. and, what is perhaps most wonderful, this delicate delight may be enjoyed without fear in the coldest weather. it does not matter how low the temperature may be, if the sun is shining, the air dry, and the wind asleep. leaving the horse-sledges on the verge of some high hill-road, and trusting oneself to the little hand-sledge which the people of the grisons use, and which the english have christened by the canadian term 'toboggan,' the excitement becomes far greater. the hand-sledge is about three feet long, fifteen inches wide, and half a foot above the ground, on runners shod with iron. seated firmly at the back, and guiding with the feet in front, the rider skims down precipitous slopes and round perilous corners with a rapidity that beats a horse's pace. winding through sombre pine-forests, where the torrent roars fitfully among caverns of barbed ice, and the glistening mountains tower above in their glory of sun-smitten snow, darting round the frozen ledges at the turnings of the road, silently gliding at a speed that seems incredible, it is so smooth, he traverses two or three miles without fatigue, carried onward by the mere momentum of his weight. it is a strange and great joy. the toboggan, under these conditions, might be compared to an enchanted boat shooting the rapids of a river; and what adds to its fascination is the entire loneliness in which the rider passes through those weird and ever-shifting scenes of winter radiance. sometimes, when the snow is drifting up the pass, and the world is blank behind, before, and all around, it seems like plunging into chaos. the muffled pines loom fantastically through the drift as we rush past them, and the wind, ever and anon, detaches great masses of snow in clouds from their bent branches. or again at night, when the moon is shining, and the sky is full of flaming stars, and the snow, frozen to the hardness of marble, sparkles with innumerable crystals, a new sense of strangeness and of joy is given to the solitude, the swiftness, and the silence of the exercise. no other circumstances invest the poetry of rapid motion with more fascination. shelley, who so loved the fancy of a boat inspired with its own instinct of life, would have delighted in the game, and would probably have pursued it recklessly. at the same time, as practised on a humbler scale nearer home, in company, and on a run selected for convenience rather than for picturesqueness, tobogganing is a very bohemian amusement. no one who indulges in it can count on avoiding hard blows and violent upsets, nor will his efforts to maintain his equilibrium at the dangerous corners be invariably graceful. nothing, it might be imagined, could be more monotonous than an alpine valley covered up with snow. and yet to one who has passed many months in that seclusion nature herself presents no monotony; for the changes constantly wrought by light and cloud and alternations of weather on this landscape are infinitely various. the very simplicity of the conditions seems to assist the supreme artist. one day is wonderful because of its unsullied purity; not a cloud visible, and the pines clothed in velvet of rich green beneath a faultless canopy of light. the next presents a fretwork of fine film, wrought by the south wind over the whole sky, iridescent with delicate rainbow tints within the influences of the sun, and ever-changing shape. on another, when the turbulent föhn is blowing, streamers of snow may be seen flying from the higher ridges against a pallid background of slaty cloud, while the gaunt ribs of the hills glisten below with fitful gleams of lurid light. at sunrise, one morning, stealthy and mysterious vapours clothe the mountains from their basement to the waist, while the peaks are glistening serenely in clear daylight. another opens with silently falling snow. a third is rosy through the length and breadth of the dawn-smitten valley. it is, however, impossible to catalogue the indescribable variety of those beauties, which those who love nature may enjoy by simply waiting on the changes of the winter in a single station of the alps. * * * * * _winter nights at davos_ i light, marvellously soft yet penetrating, everywhere diffused, everywhere reflected without radiance, poured from the moon high above our heads in a sky tinted through all shades and modulations of blue, from turquoise on the horizon to opaque sapphire at the zenith--_dolce color_. (it is difficult to use the word _colour_ for this scene without suggesting an exaggeration. the blue is almost indefinable, yet felt. but if possible, the total effect of the night landscape should be rendered by careful exclusion of tints from the word-palette. the art of the etcher is more needed than that of the painter.) heaven overhead is set with stars, shooting intensely, smouldering with dull red in aldeboran, sparkling diamond-like in sirius, changing from orange to crimson and green in the swart fire of yonder double star. on the snow this moonlight falls tenderly, not in hard white light and strong black shadow, but in tones of cream and ivory, rounding the curves of drift. the mountain peaks alone glisten as though they were built of silver burnished by an agate. far away they rise diminished in stature by the all-pervading dimness of bright light, that erases the distinctions of daytime. on the path before our feet lie crystals of many hues, the splinters of a thousand gems. in the wood there are caverns of darkness, alternating with spaces of star-twinkled sky, or windows opened between russet stems and solid branches for the moony sheen. the green of the pines is felt, although invisible, so soft in substance that it seems less like velvet than some materialised depth of dark green shadow. ii snow falling noiseless and unseen. one only knows that it is falling by the blinking of our eyes as the flakes settle on their lids and melt. the cottage windows shine red, and moving lanterns of belated wayfarers define the void around them. yet the night is far from dark. the forests and the mountain-bulk beyond the valley loom softly large and just distinguishable through a pearly haze. the path is purest trackless whiteness, almost dazzling though it has no light. this was what dante felt when he reached the lunar sphere: parova a me, che nube ne coprisse lucida, spessa, solida e pulita. walking silent, with insensible footfall, slowly, for the snow is deep above our ankles, we wonder what the world would be like if this were all. could the human race be acclimatised to this monotony (we say) perhaps emotion would be rarer, yet more poignant, suspended brooding on itself, and wakening by flashes to a quintessential mood. then fancy changes, and the thought occurs that even so must be a planet, not yet wholly made, nor called to take her place among the sisterhood of light and song. iii sunset was fading out upon the rhætikon and still reflected from the seehorn on the lake, when we entered the gorge of the fluela--dense pines on either hand, a mounting drift of snow in front, and faint peaks, paling from rose to saffron, far above, beyond. there was no sound but a tinkling stream and the continual jingle of our sledge-bells. we drove at a foot's pace, our horse finding his own path. when we left the forest, the light had all gone except for some almost imperceptible touches of primrose on the eastern horns. it was a moonless night, but the sky was alive with stars, and now and then one fell. the last house in the valley was soon passed, and we entered those bleak gorges where the wind, fine, noiseless, penetrating like an edge of steel, poured slantwise on us from the north. as we rose, the stars to west seemed far beneath us, and the great bear sprawled upon the ridges of the lower hills outspread. we kept slowly moving onward, upward, into what seemed like a thin impalpable mist, but was immeasurable tracts of snow. the last cembras were left behind, immovable upon dark granite boulders on our right. we entered a formless and unbillowed sea of greyness, from which there rose dim mountain-flanks that lost themselves in air. up, ever up, and still below us westward sank the stars. we were now feet above sea-level, and the december night was rigid with intensity of frost. the cold, and movement, and solemnity of space, drowsed every sense. iv the memory of things seen and done in moonlight is like the memory of dreams. it is as a dream that i recall the night of our tobogganing to klosters, though it was full enough of active energy. the moon was in her second quarter, slightly filmed with very high thin clouds, that disappeared as night advanced, leaving the sky and stars in all their lustre. a sharp frost, sinking to three degrees above zero fahrenheit, with a fine pure wind, such wind as here they call 'the mountain breath.' we drove to wolfgang in a two-horse sledge, four of us inside, and our two christians on the box. up there, where the alps of death descend to join the lakehorn alps, above the wolfswalk, there is a world of whiteness--frozen ridges, engraved like cameos of aërial onyx upon the dark, star-tremulous sky; sculptured buttresses of snow, enclosing hollows filled with diaphanous shadow, and sweeping aloft into the upland fields of pure clear drift. then came the swift descent, the plunge into the pines, moon-silvered on their frosted tops. the battalions of spruce that climb those hills defined the dazzling snow from which they sprang, like the black tufts upon an ermine robe. at the proper moment we left our sledge, and the big christian took his reins in hand to follow us. furs and greatcoats were abandoned. each stood forth tightly accoutred, with short coat, and clinging cap, and gaitered legs for the toboggan. off we started in line, with but brief interval between, at first slowly, then glidingly, and when the impetus was gained, with darting, bounding, almost savage swiftness--sweeping round corners, cutting the hard snow-path with keen runners, avoiding the deep ruts, trusting to chance, taking advantage of smooth places, till the rush and swing and downward swoop became mechanical. space was devoured. into the massy shadows of the forest, where the pines joined overhead, we pierced without a sound, and felt far more than saw the great rocks with their icicles; and out again, emerging into moonlight, met the valley spread beneath our feet, the mighty peaks of the silvretta and the vast blue sky. on, on, hurrying, delaying not, the woods and hills rushed by. crystals upon the snow-banks glittered to the stars. our souls would fain have stayed to drink these marvels of the moon-world, but our limbs refused. the magic of movement was upon us, and eight minutes swallowed the varying impressions of two musical miles. the village lights drew near and nearer, then the sombre village huts, and soon the speed grew less, and soon we glided to our rest into the sleeping village street. v it was just past midnight. the moon had fallen to the western horns. orion's belt lay bar-like on the opening of the pass, and sirius shot flame on the seehorn. a more crystalline night, more full of fulgent stars, was never seen, stars everywhere, but mostly scattered in large sparkles on the snow. big christian went in front, tugging toboggans by their strings, as gulliver, in some old woodcut, drew the fleets of lilliput. through the brown wood-châlets of selfrangr, up to the undulating meadows, where the snow slept pure and crisp, he led us. there we sat awhile and drank the clear air, cooled to zero, but innocent and mild as mother nature's milk. then in an instant, down, down through the hamlet, with its châlets, stables, pumps, and logs, the slumbrous hamlet, where one dog barked, and darkness dwelt upon the path of ice, down with the tempest of a dreadful speed, that shot each rider upward in the air, and made the frame of the toboggan tremble--down over hillocks of hard frozen snow, dashing and bounding, to the river and the bridge. no bones were broken, though the race was thrice renewed, and men were spilt upon the roadside by some furious plunge. this amusement has the charm of peril and the unforeseen. in no wise else can colder, keener air be drunken at such furious speed. the joy, too, of the engine-driver and the steeplechaser is upon us. alas, that it should be so short! if only roads were better made for the purpose, there would be no end to it; for the toboggan cannot lose his wind. but the good thing fails at last, and from the silence of the moon we pass into the silence of the fields of sleep. vi the new stable is a huge wooden building, with raftered lofts to stow the hay, and stalls for many cows and horses. it stands snugly in an angle of the pine-wood, bordering upon the great horse-meadow. here at night the air is warm and tepid with the breath of kine. returning from my forest walk, i spy one window yellow in the moonlight with a lamp. i lift the latch. the hound knows me, and does not bark. i enter the stable, where six horses are munching their last meal. upon the corn-bin sits a knecht. we light our pipes and talk. he tells me of the valley of arosa (a hawk's flight westward over yonder hills), how deep in grass its summer lawns, how crystal-clear its stream, how blue its little lakes, how pure, without a taint of mist, 'too beautiful to paint,' its sky in winter! this knecht is an ardüser, and the valley of arosa lifts itself to heaven above his langwies home. it is his duty now to harness a sleigh for some night-work. we shake hands and part--i to sleep, he for the snow. vii the lake has frozen late this year, and there are places in it where the ice is not yet firm. little snow has fallen since it froze--about three inches at the deepest, driven by winds and wrinkled like the ribbed sea-sand. here and there the ice-floor is quite black and clear, reflecting stars, and dark as heaven's own depths. elsewhere it is of a suspicious whiteness, blurred in surface, with jagged cracks and chasms, treacherously mended by the hand of frost. moving slowly, the snow cries beneath our feet, and the big crystals tinkle. these are shaped like fern-fronds, growing fan-wise from a point, and set at various angles, so that the moonlight takes them with capricious touch. they flash, and are quenched, and flash again, light darting to light along the level surface, while the sailing planets and the stars look down complacent at this mimicry of heaven. everything above, around, beneath, is very beautiful--the slumbrous woods, the snowy fells, and the far distance painted in faint blue upon the tender background of the sky. everything is placid and beautiful; and yet the place is terrible. for, as we walk, the lake groans, with throttled sobs, and sudden cracklings of its joints, and sighs that shiver, undulating from afar, and pass beneath our feet, and die away in distance when they reach the shore. and now and then an upper crust of ice gives way; and will the gulfs then drag us down? we are in the very centre of the lake. there is no use in thinking or in taking heed. enjoy the moment, then, and march. enjoy the contrast between this circumambient serenity and sweetness, and the dreadful sense of insecurity beneath. is not, indeed, our whole life of this nature? a passage over perilous deeps, roofed by infinity and sempiternal things, surrounded too with evanescent forms, that like these crystals, trodden underfoot, or melted by the föhn-wind into dew, flash, in some lucky moment, with a light that mimics stars! but to allegorise and sermonise is out of place here. it is but the expedient of those who cannot etch sensation by the burin of their art of words. viii it is ten o'clock upon sylvester abend, or new year's eve. herr buol sits with his wife at the head of his long table. his family and serving folk are round him. there is his mother, with little ursula, his child, upon her knee. the old lady is the mother of four comely daughters and nine stalwart sons, the eldest of whom is now a grizzled man. besides our host, four of the brothers are here to-night; the handsome melancholy georg, who is so gentle in his speech; simeon, with his diplomatic face; florian, the student of medicine; and my friend, colossal-breasted christian. palmy came a little later, worried with many cares, but happy to his heart's core. no optimist was ever more convinced of his philosophy than palmy. after them, below the salt, were ranged the knechts and porters, the marmiton from the kitchen, and innumerable maids. the board was tesselated with plates of birnen-brod and eier-brod, küchli and cheese and butter; and georg stirred grampampuli in a mighty metal bowl. for the uninitiated, it may be needful to explain these davos delicacies. birnen-brod is what the scotch would call a 'bun,' or massive cake, composed of sliced pears, almonds, spices, and a little flour. eier-brod is a saffron-coloured sweet bread, made with eggs; and küchli is a kind of pastry, crisp and flimsy, fashioned into various devices of cross, star, and scroll. grampampuli is simply brandy burnt with sugar, the most unsophisticated punch i ever drank from tumblers. the frugal people of davos, who live on bread and cheese and dried meat all the year, indulge themselves but once with these unwonted dainties in the winter. the occasion was cheerful, and yet a little solemn. the scene was feudal. for these buols are the scions of a warrior race: a race illustrious for heroic deeds; humbled, but not degraded. during the six centuries through which they have lived nobles in davos, they have sent forth scores of fighting men to foreign lands, ambassadors to france and venice and the milanese, governors to chiavenna and bregaglia and the much-contested valtelline. members of their house are counts of buol-schauenstein in austria, freiherrs of muhlingen and berenberg in the now german empire. they keep the patent of nobility conferred on them by henri iv. their ancient coat--parted per pale azure and argent, with a dame of the fourteenth century bearing in her hand a rose, all counterchanged--is carved in wood and monumental marble on the churches and old houses hereabouts. and from immemorial antiquity the buol of davos has sat thus on sylvester abend with family and folk around him, summoned from alp and snowy field to drink grampampuli and break the birnen-brod. these rites performed, the men and maids began to sing--brown arms lounging on the table, and red hands folded in white aprons--serious at first in hymn-like cadences, then breaking into wilder measures with a jodel at the close. there is a measured solemnity in the performance, which strikes the stranger as somewhat comic. but the singing was good; the voices strong and clear in tone, no hesitation and no shirking of the melody. it was clear that the singers enjoyed the music for its own sake, with half-shut eyes, as they take dancing, solidly, with deep-drawn breath, sustained and indefatigable. but eleven struck; and the two christians, my old friend, and palmy, said we should be late for church. they had promised to take me with them to see bell-ringing in the tower. all the young men of the village meet, and draw lots in the stube of the rathhaus. one party tolls the old year out; the other rings the new year in. he who comes last is sconced three litres of veltliner for the company. this jovial fine was ours to pay to-night. when we came into the air, we found a bitter frost; the whole sky clouded over; a north wind whirling snow from alp and forest through the murky gloom. the benches and broad walnut tables of the bathhaus were crowded with men, in shaggy homespun of brown and grey frieze. its low wooden roof and walls enclosed an atmosphere of smoke, denser than the external snow-drift. but our welcome was hearty, and we found a score of friends. titanic fopp, whose limbs are michelangelesque in length; spectacled morosani; the little tailor kramer, with a french horn on his knees; the puckered forehead of the baumeister; the troll-shaped postman; peasants and woodmen, known on far excursions upon pass and upland valley. not one but carried on his face the memory of winter strife with avalanche and snow-drift, of horses struggling through fluela whirlwinds, and wine-casks tugged across bernina, and haystacks guided down precipitous gullies at thundering speed 'twixt pine and pine, and larches felled in distant glens beside the frozen watercourses. here we were, all met together for one hour from our several homes and occupations, to welcome in the year with clinked glasses and cries of _prosit neujahr!_ the tolling bells above us stopped. our turn had come. out into the snowy air we tumbled, beneath the row of wolves' heads that adorn the pent-house roof. a few steps brought us to the still god's acre, where the snow lay deep and cold upon high-mounded graves of many generations. we crossed it silently, bent our heads to the low gothic arch, and stood within the tower. it was thick darkness there. but far above, the bells began again to clash and jangle confusedly, with volleys of demonic joy. successive flights of ladders, each ending in a giddy platform hung across the gloom, climb to the height of some hundred and fifty feet; and all their rungs were crusted with frozen snow, deposited by trampling boots. for up and down these stairs, ascending and descending, moved other than angels--the friezejacketed bürschen, grisons bears, rejoicing in their exercise, exhilarated with the tingling noise of beaten metal. we reached the first room safely, guided by firm-footed christian, whose one candle just defined the rough walls and the slippery steps. there we found a band of boys, pulling ropes that set the bells in motion. but our destination was not reached. one more aërial ladder, perpendicular in darkness, brought us swiftly to the home of sound. it is a small square chamber, where the bells are hung, filled with the interlacement of enormous beams, and pierced to north and south by open windows, from whose parapets i saw the village and the valley spread beneath. the fierce wind hurried through it, charged with snow, and its narrow space was thronged with men. men on the platform, men on the window-sills, men grappling the bells with iron arms, men brushing by to reach the stairs, crossing, recrossing, shouldering their mates, drinking red wine from gigantic beakers, exploding crackers, firing squibs, shouting and yelling in corybantic chorus. they yelled and shouted, one could see it by their open mouths and glittering eyes; but not a sound from human lungs could reach our ears. the overwhelming incessant thunder of the bells drowned all. it thrilled the tympanum, ran through the marrow of the spine, vibrated in the inmost entrails. yet the brain was only steadied and excited by this sea of brazen noise. after a few moments i knew the place and felt at home in it. then i enjoyed a spectacle which sculptors might have envied. for they ring the bells in davos after this fashion:--the lads below set them going with ropes. the men above climb in pairs on ladders to the beams from which they are suspended. two mighty pine-trees, roughly squared and built into the walls, extend from side to side across the belfry. another from which the bells hang, connects these massive trunks at right angles. just where the central beam is wedged into the two parallel supports, the ladders reach them from each side of the belfry, so that, bending from the higher rung of the ladder, and leaning over, stayed upon the lateral beam, each pair of men can keep one bell in movement with their hands. each comrade plants one leg upon the ladder, and sets the other knee firmly athwart the horizontal pine. then round each other's waist they twine left arm and right. the two have thus become one man. right arm and left are free to grasp the bell's horns, sprouting at its crest beneath the beam. with a grave rhythmic motion, bending sideward in a close embrace, swaying and returning to their centre from the well-knit loins, they drive the force of each strong muscle into the vexed bell. the impact is earnest at first, but soon it becomes frantic. the men take something from each other of exalted enthusiasm. this efflux of their combined energies inspires them and exasperates the mighty resonance of metal which they rule. they are lost in a trance of what approximates to dervish passion--so thrilling is the surge of sound, so potent are the rhythms they obey. men come and tug them by the heels. one grasps the starting thews upon their calves. another is impatient for their place. but they strain still, locked together, and forgetful of the world. at length they have enough: then slowly, clingingly unclasp, turn round with gazing eyes, and are resumed, sedately, into the diurnal round of common life. another pair is in their room upon the beam. the englishman who saw these things stood looking up, enveloped in his ulster with the grey cowl thrust upon his forehead, like a monk. one candle cast a grotesque shadow of him on the plastered wall. and when his chance came, though he was but a weakling, he too climbed and for some moments hugged the beam, and felt the madness of the swinging bell. descending, he wondered long and strangely whether he ascribed too much of feeling to the men he watched. but no, that was impossible. there are emotions deeply seated in the joy of exercise, when the body is brought into play, and masses move in concert, of which the subject is but half conscious. music and dance, and the delirium of battle or the chase, act thus upon spontaneous natures. the mystery of rhythm and associated energy and blood tingling in sympathy is here. it lies at the root of man's most tyrannous instinctive impulses. it was past one when we reached home, and now a meditative man might well have gone to bed. but no one thinks of sleeping on sylvester abend. so there followed bowls of punch in one friend's room, where english, french, and germans blent together in convivial babel; and flasks of old montagner in another. palmy, at this period, wore an archdeacon's hat, and smoked a churchwarden's pipe; and neither were his own, nor did he derive anything ecclesiastical or anglican from the association. late in the morning we must sally forth, they said, and roam the town. for it is the custom here on new year's night to greet acquaintances, and ask for hospitality, and no one may deny these self-invited guests. we turned out again into the grey snow-swept gloom, a curious comus--not at all like greeks, for we had neither torches in our hands nor rose-wreaths to suspend upon a lady's door-posts. and yet i could not refrain, at this supreme moment of jollity, in the zero temperature, amid my grisons friends, from humming to myself verses from the greek anthology:-- the die is cast! nay, light the torch! i'll take the road! up, courage, ho! why linger pondering in the porch? upon love's revel we will go! shake off those fumes of wine! hang care and caution! what has love to do with prudence? let the torches flare! quick, drown the doubts that hampered you! cast weary wisdom to the wind! one thing, but one alone, i know: love bent e'en jove and made him blind upon love's revel we will go! and then again:-- i've drunk sheer madness! not with wine, but old fantastic tales, i'll arm my heart in heedlessness divine, and dare the road, nor dream of harm! i'll join love's rout! let thunder break, let lightning blast me by the way! invulnerable love shall shake his ægis o'er my head to-day. this last epigram was not inappropriate to an invalid about to begin the fifth act in a roystering night's adventure. and still once more:-- cold blows the winter wind; 'tis love, whose sweet eyes swim with honeyed tears, that bears me to thy doors, my love, tossed by the storm of hopes and fears. cold blows the blast of aching love; but be thou for my wandering sail, adrift upon these waves of love, safe harbour from the whistling gale! however, upon this occasion, though we had winter-wind enough, and cold enough, there was not much love in the business. my arm was firmly clenched in christian buol's, and christian palmy came behind, trolling out songs in italian dialect, with still recurring _canaille_ choruses, of which the facile rhymes seemed mostly made on a prolonged _amu-u-u-r_. it is noticeable that italian ditties are specially designed for fellows shouting in the streets at night. they seem in keeping there, and nowhere else that i could ever see. and these davosers took to them naturally when the time for comus came. it was between four and five in the morning, and nearly all the houses in the place were dark. the tall church-tower and spire loomed up above us in grey twilight. the tireless wind still swept thin snow from fell and forest. but the frenzied bells had sunk into their twelvemonth's slumber, which shall be broken only by decorous tollings at less festive times. i wondered whether they were tingling still with the heart-throbs and with the pressure of those many arms? was their old age warmed, as mine was, with that gust of life--the young men who had clung to them like bees to lily-bells, and shaken all their locked-up tone and shrillness into the wild winter air? alas! how many generations of the young have handled them; and they are still there, frozen in their belfry; and the young grow middle-aged, and old, and die at last; and the bells they grappled in their lust of manhood toll them to their graves, on which the tireless wind will, winter after winter, sprinkle snow from alps and forests which they knew. 'there is a light,' cried christian, 'up in anna's window!' 'a light! a light!' the comus shouted. but how to get at the window, which is pretty high above the ground, and out of reach of the most ardent revellers? we search a neighbouring shed, extract a stable-ladder, and in two seconds palmy has climbed to the topmost rung, while christian and georg hold it firm upon the snow beneath. then begins a passage from some comic opera of mozart's or cimarosa's--an escapade familiar to spanish or italian students, which recalls the stage. it is an episode from 'don giovanni,' translated to this dark-etched scene of snowy hills, and gothic tower, and mullioned windows deep embayed beneath their eaves and icicles. _deh vieni alla finestra!_ sings palmy-leporello; the chorus answers: _deh vieni! perchè non vieni ancora?_ pleads leporello; the chorus shouts: _perchè? mio amu-u-u-r_, sighs leporello; and echo cries, _amu-u-u-r!_ all the wooing, be it noticed, is conducted in italian. but the actors murmur to each other in davoser deutsch, 'she won't come, palmy! it is far too late; she is gone to bed. come down; you'll wake the village with your caterwauling!' but leporello waves his broad archdeacon's hat, and resumes a flood of flexible bregaglian. he has a shrewd suspicion that the girl is peeping from behind the window curtain; and tells us, bending down from the ladder, in a hoarse stage-whisper, that we must have patience; 'these girls are kittle cattle, who take long to draw: but if your lungs last out, they're sure to show.' and leporello is right. faint heart ne'er won fair lady. from the summit of his ladder, by his eloquent italian tongue, he brings the shy bird down at last. we hear the unbarring of the house door, and a comely maiden, in her sunday dress, welcomes us politely to her ground-floor sitting-room. the comus enters, in grave order, with set speeches, handshakes, and inevitable _prosits_! it is a large low chamber, with a huge stone stove, wide benches fixed along the walls, and a great oval table. we sit how and where we can. red wine is produced, and eier-brod and küchli. fräulein anna serves us sedately, holding her own with decent self-respect against the inrush of the revellers. she is quite alone; but are not her father and mother in bed above, and within earshot? besides, the comus, even at this abnormal hour and after an abnormal night, is well conducted. things seem slipping into a decorous wine-party, when leporello readjusts the broad-brimmed hat upon his head, and very cleverly acts a little love-scene for our benefit. fräulein anna takes this as a delicate compliment, and the thing is so prettily done in truth, that not the sternest taste could be offended. meanwhile another party of night-wanderers, attracted by our mirth, break in. more _prosits_ and clinked glasses follow; and with a fair good-morning to our hostess, we retire. it is too late to think of bed. 'the quincunx of heaven,' as sir thomas browne phrased it on a dissimilar occasion, 'runs low.... the huntsmen are up in america; and not in america only, for the huntsmen, if there are any this night in graubünden, have long been out upon the snow, and the stable-lads are dragging the sledges from their sheds to carry down the mails to landquart. we meet the porters from the various hotels, bringing letter-bags and luggage to the post. it is time to turn in and take a cup of black coffee against the rising sun. ix some nights, even in davos, are spent, even by an invalid, in bed. a leaflet, therefore, of 'sleep-chasings' may not inappropriately be flung, as envoy to so many wanderings on foot and sledge upon the winter snows. the first is a confused medley of things familiar and things strange. i have been dreaming of far-away old german towns, with gabled houses deep in snow; dreaming of châlets in forgotten alpine glens, where wood-cutters come plunging into sleepy light from gloom, and sinking down beside the stove to shake the drift from their rough shoulders; dreaming of vast veils of icicles upon the gaunt black rocks in places where no foot of man will pass, and where the snow is weaving eyebrows over the ledges of grey whirlwind-beaten precipices; dreaming of venice, forlorn beneath the windy drip of rain, the gas lamps flickering on the swimming piazzetta, the barche idle, the gondolier wrapped in his thread-bare cloak, alone; dreaming of apennines, with world-old cities, brown, above the brown sea of dead chestnut boughs; dreaming of stormy tides, and watchers aloft in lighthouses when day is finished; dreaming of dead men and women and dead children in the earth, far down beneath the snow-drifts, six feet deep. and then i lift my face, awaking, from my pillow; the pallid moon is on the valley, and the room is filled with spectral light. i sleep, and change my dreaming. this is a hospice in an unfrequented pass, between sad peaks, beside a little black lake, overdrifted with soft snow. i pass into the house-room, gliding silently. an old man and an old woman are nodding, bowed in deepest slumber, by the stove. a young man plays the zither on a table. he lifts his head, still modulating with his fingers on the strings. he looks right through me with wide anxious eyes. he does not see me, but sees italy, i know, and some one wandering on a sandy shore. i sleep, and change my dreaming. this is s. stephen's church in wien. inside, the lamps are burning dimly in the choir. there is fog in the aisles; but through the sleepy air and over the red candles flies a wild soprano's voice, a boy's soul in its singing sent to heaven. i sleep, and change my dreaming. from the mufflers in which his father, the mountebank, has wrapped the child, to carry him across the heath, a little tumbling-boy emerges in soiled tights. he is half asleep. his father scrapes the fiddle. the boy shortens his red belt, kisses his fingers to us, and ties himself into a knot among the glasses on the table. i sleep, and change my dreaming. i am on the parapet of a huge circular tower, hollow like a well, and pierced with windows at irregular intervals. the parapet is broad, and slabbed with red verona marble. around me are athletic men, all naked, in the strangest attitudes of studied rest, down-gazing, as i do, into the depths below. there comes a confused murmur of voices, and the tower is threaded and rethreaded with great cables. up these there climb to us a crowd of young men, clinging to the ropes and flinging their bodies sideways on aërial trapezes. my heart trembles with keen joy and terror. for nowhere else could plastic forms be seen more beautiful, and nowhere else is peril more apparent. leaning my chin upon the utmost verge, i wait. i watch one youth, who smiles and soars to me; and when his face is almost touching mine, he speaks, but what he says i know not. i sleep, and change my dreaming. the whole world rocks to its foundations. the mountain summits that i know are shaken. they bow their bristling crests. they are falling, falling on us, and the earth is riven. i wake in terror, shouting: insolitis tremuerunt motibus alpes! an earthquake, slight but real, has stirred the ever-wakeful vesta of the brain to this virgilian quotation. i sleep, and change my dreaming. once more at night i sledge alone upon the klosters road. it is the point where the woods close over it and moonlight may not pierce the boughs. there come shrill cries of many voices from behind, and rushings that pass by and vanish. then on their sledges i behold the phantoms of the dead who died in davos, longing for their homes; and each flies past me, shrieking in the still cold air; and phosphorescent like long meteors, the pageant turns the windings of the road below and disappears. i sleep, and change my dreaming. this is the top of some high mountain, where the crags are cruelly tortured and cast in enormous splinters on the ledges of cliffs grey with old-world ice. a ravine, opening at my feet, plunges down immeasurably to a dim and distant sea. above me soars a precipice embossed with a gigantic ice-bound shape. as i gaze thereon, i find the lineaments and limbs of a titanic man chained and nailed to the rock. his beard has grown for centuries, and flowed this way and that, adown his breast and over to the stone on either side; and the whole of him is covered with a greenish ice, ancient beyond the memory of man. 'this is prometheus,' i whisper to myself, 'and i am alone on caucasus.' * * * * * bacchus in graubÜnden i some years' residence in the canton of the grisons made me familiar with all sorts of valtelline wine; with masculine but rough _inferno_, generous _forzato_, delicate _sassella_, harsher _montagner_, the raspberry flavour of _grumello_, the sharp invigorating twang of _villa_. the colour, ranging from garnet to almandine or ruby, told me the age and quality of wine; and i could judge from the crust it forms upon the bottle, whether it had been left long enough in wood to ripen. i had furthermore arrived at the conclusion that the best valtelline can only be tasted in cellars of the engadine or davos, where this vintage matures slowly in the mountain air, and takes a flavour unknown at lower levels. in a word, it had amused my leisure to make or think myself a connoisseur. my literary taste was tickled by the praise bestowed in the augustan age on rhætic grapes by virgil: et quo te carmine dicam, rhætica? nec cellis ideo contende falernis. i piqued myself on thinking that could the poet but have drank one bottle at samaden--where stilicho, by the way, in his famous recruiting expedition may perhaps have drank it--he would have been less chary in his panegyric. for the point of inferiority on which he seems to insist, namely, that valtelline wine does not keep well in cellar, is only proper to this vintage in italian climate. such meditations led my fancy on the path of history. is there truth, then, in the dim tradition that this mountain land was colonised by etruscans? is _ras_ the root of rhætia? the etruscans were accomplished wine-growers, we know. it was their montepulciano which drew the gauls to rome, if livy can be trusted. perhaps they first planted the vine in valtelline. perhaps its superior culture in that district may be due to ancient use surviving in a secluded alpine valley. one thing is certain, that the peasants of sondrio and tirano understand viticulture better than the italians of lombardy. then my thoughts ran on to the period of modern history, when the grisons seized the valtelline in lieu of war-pay from the dukes of milan. for some three centuries they held it as a subject province. from the rathhaus at davos or chur they sent their nobles--von salis and buol, planta and sprecher von bernegg--across the hills as governors or podestàs to poschiavo, sondrio, tirano, and morbegno. in those old days the valtelline wines came duly every winter over snow-deep passes to fill the cellars of the signori grigioni. that quaint traveller tom coryat, in his so-called 'crudities,' notes the custom early in the seventeenth century. and as that custom then obtained, it still subsists with little alteration. the wine-carriers--weinführer, as they are called--first scaled the bernina pass, halting then as now, perhaps at poschiavo and pontresina. afterwards, in order to reach davos, the pass of the scaletta rose before them--a wilderness of untracked snow-drifts. the country-folk still point to narrow, light hand-sledges, on which the casks were charged before the last pitch of the pass. some wine came, no doubt, on pack-saddles. a meadow in front of the dischma-thal, where the pass ends, still bears the name of the ross-weid, or horse-pasture. it was here that the beasts of burden used for this wine-service, rested after their long labours. in favourable weather the whole journey from tirano would have occupied at least four days, with scanty halts at night. the valtelline slipped from the hands of the grisons early in this century. it is rumoured that one of the von salis family negotiated matters with napoleon more for his private benefit than for the interests of the state. however this may have been, when the graubünden became a swiss canton, after four centuries of sovereign independence, the whole valtelline passed to austria, and so eventually to italy. according to modern and just notions of nationality, this was right. in their period of power, the grisons masters had treated their italian dependencies with harshness. the valtelline is an italian valley, connected with the rest of the peninsula by ties of race and language. it is, moreover, geographically linked to italy by the great stream of the adda, which takes its rise upon the stelvio, and after passing through the lake of como, swells the volume of the po. but, though politically severed from the valtelline, the engadiners and davosers have not dropped their old habit of importing its best produce. what they formerly levied as masters, they now acquire by purchase. the italian revenue derives a large profit from the frontier dues paid at the gate between tirano and poschiavo on the bernina road. much of the same wine enters switzerland by another route, travelling from sondrio to chiavenna and across the splügen. but until quite recently, the wine itself could scarcely be found outside the canton. it was indeed quoted upon lombard wine-lists. yet no one drank it; and when i tasted it at milan, i found it quite unrecognisable. the fact seems to be that the graubündeners alone know how to deal with it; and, as i have hinted, the wine requires a mountain climate for its full development. ii the district where the wine of valtellina is grown extends, roughly speaking, from tirano to morbegno, a distance of some fifty-four miles. the best sorts come from the middle of this region. high up in the valley, soil and climate are alike less favourable. low down a coarser, earthier quality springs from fat land where the valley broadens. the northern hillsides to a very considerable height above the river are covered with vineyards. the southern slopes on the left bank of the adda, lying more in shade, yield but little. inferno, grumello, and perla di sassella are the names of famous vineyards. sassella is the general name for a large tract. buying an inferno, grumello, or perla di sassella wine, it would be absurd to suppose that one obtained it precisely from the eponymous estate. but as each of these vineyards yields a marked quality of wine, which is taken as standard-giving, the produce of the whole district may be broadly classified as approaching more or less nearly to one of these accepted types. the inferno, grumello, and perla di sassella of commerce are therefore three sorts of good valtelline, ticketed with famous names to indicate certain differences of quality. montagner, as the name implies, is a somewhat lighter wine, grown higher up in the hill-vineyards. and of this class there are many species, some approximating to sassella in delicacy of flavour, others approaching the tart lightness of the villa vintage. this last takes its title from a village in the neighbourhood of tirano, where a table-wine is chiefly grown. forzato is the strongest, dearest, longest-lived of this whole family of wines. it is manufactured chiefly at tirano; and, as will be understood from its name, does not profess to belong to any one of the famous localities. forzato or sforzato, forced or enforced, is in fact a wine which has undergone a more artificial process. in german the people call it strohwein, which also points to the method of its preparation. the finest grapes are selected and dried in the sun (hence the _stroh_) for a period of eight or nine weeks. when they have almost become raisins, they are pressed. the must is heavily charged with sugar, and ferments powerfully. wine thus made requires several years to ripen. sweet at first, it takes at last a very fine quality and flavour, and is rough, almost acid, on the tongue. its colour too turns from a deep rich crimson to the tone of tawny port, which indeed it much resembles. old forzato, which has been long in cask, and then perhaps three years in bottle, will fetch at least six francs, or may rise to even ten francs a flask. the best sassella rarely reaches more than five francs. good montagner and grumello can be had perhaps for four francs; and inferno of a special quality for six francs. thus the average price of old valtelline wine may be taken as five francs a bottle. these, i should observe, are hotel prices. valtelline wines bought in the wood vary, of course, according to their age and year of vintage. i have found that from . fr. to . fr. per litre is a fair price for sorts fit to bottle. the new wine of sold in the following winter at prices varying from . fr. to . fr. per litre. it is customary for the graubünden wine-merchants to buy up the whole produce of a vineyard from the peasants at the end of the vintage. they go in person or depute their agents to inspect the wine, make their bargains, and seal the cellars where the wine is stored. then, when the snow has fallen, their own horses with sleighs and trusted servants go across the passes to bring it home. generally they have some local man of confidence at tirano, the starting-point for the homeward journey, who takes the casks up to that place and sees them duly charged. merchants of old standing maintain relations with the same peasants, taking their wine regularly; so that from lorenz gredig at pontresina or andreas gredig at davos dörfli, from fanconi at samaden, or from giacomi at chiavenna, special qualities of wine, the produce of certain vineyards, are to be obtained. up to the present time this wine trade has been conducted with simplicity and honesty by both the dealers and the growers. one chief merit of valtelline wine is that it is pure. how long so desirable a state of things will survive the slow but steady development of an export business may be questioned. iii with so much practical and theoretical interest in the produce of the valtelline to stimulate my curiosity, i determined to visit the district at the season when the wine was leaving it. it was the winter of - , a winter of unparalleled beauty in the high alps. day succeeded day without a cloud. night followed night with steady stars, gliding across clear mountain ranges and forests of dark pines unstirred by wind. i could not hope for a more prosperous season; and indeed i made such use of it, that between the months of january and march i crossed six passes of the alps in open sleighs--the fluela bernina, splügen, julier, maloja, and albula--with less difficulty and discomfort in mid-winter than the traveller may often find on them in june. at the end of january, my friend christian and i left davos long before the sun was up, and ascended for four hours through the interminable snow-drifts of the fluela in a cold grey shadow. the sun's light seemed to elude us. it ran along the ravine through which we toiled; dipped down to touch the topmost pines above our heads; rested in golden calm upon the schiahorn at our back; capriciously played here and there across the weisshorn on our left, and made the precipices of the schwartzhorn glitter on our right. but athwart our path it never fell until we reached the very summit of the pass. then we passed quietly into the full glory of the winter morning--a tranquil flood of sunbeams, pouring through air of crystalline purity, frozen and motionless. white peaks and dark brown rocks soared up, cutting a sky of almost purple blueness. a stillness that might be felt brooded over the whole world; but in that stillness there was nothing sad, no suggestion of suspended vitality. it was the stillness rather of untroubled health, of strength omnipotent but unexerted. from the hochspitz of the fluela the track plunges at one bound into the valley of the inn, following a narrow cornice carved from the smooth bank of snow, and hung, without break or barrier, a thousand feet or more above the torrent. the summer road is lost in snow-drifts. the galleries built as a protection from avalanches, which sweep in rivers from those grim, bare fells above, are blocked with snow. their useless arches yawn, as we glide over or outside them, by paths which instinct in our horse and driver traces. as a fly may creep along a house-roof, slanting downwards we descend. one whisk from the swinged tail of an avalanche would hurl us, like a fly, into the ruin of the gaping gorge. but this season little snow has fallen on the higher hills; and what still lies there, is hard frozen. therefore we have no fear, as we whirl fast and faster from the snow-fields into the black forests of gnarled cembras and wind-wearied pines. then süss is reached, where the inn hurries its shallow waters clogged with ice-floes through a sleepy hamlet. the stream is pure and green; for the fountains of the glaciers are locked by winter frosts; and only clear rills from perennial sources swell its tide. at süss we lost the sun, and toiled in garish gloom and silence, nipped by the ever-deepening cold of evening, upwards for four hours to samaden. the next day was spent in visiting the winter colony at san moritz, where the kulm hotel, tenanted by some twenty guests, presented in its vastness the appearance of a country-house. one of the prettiest spots in the world is the ice-rink, fashioned by the skill of herr caspar badrutt on a high raised terrace, commanding the valley of the inn and the ponderous bulwarks of bernina. the silhouettes of skaters, defined against that landscape of pure white, passed to and fro beneath a cloudless sky. ladies sat and worked or read on seats upon the ice. not a breath of wind was astir, and warm beneficent sunlight flooded the immeasurable air. only, as the day declined, some iridescent films overspread the west; and just above maloja the apparition of a mock sun--a well-defined circle of opaline light, broken at regular intervals by four globes--seemed to portend a change of weather. this forecast fortunately proved delusive. we drove back to samaden across the silent snow, enjoying those delicate tints of rose and violet and saffron which shed enchantment for one hour over the white monotony of alpine winter. at half-past eight next morning, the sun was rising from behind pitz languard, as we crossed the inn and drove through pontresina in the glorious light, with all its huge hotels quite empty and none but a few country-folk abroad. those who only know the engadine in summer have little conception of its beauty. winter softens the hard details of bare rock, and rounds the melancholy grassless mountain flanks, suspending icicles to every ledge and spangling the curved surfaces of snow with crystals. the landscape gains in purity, and, what sounds unbelievable, in tenderness. nor does it lose in grandeur. looking up the valley of the morteratsch that morning, the glaciers were distinguishable in hues of green and sapphire through their veil of snow; and the highest peaks soared in a transparency of amethystine light beneath a blue sky traced with filaments of windy cloud. some storm must have disturbed the atmosphere in italy, for fan-shaped mists frothed out around the sun, and curled themselves above the mountains in fine feathery wreaths, melting imperceptibly into air, until, when we had risen above the cembras, the sky was one deep solid blue. all that upland wilderness is lovelier now than in the summer; and on the morning of which i write, the air itself was far more summery than i have ever known it in the engadine in august. we could scarcely bear to place our hands upon the woodwork of the sleigh because of the fierce sun's heat. and yet the atmosphere was crystalline with windless frost. as though to increase the strangeness of these contrasts, the pavement of beaten snow was stained with red drops spilt from wine-casks which pass over it. the chief feature of the bernina--what makes it a dreary pass enough in summer, but infinitely beautiful in winter--is its breadth; illimitable undulations of snow-drifts; immensity of open sky; unbroken lines of white, descending in smooth curves from glittering ice-peaks. a glacier hangs in air above the frozen lakes, with all its green-blue ice-cliffs glistening in intensest light. pitz palu shoots aloft like sculptured marble, delicately veined with soft aërial shadows of translucent blue. at the summit of the pass all italy seems to burst upon the eyes in those steep serried ranges, with their craggy crests, violet-hued in noonday sunshine, as though a bloom of plum or grape had been shed over them, enamelling their jagged precipices. the top of the bernina is not always thus in winter. it has a bad reputation for the fury of invading storms, when falling snow hurtles together with snow scooped from the drifts in eddies, and the weltering white sea shifts at the will of whirlwinds. the hospice then may be tenanted for days together by weather-bound wayfarers; and a line drawn close beneath its roof shows how two years ago the whole building was buried in one snow-shroud. this morning we lounged about the door, while our horses rested and postillions and carters pledged one another in cups of new veltliner. the road takes an awful and sudden dive downwards, quite irrespective of the carefully engineered post-track. at this season the path is badly broken into ruts and chasms by the wine traffic. in some places it was indubitably perilous: a narrow ledge of mere ice skirting thinly clad hard-frozen banks of snow, which fell precipitately sideways for hundreds of sheer feet. we did not slip over this parapet, though we were often within an inch of doing so. had our horse stumbled, it is not probable that i should have been writing this. when we came to the galleries which defend the road from avalanches, we saw ahead of us a train of over forty sledges ascending, all charged with valtelline wine. our postillions drew up at the inner side of the gallery, between massive columns of the purest ice dependent from the rough-hewn roof and walls of rock. a sort of open _loggia_ on the farther side framed vignettes of the valtelline mountains in their hard cerulean shadows and keen sunlight. between us and the view defiled the wine-sledges; and as each went by, the men made us drink out of their _trinketti_. these are oblong, hexagonal wooden kegs, holding about fourteen litres, which the carter fills with wine before he leaves the valtelline, to cheer him on the homeward journey. you raise it in both hands, and when the bung has been removed, allow the liquor to flow stream-wise down your throat. it was a most extraordinary bacchic procession--a pomp which, though undreamed of on the banks of the ilissus, proclaimed the deity of dionysos in authentic fashion. struggling horses, grappling at the ice-bound floor with sharp-spiked shoes; huge, hoarse drivers, some clad in sheepskins from italian valleys, some brown as bears in rough graubünden homespun; casks, dropping their spilth of red wine on the snow; greetings, embracings; patois of bergamo, romansch, and german roaring around the low-browed vaults and tingling ice pillars; pourings forth of libations of the new strong valtelline on breasts and beards;--the whole made up a scene of stalwart jollity and manful labour such as i have nowhere else in such wild circumstances witnessed. many davosers were there, the men of andreas gredig, valär, and so forth; and all of these, on greeting christian, forced us to drain a _schluck_ from their unmanageable cruses. then on they went, crying, creaking, struggling, straining through the corridor, which echoed deafeningly, the gleaming crystals of those hard italian mountains in their winter raiment building a background of still beauty to the savage bacchanalian riot of the team. how little the visitors who drink valtelline wine at s. moritz or davos reflect by what strange ways it reaches them. a sledge can scarcely be laden with more than one cask of litres on the ascent; and this cask, according to the state of the road, has many times to be shifted from wheels to runners and back again before the journey is accomplished. one carter will take charge of two horses, and consequently of two sledges and two casks, driving them both by voice and gesture rather than by rein. when they leave the valtelline, the carters endeavour, as far as possible, to take the pass in gangs, lest bad weather or an accident upon the road should overtake them singly. at night they hardly rest three hours, and rarely think of sleeping, but spend the time in drinking and conversation. the horses are fed and littered; but for them too the night-halt is little better than a baiting-time. in fair weather the passage of the mountain is not difficult, though tiring. but woe to men and beasts alike if they encounter storms! not a few perish in the passes; and it frequently happens that their only chance is to unyoke the horses and leave the sledges in a snow-wreath, seeking for themselves such shelter as may possibly be gained, frost-bitten, after hours of battling with impermeable drifts. the wine is frozen into one solid mass of rosy ice before it reaches pontresina. this does not hurt the young vintage, but it is highly injurious to wine of some years' standing. the perils of the journey are aggravated by the savage temper of the drivers. jealousies between the natives of rival districts spring up; and there are men alive who have fought the whole way down from fluela hospice to davos platz with knives and stones, hammers and hatchets, wooden staves and splintered cart-wheels, staining the snow with blood, and bringing broken pates, bruised limbs, and senseless comrades home to their women to be tended. bacchus alpinus shepherded his train away from us to northward, and we passed forth into noonday from the gallery. it then seemed clear that both conductor and postillion were sufficiently merry. the plunge they took us down those frozen parapets, with shriek and _jauchzen_ and cracked whips, was more than ever dangerous. yet we reached la rosa safely. this is a lovely solitary spot, beside a rushing stream, among grey granite boulders grown with spruce and rhododendron: a veritable rose of sharon blooming in the desert. the wastes of the bernina stretch above, and round about are leaguered some of the most forbidding sharp-toothed peaks i ever saw. onwards, across the silent snow, we glided in immitigable sunshine, through opening valleys and pine-woods, past the robber-huts of pisciadella, until at evenfall we rested in the roadside inn at poschiavo. iv the snow-path ended at poschiavo; and when, as usual, we started on our journey next day at sunrise, it was in a carriage upon wheels. yet even here we were in full midwinter. beyond le prese the lake presented one sheet of smooth black ice, reflecting every peak and chasm of the mountains, and showing the rocks and water-weeds in the clear green depths below. the glittering floor stretched away for acres of untenanted expanse, with not a skater to explore those dark mysterious coves, or strike across the slanting sunlight poured from clefts in the impendent hills. inshore the substance of the ice sparkled here and there with iridescence like the plumelets of a butterfly's wing under the microscope, wherever light happened to catch the jagged or oblique flaws that veined its solid crystal. from the lake the road descends suddenly for a considerable distance through a narrow gorge, following a torrent which rushes among granite boulders. chestnut trees begin to replace the pines. the sunnier terraces are planted with tobacco, and at a lower level vines appear at intervals in patches. one comes at length to a great red gate across the road, which separates switzerland from italy, and where the export dues on wine are paid. the italian custom-house is romantically perched above the torrent. two courteous and elegant _finanzieri_, mere boys, were sitting wrapped in their military cloaks and reading novels in the sun as we drove up. though they made some pretence of examining the luggage, they excused themselves with sweet smiles and apologetic eyes--it was a disagreeable duty! a short time brought us to the first village in the valtelline, where the road bifurcates northward to bormio and the stelvio pass, southward to sondrio and lombardy. it is a little hamlet, known by the name of la madonna di tirano, having grown up round a pilgrimage church of great beauty, with tall lombard bell-tower, pierced with many tiers of pilastered windows, ending in a whimsical spire, and dominating a fantastic cupola building of the earlier renaissance. taken altogether, this is a charming bit of architecture, picturesquely set beneath the granite snow-peaks of the valtelline. the church, they say, was raised at madonna's own command to stay the tide of heresy descending from the engadine; and in the year , the bronze statue of s. michael, which still spreads wide its wings above the cupola, looked down upon the massacre of six hundred protestants and foreigners, commanded by the patriot jacopo robustelli. from madonna the road leads up the valley through a narrow avenue of poplar-trees to the town of tirano. we were now in the district where forzato is made, and every vineyard had a name and history. in tirano we betook ourself to the house of an old acquaintance of the buol family, bernardo da campo, or, as the graubündeners call him, bernard campbèll. we found him at dinner with his son and grandchildren in a vast, dark, bare italian chamber. it would be difficult to find a more typical old scotchman of the lowlands than he looked, with his clean close-shaven face, bright brown eyes, and snow-white hair escaping from a broad-brimmed hat. he might have sat to a painter for some covenanter's portrait, except that there was nothing dour about him, or for an illustration to burns's 'cotter's saturday night.' the air of probity and canniness combined with a twinkle of dry humour was completely scotch; and when he tapped his snuff-box, telling stories of old days, i could not refrain from asking him about his pedigree. it should be said that there is a considerable family of campèlls or campbèlls in the graubünden, who are fabled to deduce their stock from a scotch protestant of zwingli's time; and this made it irresistible to imagine that in our friend bernardo i had chanced upon a notable specimen of atavism. all he knew, however, was, that his first ancestor had been a foreigner, who came across the mountains to tirano two centuries ago.[ ] this old gentleman is a considerable wine-dealer. he sent us with his son, giacomo, on a long journey underground through his cellars, where we tasted several sorts of valtelline, especially the new forzato, made a few weeks since, which singularly combines sweetness with strength, and both with a slight effervescence. it is certainly the sort of wine wherewith to tempt a polyphemus, and not unapt to turn a giant's head. leaving tirano, and once more passing through the poplars by madonna, we descended the valley all along the vineyards of villa and the vast district of sassella. here and there, at wayside inns, we stopped to drink a glass of some particular vintage; and everywhere it seemed as though god bacchus were at home. the whole valley on the right side of the adda is one gigantic vineyard, climbing the hills in tiers and terraces, which justify its italian epithet of _teatro di bacco_. the rock is a greyish granite, assuming sullen brown and orange tints where exposed to sun and weather. the vines are grown on stakes, not trellised over trees or carried across boulders, as is the fashion at chiavenna or terlan. yet every advantage of the mountain is adroitly used; nooks and crannies being specially preferred, where the sun's rays are deflected from hanging cliffs. the soil seems deep, and is of a dull yellow tone. when the vines end, brushwood takes up the growth, which expires at last in crag and snow. some alps and chalets, dimly traced against the sky, are evidences that a pastoral life prevails above the vineyards. pan there stretches the pine-thyrsus down to vine-garlanded dionysos. the adda flows majestically among willows in the midst, and the valley is nearly straight. the prettiest spot, perhaps, is at tresenda or s. giacomo, where a pass from edolo and brescia descends from the southern hills. but the valtelline has no great claim to beauty of scenery. its chief town, sondrio, where we supped and drank some special wine called _il vino de' signori grigioni_, has been modernised in dull italian fashion. v the hotel at sondrio, la maddalena, was in carnival uproar of masquers, topers, and musicians all night through. it was as much as we could do to rouse the sleepy servants and get a cup of coffee ere we started in the frozen dawn. 'verfluchte maddalena!' grumbled christian as he shouldered our portmanteaus and bore them in hot haste to the post. long experience only confirms the first impression, that, of all cold, the cold of an italian winter is most penetrating. as we lumbered out of sondrio in a heavy diligence, i could have fancied myself back once again at radicofani or among the ciminian hills. the frost was penetrating. fur-coats would not keep it out; and we longed to be once more in open sledges on bernina rather than enclosed in that cold coupé. now we passed grumello, the second largest of the renowned vine districts; and always keeping the white mass of monte di disgrazia in sight, rolled at last into morbegno. here the valtelline vintage properly ends, though much of the ordinary wine is probably supplied from the inferior produce of these fields. it was past noon when we reached colico, and saw the lake of como glittering in sunlight, dazzling cloaks of snow on all the mountains, which look as dry and brown as dead beech-leaves at this season. our bacchic journey had reached its close; and it boots not here to tell in detail how we made our way across the splügen, piercing its avalanches by low-arched galleries scooped from the solid snow, and careering in our sledges down perpendicular snow-fields, which no one who has crossed that pass from the italian side in winter will forget. we left the refuge station at the top together with a train of wine-sledges, and passed them in the midst of the wild descent. looking back, i saw two of their horses stumble in the plunge and roll headlong over. unluckily in one of these somersaults a man was injured. flung ahead into the snow by the first lurch, the sledge and wine-cask crossed him like a garden-roller. had his bed not been of snow, he must have been crushed to death; and as it was, he presented a woeful appearance when he afterwards arrived at splügen. vi though not strictly connected with the subject of this paper, i shall conclude these notes of winter wanderings in the high alps with an episode which illustrates their curious vicissitudes. it was late in the month of march, and nearly all the mountain roads were open for wheeled vehicles. a carriage and four horses came to meet us at the termination of a railway journey in bagalz. we spent one day in visiting old houses of the grisons aristocracy at mayenfeld and zizers, rejoicing in the early sunshine, which had spread the fields with spring flowers--primroses and oxlips, violets, anemones, and bright blue squills. at chur we slept, and early next morning started for our homeward drive to davos. bad weather had declared itself in the night. it blew violently, and the rain soon changed to snow, frozen by a bitter north blast. crossing the dreary heath of lenz was both magnificent and dreadful. by the time we reached wiesen, all the forests were laden with snow, the roads deep in snow-drifts, the whole scene wintrier than it had been the winter through. at wiesen we should have stayed, for evening was fast setting in. but in ordinary weather it is only a two hours drive from wiesen to davos. our coachman made no objections to resuming the journey, and our four horses had but a light load to drag. so we telegraphed for supper to be prepared, and started between five and six. a deep gorge has to be traversed, where the torrent cleaves its way between jaws of limestone precipices. the road is carried along ledges and through tunnels in the rock. avalanches, which sweep this passage annually from the hills above, give it the name of züge, or the snow-paths. as we entered the gorge darkness fell, the horses dragged more heavily, and it soon became evident that our tyrolese driver was hopelessly drunk. he nearly upset us twice by taking sharp turns in the road, banged the carriage against telegraph posts and jutting rocks, shaved the very verge of the torrent in places where there was no parapet, and, what was worst of all, refused to leave his box without a fight. the darkness by this time was all but total, and a blinding snow-storm swept howling through the ravine. at length we got the carriage to a dead-stop, and floundered out in deep wet snow toward some wooden huts where miners in old days made their habitation. the place, by a curious, perhaps unconscious irony, is called hoffnungsau, or the meadow of hope. indeed, it is not ill named; for many wanderers, escaping, as we did, from the dreadful gorge of avalanches on a stormy night, may have felt, as we now felt, their hope reviving when they reached this shelter. there was no light; nothing above, beneath, around, on any side, but tearing tempest and snow whirled through the ravine. the horses were taken out of the carriage; on their way to the stable, which fortunately in these mountain regions will be always found beside the poorest habitation, one of them fell back across a wall and nearly broke his spine. hoffnungsau is inhabited all through the year. in its dismal dark kitchen we found a knot of workmen gathered together, and heard there were two horses on the premises besides our own. it then occurred to us that we might accomplish the rest of the journey with such sledges as they bring the wood on from the hills in winter, if coal-boxes or boxes of any sort could be provided. these should be lashed to the sledges and filled with hay. we were only four persons; my wife and a friend should go in one, myself and my little girl in the other. no sooner thought of than put into practice. these original conveyances were improvised, and after two hours' halt on the meadow of hope, we all set forth again at half-past eight. i have rarely felt anything more piercing than the grim cold of that journey. we crawled at a foot's pace through changeful snow-drifts. the road was obliterated, and it was my duty to keep a petroleum stable-lamp swinging to illuminate the untracked wilderness. my little girl was snugly nested in the hay, and sound asleep with a deep white covering of snow above her. meanwhile, the drift clave in frozen masses to our faces, lashed by a wind so fierce and keen that it was difficult to breathe it. my forehead-bone ached, as though with neuralgia, from the mere mask of icy snow upon it, plastered on with frost. nothing could be seen but millions of white specks, whirled at us in eddying concentric circles. not far from the entrance to the village we met our house-folk out with lanterns to look for us. it was past eleven at night when at last we entered warm rooms and refreshed ourselves for the tiring day with a jovial champagne supper. horses, carriage, and drunken driver reached home next morning. * * * * * old towns of provence travellers journeying southward from paris first meet with olive-trees near montdragon or monsélimart--little towns, with old historic names, upon the road to orange. it is here that we begin to feel ourselves within the land of provence, where the romans found a second italy, and where the autumn of their antique civilisation was followed, almost without an intermediate winter of barbarism, by the light and delicate springtime of romance. orange itself is full of rome. indeed, the ghost of the dead empire seems there to be more real and living than the actual flesh and blood of modern time, as represented by narrow dirty streets and mean churches. it is the shell of the huge theatre, hollowed from the solid hill, and fronted with a wall that seems made rather to protect a city than to form a sounding-board for a stage, which first tells us that we have reached the old arausio. of all theatres this is the most impressive, stupendous, indestructible, the colosseum hardly excepted; for in rome herself we are prepared for something gigantic, while in the insignificant arausio--a sort of antique tewkesbury--to find such magnificence, durability, and vastness, impresses one with a nightmare sense that the old lioness of empire can scarcely yet be dead. standing before the colossal, towering, amorphous precipice which formed the background of the scena, we feel as if once more the 'heart-shaking sound of consul romanus' might be heard; as if roman knights and deputies, arisen from the dead, with faces hard and stern as those of the warriors carved on trajan's frieze, might take their seats beneath us in the orchestra, and, after proclamation made, the mortmain of imperial rome be laid upon the comforts, liberties, and little gracefulnesses of our modern life. nor is it unpleasant to be startled from such reverie by the voice of the old guardian upon the stage beneath, sonorously devolving the vacuous alexandrines with which he once welcomed his ephemeral french emperor from algiers. the little man is dim with distance, eclipsed and swallowed up by the shadows and grotesque fragments of the ruin in the midst of which he stands. but his voice--thanks to the inimitable constructive art of the ancient architect, which, even in the desolation of at least thirteen centuries, has not lost its cunning-emerges from the pigmy throat, and fills the whole vast hollow with its clear, if tiny, sound. thank heaven, there is no danger of roman resurrection here! the illusion is completely broken, and we turn to gather the first violets of february, and to wonder at the quaint postures of a praying mantis on the grass grown tiers and porches fringed with fern. the sense of roman greatness which is so oppressive in orange and in many other parts of provence, is not felt at avignon. here we exchange the ghost of imperial for the phantom of ecclesiastical rome. the fixed epithet of avignon is papal; and as the express train rushes over its bleak and wind-tormented plain, the heavy dungeon-walls and battlemented towers of its palace fortress seem to warn us off, and bid us quickly leave the babylon of exiled impious antichrist. avignon presents the bleakest, barest, greyest scene upon a february morning, when the incessant mistral is blowing, and far and near, upon desolate hillside and sandy plain, the scanty trees are bent sideways, the crumbling castle turrets shivering like bleached skeletons in the dry ungenial air. yet inside the town, all is not so dreary. the papal palace, with its terrible glacière, its chapel painted by simone memmi, its endless corridors and staircases, its torture-chamber, funnel-shaped to drown and suffocate--so runs tradition--the shrieks of wretches on the rack, is now a barrack, filled with lively little french soldiers, whose politeness, though sorely taxed, is never ruffled by the introduction of inquisitive visitors into their dormitories, eating-places, and drill-grounds. and strange, indeed, it is to see the lines of neat narrow barrack beds, between which the red-legged little men are shaving, polishing their guns, or mending their trousers, in those vaulted halls of popes and cardinals, those vast presence-chambers and audience-galleries, where urban entertained s. catherine, where rienzi came, a prisoner, to be stared at. pass by the glacière with a shudder, for it has still the reek of blood about it; and do not long delay in the cheerless dungeon of rienzi. time and regimental whitewash have swept these lurking-places of old crime very bare; but the parable of the seven devils is true in more senses than one, and the ghosts that return to haunt a deodorised, disinfected, garnished sepulchre are almost more ghastly than those which have never been disturbed from their old habitations. little by little the eye becomes accustomed to the bareness and greyness of this provençal landscape; and then we find that the scenery round avignon is eminently picturesque. the view from les doms--which is a hill above the pope's palace, the acropolis, as it were, of avignon--embraces a wide stretch of undulating champaign, bordered by low hills, and intersected by the flashing waters of the majestic rhone. across the stream stands villeneuve, like a castle of romance, with its round stone towers fronting the gates and battlemented walls of the papal city. a bridge used to connect the two towns, but it is now broken. the remaining fragment is of solid build, resting on great buttresses, one of which rises fantastically above the bridge into a little chapel. such, one might fancy, was the bridge which ariosto's rodomonte kept on horse against the paladins of charlemagne, when angered by the loss of his love. nor is it difficult to imagine bradamante spurring up the slope against him with her magic lance in rest, and tilting him into the tawny waves beneath. on a clear october morning, when the vineyards are taking their last tints of gold and crimson, and the yellow foliage of the poplars by the river mingles with the sober greys of olive-trees and willows, every square inch of this landscape, glittering as it does with light and with colour, the more beautiful for its subtlety and rarity, would make a picture. out of many such vignettes let us choose one. we are on the shore close by the ruined bridge, the rolling muddy rhone in front; beyond it, by the towing-path, a tall strong cypress-tree rises beside a little house, and next to it a crucifix twelve feet or more in height, the christ visible afar, stretched upon his red cross; arundo donax is waving all around, and willows near; behind, far off, soar the peaked hills, blue and pearled with clouds; past the cypress, on the rhone, comes floating a long raft, swift through the stream, its rudder guided by a score of men: one standing erect upon the prow bends forward to salute the cross; on flies the raft, the tall reeds rustle, and the cypress sleeps. for those who have time to spare in going to or from the south it is worth while to spend a day or two in the most comfortable and characteristic of old french inns, the hôtel de l'europe, at avignon. should it rain, the museum of the town is worth a visit. it contains horace vernet's not uncelebrated picture of mazeppa, and another, less famous, but perhaps more interesting, by swollen-cheeked david, the 'genius in convulsion,' as carlyle has christened him. his canvas is unfinished. who knows what cry of the convention made the painter fling his palette down and leave the masterpiece he might have spoiled? for in its way the picture is a masterpiece. there lies jean barrad, drummer, aged fourteen, slain in la vendée, a true patriot, who, while his life-blood flowed away, pressed the tricolor cockade to his heart, and murmured 'liberty!' david has treated his subject classically. the little drummer-boy, though french enough in feature and in feeling, lies, greek-like, naked on the sand--a very hyacinth of the republic, la vendée's ilioneus. the tricolor cockade and the sentiment of upturned patriotic eyes are the only indications of his being a hero in his teens, a citizen who thought it sweet to die for france. in fine weather a visit to vaucluse should by no means be omitted, not so much, perhaps, for petrarch's sake as for the interest of the drive, and for the marvel of the fountain of the sorgues. for some time after leaving avignon you jog along the level country between avenues of plane-trees; then comes a hilly ridge, on which the olives, mulberries, and vineyards join their colours and melt subtly into distant purple. after crossing this we reach l'isle, an island village girdled by the gliding sorgues, overshadowed with gigantic plane-boughs, and echoing to the plash of water dripped from mossy fern-tufted millwheels. those who expect petrarch's sorgues to be some trickling poet's rill emerging from a damp grotto, may well be astounded at the rush and roar of this azure river so close upon its fountain-head. it has a volume and an arrow-like rapidity that communicate the feeling of exuberance and life. in passing, let it not be forgotten that it was somewhere or other in this 'chiaro fondo di sorga,' as carlyle describes, that jourdain, the hangman-hero of the glacière, stuck fast upon his pony when flying from his foes, and had his accursed life, by some diabolical providence, spared for future butcheries. on we go across the austere plain, between fields of madder, the red roots of the 'garance' lying in swathes along the furrows. in front rise ash-grey hills of barren rock, here and there crimsoned with the leaves of the dwarf sumach. a huge cliff stands up and seems to bar all passage. yet the river foams in torrents at our side. whence can it issue? what pass or cranny in that precipice is cloven for its escape? these questions grow in interest as we enter the narrow defile of limestone rocks which leads to the cliff-barrier, and find ourselves among the figs and olives of vaucluse. here is the village, the little church, the ugly column to petrarch's memory, the inn, with its caricatures of laura, and its excellent trout, the bridge and the many-flashing, eddying sorgues, lashed by millwheels, broken by weirs, divided in its course, channelled and dyked, yet flowing irresistibly and undefiled. blue, purple, greened by moss and water-weeds, silvered by snow-white pebbles, on its pure smooth bed the river runs like elemental diamond, so clear and fresh. the rocks on either side are grey or yellow, terraced into oliveyards, with here and there a cypress, fig, or mulberry tree. soon the gardens cease, and lentisk, rosemary, box, and ilex--shrubs of provence--with here and there a sumach out of reach, cling to the hard stone. and so at last we are brought face to face with the sheer impassable precipice. at its basement sleeps a pool, perfectly untroubled; a lakelet in which the sheltering rocks and nestling wild figs are glassed as in a mirror--a mirror of blue-black water, like amethyst or fluor-spar--so pure, so still, that where it laps the pebbles you can scarcely say where air begins and water ends. this, then, is petrarch's 'grotto;' this is the fountain of vaucluse. up from its deep reservoirs, from the mysterious basements of the mountain, wells the silent stream; pauseless and motionless it fills its urn, rises unruffled, glides until the brink is reached, then overflows, and foams, and dashes noisily, a cataract, among the boulders of the hills. nothing at vaucluse is more impressive than the contrast between the tranquil silence of the fountain and the roar of the released impetuous river. here we can realise the calm clear eyes of sculptured water-gods, their brimming urns, their gushing streams, the magic of the mountain-born and darkness-cradled flood. or again, looking up at the sheer steep cliff, feet in height, and arching slightly roofwise, so that no rain falls upon the cavern of the pool, we seem to see the stroke of neptune's trident, the hoof of pegasus, the force of moses' rod, which cleft rocks and made water gush forth in the desert. there is a strange fascination in the spot. as our eyes follow the white pebble which cleaves the surface and falls visibly, until the veil of azure is too thick for sight to pierce, we feel as if some glamour were drawing us, like hylas, to the hidden caves. at least, we long to yield a prized and precious offering to the spring, to grace the nymph of vaucluse with a pearl of price as token of our reverence and love. meanwhile nothing has been said about petrarch, who himself said much about the spring, and complained against those very nymphs to whom we have in wish, at least, been scattering jewels, that they broke his banks and swallowed up his gardens every winter. at vaucluse petrarch loved, and lived, and sang. he has made vaucluse famous, and will never be forgotten there. but for the present the fountain is even more attractive than the memory of the poet.[ ] the change from avignon to nismes is very trying to the latter place; for nismes is not picturesquely or historically interesting. it is a prosperous modern french town with two almost perfect roman monuments--les arènes and the maison carrée. the amphitheatre is a complete oval, visible at one glance. its smooth white stone, even where it has not been restored, seems unimpaired by age; and charles martel's conflagration, when he burned the saracen hornet's nest inside it, has only blackened the outer walls and arches venerably. utility and perfect adaptation of means to ends form the beauty of roman buildings. the science of construction and large intelligence displayed in them, their strength, simplicity, solidity, and purpose, are their glory. perhaps there is only one modern edifice--palladio's palazzo della ragione at vicenza--which approaches the dignity and loftiness of roman architecture; and this it does because of its absolute freedom from ornament, the vastness of its design, and the durability of its material. the temple, called the maison carrée, at nismes, is also very perfect, and comprehended at one glance. light, graceful, airy, but rather thin and narrow, it reminds one of the temple of fortuna virilis at rome. but if nismes itself is not picturesque, its environs contain the wonderful pont du gard. a two or three hours' drive leads through a desolate country to the valley of the cardon, where suddenly, at a turn of the road, one comes upon the aqueduct. it is not within the scope of words to describe the impression produced by those vast arches, row above row, cutting the deep blue sky. the domed summer clouds sailing across them are comprehended in the gigantic span of their perfect semicircles, which seem rather to have been described by miltonic compasses of deity than by merely human mathematics. yet, standing beneath one of the vaults and looking upward, you may read roman numerals in order from i. to x., which prove their human origin well enough. next to their strength, regularity, and magnitude, the most astonishing point about this triple tier of arches, piled one above the other to a height of feet above a brawling stream between two barren hills, is their lightness. the arches are not thick; the causeway on the top is only just broad enough for three men to walk abreast. so smooth and perpendicular are the supporting walls that scarcely a shrub or tuft of grass has grown upon the aqueduct in all these years. and yet the huge fabric is strengthened by no buttress, has needed no repair. this lightness of structure, combined with such prodigious durability, produces the strongest sense of science and self-reliant power in the men who designed it. none but romans could have built such a monument, and have set it in such a place--a wilderness of rock and rolling hill, scantily covered with low brushwood, and browsed over by a few sheep--for such a purpose, too, in order to supply nemausus with pure water. the modern town does pretty well without its water; but here subsists the civilisation of eighteen centuries past intact: the human labour yet remains, the measuring, contriving mind of man, shrinking from no obstacles, spanning the air, and in one edifice combining gigantic strength and perfect beauty. it is impossible not to echo rousseau's words in such a place, and to say with him: 'le retentissement de mes pas dans ces immenses voûtes me faisait croire entendre la forte voix de ceux qui les avaient bâties. je me perdais comme un insecte dans cette immensité. je sentais, tout en me faisant petit, je ne sais quoi qui m'élevait l'âme; et je me disais en soupirant, que ne suis-je né romain!' there is nothing at arles which produces the same deep and indelible impression. yet arles is a far more interesting town than nismes, partly because of the rhone delta which begins there, partly because of its ruinous antiquity, and partly also because of the strong local character of its population. the amphitheatre of arles is vaster and more sublime in its desolation than the tidy theatre at nismes; the crypts, and dens, and subterranean passages suggest all manner of speculation as to the uses to which they may have been appropriated; while the broken galleries outside, intricate and black and cavernous, like piranesi's etchings of the 'carceri,' present the wildest pictures of greatness in decay, fantastic dilapidation. the ruins of the smaller theatre, again, with their picturesquely grouped fragments and their standing columns, might be sketched for a frontispiece to some dilettante work on classical antiquities. for the rest, perhaps the aliscamps, or ancient roman burial-ground, is the most interesting thing at arles, not only because of dante's celebrated lines in the canto of 'farinata:'-- si come ad arli ove 'l rodano stagna, fanno i sepolcri tutto 'l loco varo; but also because of the intrinsic picturesqueness of this avenue of sepulchres beneath green trees upon a long soft grassy field. but as at avignon and nismes, so also at arles, one of the chief attractions of the place lies at a distance, and requires a special expedition. the road to les baux crosses a true provençal desert where one realises the phrase, 'vieux comme les rochers de provence,'--a wilderness of grey stone, here and there worn into cart-tracks, and tufted with rosemary, box, lavender, and lentisk. on the way it passes the abbaye de mont majeur, a ruin of gigantic size, embracing all periods of architecture; where nothing seems to flourish now but henbane and the wild cucumber, or to breathe but a mumble-toothed and terrible old hag. the ruin stands above a desolate marsh, its vast italian buildings of palladian splendour looking more forlorn in their decay than the older and austerer mediæval towers, which rise up proud and patient and defiantly erect beneath the curse of time. when at length what used to be the castle town of les baux is reached, you find a naked mountain of yellow sandstone, worn away by nature into bastions and buttresses and coigns of vantage, sculptured by ancient art into palaces and chapels, battlements and dungeons. now art and nature are confounded in one ruin. blocks of masonry lie cheek by jowl with masses of the rough-hewn rock; fallen cavern vaults are heaped round fragments of fan-shaped spandrel and clustered column-shaft; the doors and windows of old pleasure-rooms are hung with ivy and wild fig for tapestry; winding staircases start midway upon the cliff, and lead to vacancy. high overhead suspended in mid-air hang chambers--lady's bower or poet's singing-room--now inaccessible, the haunt of hawks and swallows. within this rocky honeycomb--'cette ville en monolithe,' as it has been aptly called, for it is literally scooped out of one mountain block--live about two hundred poor people, foddering their wretched goats at carved piscina and stately sideboards, erecting mud beplastered hovels in the halls of feudal princes. murray is wrong in calling the place a mediæval town in its original state, for anything more purely ruinous, more like a decayed old cheese, cannot possibly be conceived. the living only inhabit the tombs of the dead. at the end of the last century, when revolutionary effervescence was beginning to ferment, the people of arles swept all its feudality away, defacing the very arms upon the town gate, and trampling the palace towers to dust. the castle looks out across a vast extent of plain over arles, the stagnant rhone, the camargue, and the salt pools of the lingering sea. in old days it was the eyrie of an eagle race called seigneurs of les baux; and whether they took their title from the rock, or whether, as genealogists would have it, they gave the name of oriental balthazar--their reputed ancestor, one of the magi--to the rock itself, remains a mystery not greatly worth the solving. anyhow, here they lived and flourished, these feudal princes, bearing for their ensign a silver comet of sixteen rays upon a field of gules--themselves a comet race, baleful to the neighbouring lowlands, blazing with lurid splendour over wide tracts of country, a burning, raging, fiery-souled, swift-handed tribe, in whom a flame unquenchable glowed from son to sire through twice five hundred years until, in the sixteenth century, they were burned out, and nothing remained but cinders--these broken ruins of their eyrie, and some outworn and dusty titles. very strange are the fate and history of these same titles: king of arles, for instance, savouring of troubadour and high romance; prince of tarentum, smacking of old plays and italian novels; prince of orange, which the nassaus, through the châlons, seized in all its emptiness long after the real principality had passed away, and came therewith to sit on england's throne. the les baux in their heyday were patterns of feudal nobility. they warred incessantly with counts of provence, archbishops and burghers of arles, queens of naples, kings of aragon. crusading, pillaging, betraying, spending their substance on the sword, and buying it again by deeds of valour or imperial acts of favour, tuning troubadour harps, presiding at courts of love,--they filled a large page in the history of southern france. the les baux were very superstitious. in the fulness of their prosperity they restricted the number of their dependent towns, or _places baussenques_, to seventy-nine, because these numbers in combination were thought to be of good omen to their house. beral des baux, seigneur of marseilles, was one day starting on a journey with his whole force to avignon. he met an old woman herb-gathering at daybreak, and said, 'mother, hast thou seen a crow or other bird?' 'yea,' answered the crone, 'on the trunk of a dead willow.' beral counted upon his fingers the day of the year, and turned bridle. with troubadours of name and note they had dealings, but not always to their own advantage, as the following story testifies. when the baux and berengers were struggling for the countship of provence, raymond berenger, by his wife's counsel, went, attended by troubadours, to meet the emperor frederick at milan. there he sued for the investiture and ratification of provence. his troubadours sang and charmed frederick; and the emperor, for the joy he had in them, wrote his celebrated lines beginning-- plas mi cavalier francez. and when berenger made his request he met with no refusal. hearing thereof, the lords of baux came down in wrath with a clangour of armed men. but music had already gained the day; and where the phoebus of provence had shone, the Æolus of storm-shaken les baux was powerless. again, when blacas, a knight of provence, died, the great sordello chanted one of his most fiery hymns, bidding the princes of christendom flock round and eat the heart of the dead lord. 'let rambaude des baux,' cries the bard, with a sarcasm that is clearly meant, but at this distance almost unintelligible, 'take also a good piece, for she is fair and good and truly virtuous; let her keep it well who knows so well to husband her own weal.' but the poets were not always adverse to the house of baux. fouquet, the beautiful and gentle melodist whom dante placed in paradise, served adelaisie, wife of berald, with long service of unhappy love, and wrote upon her death 'the complaint of berald des baux for adelaisie.' guillaume de cabestan loved berangère des baux, and was so loved by her that she gave him a philtre to drink, whereof he sickened and grew mad. many more troubadours are cited as having frequented the castle of les baux, and among the members of the princely house were several poets. some of them were renowned for beauty. we hear of a cécile, called passe rose, because of her exceeding loveliness; also of an unhappy françois, who, after passing eighteen years in prison, yet won the grace and love of joan of naples by his charms. but the real temper of this fierce tribe was not shown among troubadours, or in the courts of love and beauty. the stern and barren rock from which they sprang, and the comet of their scutcheon, are the true symbols of their nature. history records no end of their ravages and slaughters. it is a tedious catalogue of blood--how one prince put to fire and sword the whole town of courthezon; how another was stabbed in prison by his wife; how a third besieged the castle of his niece, and sought to undermine her chamber, knowing her the while to be in childbed; how a fourth was flayed alive outside the walls of avignon. there is nothing terrible, splendid, and savage, belonging to feudal history, of which an example may not be found in the annals of les baux, as narrated by their chronicler, jules canonge. however abrupt may seem the transition from these memories of the ancient nobles of les baux to mere matters of travel and picturesqueness, it would be impossible to take leave of the old towns of provence without glancing at the cathedrals of s. trophime at arles, and of s. gilles--a village on the border of the dreary flamingo-haunted camargue. both of these buildings have porches splendidly encrusted with sculptures, half classical, half mediæval, marking the transition from ancient to modern art. but that of s. gilles is by far the richer and more elaborate. the whole façade of this church is one mass of intricate decoration; norman arches and carved lions, like those of lombard architecture, mingling fantastically with greek scrolls of fruit and flowers, with elegant corinthian columns jutting out upon the church steps, and with the old conventional wave-border that is called etruscan in our modern jargon. from the midst of florid fret and foliage lean mild faces of saints and madonnas. symbols of evangelists with half-human, half-animal eyes and wings, are interwoven with the leafy bowers of cupids. grave apostles stand erect beneath acanthus wreaths that ought to crisp the forehead of a laughing faun or bacchus. and yet so full, exuberant, and deftly chosen are these various elements, that there remains no sense of incongruity or discord. the mediæval spirit had much trouble to disentangle itself from classic reminiscences; and fortunately for the picturesqueness of s. gilles, it did not succeed. how strangely different is the result of this transition in the south from those severe and rigid forms which we call romanesque in germany and normandy and england! * * * * * the cornice it was a dull afternoon in february when we left nice, and drove across the mountains to mentone. over hill and sea hung a thick mist. turbia's roman tower stood up in cheerless solitude, wreathed round with driving vapour, and the rocky nest of esa seemed suspended in a chaos between sea and sky. sometimes the fog broke and showed us villafranca, lying green and flat in the deep blue below: sometimes a distant view of higher peaks swam into sight from the shifting cloud. but the whole scene was desolate. was it for this that we had left our english home, and travelled from london day and night? at length we reached the edge of the cloud, and jingled down by roccabruna and the olive-groves, till one by one mentone's villas came in sight, and at last we found ourselves at the inn door. that night, and all next day and the next night, we heard the hoarse sea beat and thunder on the beach. the rain and wind kept driving from the south, but we consoled ourselves with thinking that the orange-trees and every kind of flower were drinking in the moisture and waiting to rejoice in sunlight which would come. it was a sunday morning when we woke and found that the rain had gone, the sun was shining brightly on the sea, and a clear north wind was blowing cloud and mist away. out upon the hills we went, not caring much what path we took; for everything was beautiful, and hill and vale were full of garden walks. through lemon-groves,--pale, golden-tender trees,--and olives, stretching their grey boughs against the lonely cottage tiles, we climbed, until we reached the pines and heath above. then i knew the meaning of theocritus for the first time. we found a well, broad, deep, and clear, with green herbs growing at the bottom, a runlet flowing from it down the rocky steps, maidenhair, black adiantum, and blue violets, hanging from the brink and mirrored in the water. this was just the well in _hylas_. theocritus has been badly treated. they call him a court poet, dead to nature, artificial in his pictures. yet i recognised this fountain by his verse, just as if he had showed me the very spot. violets grow everywhere, of every shade, from black to lilac. their stalks are long, and the flowers 'nod' upon them, so that i see how the greeks could make them into chaplets--how lycidas wore his crown of white violets[ ] lying by the fireside elbow-deep in withered asphodel, watching the chestnuts in the embers, and softly drinking deep healths to ageanax far off upon the waves. it is impossible to go wrong in these valleys. they are cultivated to the height of about five hundred feet above the sea, in terraces laboriously built up with walls, earthed and manured, and irrigated by means of tanks and aqueducts. above this level, where the virgin soil has not been yet reclaimed, or where the winds of winter bring down freezing currents from the mountains through a gap or gully of the lower hills, a tangled growth of heaths and arbutus, and pines, and rosemarys, and myrtles, continue the vegetation, till it finally ends in bare grey rocks and peaks some thousand feet in height. far above all signs of cultivation on these arid peaks, you still may see villages and ruined castles, built centuries ago for a protection from the moorish pirates. to these mountain fastnesses the people of the coast retreated when they descried the sails of their foes on the horizon. in mentone, not very long ago, old men might be seen who in their youth were said to have been taken captive by the moors; and many arabic words have found their way into the patois of the people. there is something strangely fascinating in the sight of these ruins on the burning rocks, with their black sentinel cypresses, immensely tall and far away. long years and rain and sunlight have made these castellated eyries one with their native stone. it is hard to trace in their foundations where nature's workmanship ends and where man's begins. what strange sights the mountain villagers must see! the vast blue plain of the unfurrowed deep, the fairy range of corsica hung midway between the sea and sky at dawn or sunset, the stars so close above their heads, the deep dew-sprinkled valleys, the green pines! on penetrating into one of these hill-fortresses, you find that it is a whole village, with a church and castle and piazza, some few feet square, huddled together on a narrow platform. we met one day three magnates of gorbio taking a morning stroll backwards and forwards, up and down their tiny square. vehemently gesticulating, loudly chattering, they talked as though they had not seen each other for ten years, and were but just unloading their budgets of accumulated news. yet these three men probably had lived, eaten, drunk, and talked together from the cradle to that hour: so true it is that use and custom quicken all our powers, especially of gossiping and scandal-mongering. s. agnese is the highest and most notable of all these villages. the cold and heat upon its absolutely barren rock must be alike intolerable. in appearance it is not unlike the etruscan towns of central italy; but there is something, of course, far more imposing in the immense antiquity and the historical associations of a narni, a fiesole, a chiusi, or an orvieto. sea-life and rusticity strike a different note from that of those apennine-girdled seats of dead civilisation, in which nations, arts, and religions have gone by and left but few traces,--some wrecks of giant walls, some excavated tombs, some shrines, where monks still sing and pray above the relics of the founders of once world-shaking, now almost forgotten, orders. here at mentone there is none of this; the idyllic is the true note, and theocritus is still alive. we do not often scale these altitudes, but keep along the terraced glades by the side of olive-shaded streams. the violets, instead of peeping shyly from hedgerows, fall in ripples and cascades over mossy walls among maidenhair and spleen-worts. they are very sweet, and the sound of trickling water seems to mingle with their fragrance in a most delicious harmony. sound, smell, and hue make up one chord, the sense of which is pure and perfect peace. the country-people are kind, letting us pass everywhere, so that we make our way along their aqueducts and through their gardens, under laden lemon-boughs, the pale fruit dangling at our ears, and swinging showers of scented dew upon us as we pass. far better, however, than lemon or orange trees, are the olives. some of these are immensely old, numbering, it is said, five centuries, so that petrarch may almost have rested beneath their shade on his way to avignon. these veterans are cavernous with age: gnarled, split, and twisted trunks, throwing out arms that break into a hundred branches; every branch distinct, and feathered with innumerable sparks and spikelets of white, wavy, greenish light. these are the leaves, and the stems are grey with lichens. the sky and sea--two blues, one full of sunlight and the other purple--set these fountains of perennial brightness like gems in lapis-lazuli. at a distance the same olives look hoary and soft--a veil of woven light or luminous haze. when the wind blows their branches all one way, they ripple like a sea of silver. but underneath their covert, in the shade, grey periwinkles wind among the snowy drift of allium. the narcissus sends its arrowy fragrance through the air, while, far and wide, red anemones burn like fire, with interchange of blue and lilac buds, white arums, orchises, and pink gladiolus. wandering there, and seeing the pale flowers, stars white and pink and odorous, we dream of olivet, or the grave garden of the agony, and the trees seem always whispering of sacred things. how people can blaspheme against the olives, and call them imitations of the willow, or complain that they are shabby shrubs, i do not know.[ ] this shore would stand for shelley's island of epipsychidion, or the golden age which empedocles describes, when the mild nations worshipped aphrodite with incense and the images of beasts and yellow honey, and no blood was spilt upon her altars--when 'the trees flourished with perennial leaves and fruit, and ample crops adorned their boughs through all the year.' this even now is literally true of the lemon-groves, which do not cease to flower and ripen. everything fits in to complete the reproduction of greek pastoral life. the goats eat cytisus and myrtle on the shore; a whole flock gathered round me as i sat beneath a tuft of golden green euphorbia the other day, and nibbled bread from my hands. the frog still croaks by tank and fountain, 'whom the muses have ordained to sing for aye,' in spite of bion's death. the narcissus, anemone, and hyacinth still tell their tales of love and death. hesper still gazes on the shepherd from the mountain-head. the slender cypresses still vibrate, the pines murmur. pan sleeps in noontide heat, and goat-herds and wayfaring men lie down to slumber by the roadside, under olive-boughs in which cicadas sing. the little villages high up are just as white, the mountains just as grey and shadowy when evening falls. nothing is changed--except ourselves. i expect to find a statue of priapus or pastoral pan, hung with wreaths of flowers--the meal cake, honey, and spilt wine upon his altar, and young boys and maidens dancing round. surely, in some far-off glade, by the side of lemon-grove or garden, near the village, there must be still a pagan remnant of glad nature-worship. surely i shall chance upon some thyrsis piping in the pine-tree shade, or daphne flying from the arms of phoebus. so i dream until i come upon the calvary set on a solitary hillock, with its prayer-steps lending a wide prospect across the olives and the orange-trees, and the broad valleys, to immeasurable skies and purple seas. there is the iron cross, the wounded heart, the spear, the reed, the nails, the crown of thorns, the cup of sacrificial blood, the title, with its superscription royal and divine. the other day we crossed a brook and entered a lemon-field, rich with blossoms and carpeted with red anemones. everything basked in sunlight and glittered with exceeding brilliancy of hue. a tiny white chapel stood in a corner of the enclosure. two iron-grated windows let me see inside: it was a bare place, containing nothing but a wooden praying-desk, black and worm-eaten, an altar with its candles and no flowers, and above the altar a square picture brown with age. on the floor were scattered several pence, and in a vase above the holy-water vessel stood some withered hyacinths. as my sight became accustomed to the gloom, i could see from the darkness of the picture a pale christ nailed to the cross with agonising upward eyes and ashy aureole above the bleeding thorns. thus i stepped suddenly away from the outward pomp and bravery of nature to the inward aspirations, agonies, and martyrdoms of man--from greek legends of the past to the real christian present--and i remembered that an illimitable prospect has been opened to the world, that in spite of ourselves we must turn our eyes heavenward, inward, to the infinite unseen beyond us and within our souls. nothing can take us back to phoebus or to pan. nothing can again identify us with the simple natural earth. '_une immense espérance a traversé la terre_,' and these chapels, with their deep significances, lurk in the fair landscape like the cares of real life among our dreams of art, or like a fear of death and the hereafter in the midst of opera music. it is a strange contrast. the worship of men in those old times was symbolised by dances in the evening, banquets, libations, and mirth-making. 'euphrosyne' was alike the goddess of the righteous mind and of the merry heart. old withered women telling their rosaries at dusk; belated shepherds crossing themselves beneath the stars when they pass the chapel; maidens weighed down with margaret's anguish of unhappy love; youths vowing their life to contemplation in secluded cloisters,--these are the human forms which gather round such chapels; and the motto of the worshippers consists in this, 'do often violence to thy desire.' in the tyrol we have seen whole villages praying together at daybreak before their day's work, singing their _miserere_ and their _gloria_ and their _dies iræ_, to the sound of crashing organs and jangling bells; appealing in the midst of nature's splendour to the spirit which is above nature, which dwells in darkness rather than light, and loves the yearnings and contentions of our soul more than its summer gladness and peace. even the olives here tell more to us of olivet and the garden than of the oil-press and the wrestling-ground. the lilies carry us to the sermon on the mount, and teach humility, instead of summoning up some legend of a god's love for a mortal. the hillside tanks and running streams, and water-brooks swollen by sudden rain, speak of palestine. we call the white flowers stars of bethlehem. the large sceptre-reed; the fig-tree, lingering in barrenness when other trees are full of fruit; the locust-beans of the caruba:--for one suggestion of greek idylls there is yet another, of far deeper, dearer power. but who can resist the influence of greek ideas at the cap s. martin? down to the verge of the sea stretch the tall, twisted stems of levant pines, and on the caverned limestone breaks the deep blue water. dazzling as marble are these rocks, pointed and honeycombed with constant dashing of the restless sea, tufted with corallines and grey and purple seaweeds in the little pools, but hard and dry and rough above tide level. nor does the sea always lap them quietly; for the last few days it has come tumbling in, roaring and raging on the beach with huge waves crystalline in their transparency, and maned with fleecy spray. such were the rocks and such the swell of breakers when ulysses grasped the shore after his long swim. samphire, very salt and fragrant, grows in the rocky honeycomb; then lentisk and beach-loving myrtle, both exceeding green and bushy; then rosemary and euphorbia above the reach of spray. fishermen, with their long reeds, sit lazily perched upon black rocks above blue waves, sunning themselves as much as seeking sport. one distant tip of snow, seen far away behind the hills, reminds us of an alien, unremembered winter. while dreaming there, this fancy came into my head: polyphemus was born yonder in the gorbio valley. there he fed his sheep and goats, and on the hills found scanty pasture for his kine. he and his mother lived in the white house by the cypress near the stream where tulips grow. young galatea, nursed in the caverns of these rocks, white as the foam, and shy as the sea fishes, came one morning up the valley to pick mountain hyacinths, and little polyphemus led the way. he knew where violets and sweet narcissus grew, as well as galatea where pink coralline and spreading sea-flowers with their waving arms. but galatea, having filled her lap with bluebells, quite forgot the leaping kids, and piping cyclops, and cool summer caves, and yellow honey, and black ivy, and sweet vine, and water cold as alpine snow. down the swift streamlet she danced laughingly, and made herself once more bitter with the sea. but polyphemus remained,--hungry, sad, gazing on the barren sea, and piping to the mockery of its waves. filled with these greek fancies, it is strange to come upon a little sandstone dell furrowed by trickling streams and overgrown with english primroses; or to enter the village of roccabruna, with its mediæval castle and the motto on its walls, _tempora labuntur tacitisque senescimus annis_. a true motto for the town, where the butcher comes but once a week, and where men and boys, and dogs, and palms, and lemon-trees grow up and flourish and decay in the same hollow of the sunny mountain-side. into the hard conglomerate of the hill the town is built; house walls and precipices mortised into one another, dovetailed by the art of years gone by, and riveted by age. the same plants grow from both alike--spurge, cistus, rue, and henbane, constant to the desolation of abandoned dwellings. from the castle you look down on roofs, brown tiles and chimney-pots, set one above the other like a big card-castle. each house has its foot on a neighbour's neck, and its shoulder set against the native stone. the streets meander in and out, and up and down, overarched and balconied, but very clean. they swarm with children, healthy, happy, little monkeys, who grow fat on salt fish and yellow polenta, with oil and sun _ad libitum_. at night from roccabruna you may see the flaring gas-lamps of the gaming-house at monaco, that armida's garden of the nineteenth century. it is the sunniest and most sheltered spot of all the coast. long ago lucan said of monaco, '_non corus in illum jus habet aut zephyrus_;' winter never comes to nip its tangled cactuses, and aloes, and geraniums. the air swoons with the scent of lemon-groves; tall palm-trees wave their graceful branches by the shore; music of the softest and the loudest swells from the palace; cool corridors and sunny seats stand ready for the noontide heat or evening calm; without, are olive-gardens, green and fresh and full of flowers. but the witch herself holds her high court and never-ending festival of sin in the painted banquet-halls and among the green tables. let us leave this scene and turn with the country-folk of roccabruna to s. michael's church at mentone. high above the sea it stands, and from its open doors you look across the mountains with their olive-trees. inside the church is a seething mass of country-folk and townspeople, mostly women, and these almost all old, but picturesque beyond description; kerchiefs of every colour, wrinkles of every shape and depth, skins of every tone of brown and yellow, voices of every gruffness, shrillness, strength, and weakness. wherever an empty corner can be found, it is soon filled by tottering babies and mischievous children. the country-women come with their large dangling earrings of thin gold, wearing pink tulips or lemon-buds in their black hair. a low buzz of gossiping and mutual recognition keeps the air alive. the whole service seems a holiday--a general enjoyment of gala dresses and friendly greetings, very different from the silence, immobility, and _noli me tangere_ aspect of an english congregation. over all drones, rattles, snores, and shrieks the organ; wailing, querulous, asthmatic, incomplete, its everlasting nasal chant--always beginning, never ending, through a range of two or three notes ground into one monotony. the voices of the congregation rise and sink above it. these southern people, like the arabs, the apulians, and the spaniards, seem to find their music in a hurdy-gurdy swell of sound. the other day we met a little girl, walking and spinning, and singing all the while, whose song was just another version of this chant. it has a discontented plaintive wail, as if it came from some vast age, and were a cousin of primeval winds. at first sight, by the side of mentone, san remo is sadly prosaic. the valleys seem to sprawl, and the universal olives are monotonously grey upon their thick clay soil. yet the wealth of flowers in the fat earth is wonderful. one might fancy oneself in a weedy farm flower-bed invaded by stray oats and beans and cabbages and garlic from the kitchen-garden. the country does not suggest a single greek idea. it has no form or outline--no barren peaks, no spare and difficult vegetation. the beauty is rich but tame--valleys green with oats and corn, blossoming cherry-trees, and sweet bean-fields, figs coming into leaf, and arrowy bay-trees by the side of sparkling streams: here and there a broken aqueduct or rainbow bridge hung with maidenhair and briar and clematis and sarsaparilla. in the cathedral church of san siro on good friday they hang the columns and the windows with black; they cover the pictures and deface the altar; above the high altar they raise a crucifix, and below they place a catafalque with the effigy of the dead christ. to this sad symbol they address their prayers and incense, chant their 'litanies and lurries,' and clash the rattles, which commemorate their rage against the traitor judas. so far have we already passed away from the greek feeling of mentone. as i listened to the hideous din, i could not but remember the theocritean burial of adonis. two funeral beds prepared: two feasts recurring in the springtime of the year. what a difference beneath this superficial similarity--[greek: kalos nekus oia katheudôn]--_attritus ægrâ macie_. but the fast of good friday is followed by the festival of easter. that, after all, is the chief difference. after leaving the cathedral we saw a pretty picture in a dull old street of san remo--three children leaning from a window, blowing bubbles. the bubbles floated down the street, of every colour, round and trembling, like the dreams of life which children dream. the town is certainly most picturesque. it resembles a huge glacier of houses poured over a wedge of rock, running down the sides and along the ridge, and spreading itself into a fan between two torrents on the shore below. house over house, with balcony and staircase, convent turret and church tower, palm-trees and olives, roof gardens and clinging creepers--this white cataract of buildings streams downward from the lazar-house, and sanctuary, and sandstone quarries on the hill. it is a mass of streets placed close above each other, and linked together with arms and arches of solid masonry, as a protection from the earthquakes, which are frequent at san remo. the walls are tall, and form a labyrinth of gloomy passages and treacherous blind alleys, where the moors of old might meet with a ferocious welcome. indeed, san remo is a fortress as well as a dwelling-place. over its gateways may still be traced the pipes for molten lead, and on its walls the eyeloops for arrows, with brackets for the feet of archers. masses of building have been shaken down by earthquakes. the ruins of what once were houses gape with blackened chimneys and dark forlorn cellars; mazes of fungus and unhealthy weeds among the still secure habitations. hardly a ray of light penetrates the streets; one learns the meaning of the italian word _uggia_ from their cold and gloom. during the day they are deserted by every one but babies and witchlike old women--some gossiping, some sitting vacant at the house door, some spinning or weaving, or minding little children--ugly and ancient as are their own homes, yet clean as are the streets. the younger population goes afield; the men on mules laden for the hills, the women burdened like mules with heavy and disgusting loads. it is an exceptionally good-looking race; tall, well-grown, and strong.--but to the streets again. the shops in the upper town are few, chiefly wine-booths and stalls for the sale of salt fish, eggs, and bread, or cobblers' and tinkers' ware. notwithstanding the darkness of their dwellings, the people have a love of flowers; azaleas lean from their windows, and vines, carefully protected by a sheath of brickwork, climb the six stories, to blossom out into a pergola upon the roof. look at that mass of greenery and colours, dimly seen from beneath, with a yellow cat sunning herself upon the parapet! to reach such a garden and such sunlight who would not mount six stories and thread a labyrinth of passages? i should prefer a room upon the east side of the town, looking southward to the molo and the sea, with a sound of water beneath, and a palm soaring up to fan my window with his feathery leaves. the shrines are little spots of brightness in the gloomy streets. madonna with a sword; christ holding his pierced and bleeding heart; l'eterno padre pointing to the dead son stretched upon his knee; some souls in torment; s. roch reminding us of old plagues by the spot upon his thigh;--these are the symbols of the shrines. before them stand rows of pots filled with gillyflowers, placed there by pious, simple, praying hands--by maidens come to tell their sorrows to our lady rich in sorrow, by old women bent and shrivelled, in hopes of paradise or gratitude for happy days, when madonna kept cecchino faithful to his home, or saved the baby from the fever. lower down, between the sea and the hill, is the municipal, aristocratic, ecclesiastical quarter of san remo. there stands the palace borea--a truly princely pile, built in the last renaissance style of splendour, with sea-nymphs and dolphins, and satyric heads, half lips, half leafage, round about its doors and windows. once it formed the dwelling of a feudal family, but now it is a roomy anthill of a hundred houses, shops, and offices, the boreas of to-day retaining but a portion of one flat, and making profit of the rest. there, too, are the barracks and the syndic's hall; the jesuits' school, crowded with boys and girls; the shops for clothes, confectionery, and trinkets; the piazza, with its fountain and tasselled planes, and flowery chestnut-trees, a mass of greenery. under these trees the idlers lounge, boys play at leap-frog, men at bowls. women in san remo work all day, but men and boys play for the most part at bowls or toss-penny or leap-frog or morra. san siro, the cathedral, stands at one end of the square. do not go inside; it has a sickly smell of immemorial incense and garlic, undefinable and horrible. far better looks san siro from the parapet above the torrent. there you see its irregular half-gothic outline across a tangle of lemon-trees and olives. the stream rushes by through high walls, covered with creepers, spanned by ferny bridges, feathered by one or two old tufty palms. and over all rises the ancient turret of san siro, like a spanish giralda, a minaret of pinnacles and pyramids and dome bubbles, with windows showing heavy bells, old clocks, and sundials painted on the walls, and a cupola of green and yellow tiles like serpent-scales, to crown the whole. the sea lies beyond, and the house-roofs break it with grey horizontal lines. then there are convents, legions of them, large white edifices, jesuitical apparently for the most part, clanging importunate bells, leaning rose-blossoms and cypress-boughs over their jealous walls. lastly, there is the port--the mole running out into the sea, the quay planted with plane-trees, and the fishing-boats--by which san remo is connected with the naval glory of the past--with the riviera that gave birth to columbus--with the liguria that the dorias ruled--with the great name of genoa. the port is empty enough now; but from the pier you look back on san remo and its circling hills, a jewelled town set in illimitable olive greyness. the quay seems also to be the cattle-market. there the small buff cows of north italy repose after their long voyage or march, kneeling on the sandy ground or rubbing their sides against the wooden cross awry with age and shorn of all its symbols. lambs frisk among the boats; impudent kids nibble the drooping ears of patient mules. hinds in white jackets and knee-breeches made of skins, lead shaggy rams and fiercely bearded goats, ready to butt at every barking dog, and always seeking opportunities of flight. farmers and parish priests in black petticoats feel the cattle and dispute about the price, or whet their bargains with a draught of wine. meanwhile the nets are brought on shore glittering with the fry of sardines, which are cooked like whitebait, with cuttlefish--amorphous objects stretching shiny feelers on the hot dry sand--and prickly purple eggs of the sea-urchin. women go about their labour through the throng, some carrying stones upon their heads, or unloading boats and bearing planks of wood in single file, two marching side by side beneath one load of lime, others scarcely visible under a stack of oats, another with her baby in its cradle fast asleep. san remo has an elder brother among the hills, which is called san romolo, after one of the old bishops of genoa. who san remo was is buried in remote antiquity; but his town has prospered, while of san romolo nothing remains but a ruined hill-convent among pine-trees. the old convent is worth visiting. its road carries you into the heart of the sierra which surrounds san remo, a hill-country something like the jura, undulating and green to the very top with maritime pines and pinasters. riding up, you hear all manner of alpine sounds; brawling streams, tinkling cowbells, and herdsmen calling to each other on the slopes. beneath you lies san remo, scarcely visible; and over it the great sea rises ever so far into the sky, until the white sails hang in air, and cloud and sea-line melt into each other indistinguishably. spanish chestnuts surround the monastery with bright blue gentians, hepaticas, forget-me-nots, and primroses about their roots. the house itself is perched on a knoll with ample prospect to the sea and to the mountains, very near to heaven, within a theatre of noble contemplations and soul-stirring thoughts. if mentone spoke to me of the poetry of greek pastoral life, this convent speaks of mediæval monasticism--of solitude with god, above, beneath, and all around, of silence and repose from agitating cares, of continuity in prayer, and changelessness of daily life. some precepts of the _imitatio_ came into my mind: 'be never wholly idle; read or write, pray or meditate, or work with diligence for the common needs.' 'praiseworthy is it for the religious man to go abroad but seldom, and to seem to shun, and keep his eyes from men.' 'sweet is the cell when it is often sought, but if we gad about, it wearies us by its seclusion.' then i thought of the monks so living in this solitude; their cell windows looking across the valley to the sea, through summer and winter, under sun and stars. then would they read or write, what long melodious hours! or would they pray, what stations on the pine-clad hills! or would they toil, what terraces to build and plant with corn, what flowers to tend, what cows to milk and pasture, what wood to cut, what fir-cones to gather for the winter fire! or should they yearn for silence, silence from their comrades of the solitude, what whispering galleries of god, where never human voice breaks loudly, but winds and streams and lonely birds disturb the awful stillness! in such a hermitage as this, only more wild, lived s. francis of assisi, among the apennines.[ ] it was there that he learned the tongues of beasts and birds, and preached them sermons. stretched for hours motionless on the bare rocks, coloured like them and rough like them in his brown peasant's serge, he prayed and meditated, saw the vision of christ crucified, and planned his order to regenerate a vicious age. so still he lay, so long, so like a stone, so gentle were his eyes, so kind and low his voice, that the mice nibbled breadcrumbs from his wallet, lizards ran over him, and larks sang to him in the air. there, too, in those long, solitary vigils, the spirit of god came upon him, and the spirit of nature was even as god's spirit, and he sang: 'laudato sia dio mio signore, con tutte le creature, specialmente messer lo frate sole; per suor luna, e per le stelle; per frate vento e per l'aire, e nuvolo, e sereno e ogni tempo.' half the value of this hymn would be lost were we to forget how it was written, in what solitudes and mountains far from men, or to ticket it with some abstract word like pantheism. pantheism it is not; but an acknowledgment of that brotherhood, beneath the love of god, by which the sun and moon and stars, and wind and air and cloud, and clearness and all weather, and all creatures, are bound together with the soul of man. few, of course, were like s. francis. probably no monk of san romolo was inspired with his enthusiasm for humanity, or had his revelation of the divine spirit inherent in the world. still fewer can have felt the æsthetic charm of nature but most vaguely. it was as much as they could boast, if they kept steadily to the rule of their order, and attended to the concerns each of his own soul. a terrible selfishness, if rightly considered; but one which accorded with the delusion that this world is a cave of care, the other world a place of torture or undying bliss, death the prime object of our meditation, and lifelong abandonment of our fellow-men the highest mode of existence. why, then, should monks, so persuaded of the riddle of the earth, have placed themselves in scenes so beautiful? why rose the camaldolis and chartreuses over europe? white convents on the brows of lofty hills, among the rustling boughs of vallombrosas, in the grassy meadows of engelbergs,--always the eyries of nature's lovers, men smitten with the loveliness of earth? there is surely some meaning in these poetic stations. here is a sentence of the _imitatio_ which throws some light upon the hymn of s. francis and the sites of benedictine monasteries, by explaining the value of natural beauty for monks who spent their life in studying death: 'if thy heart were right, then would every creature be to thee a mirror of life, and a book of holy doctrine. there is no creature so small and vile that does not show forth the goodness of god.' with this sentence bound about their foreheads, walked fra angelico and s. francis. to men like them the mountain valleys and the skies, and all that they contained, were full of deep significance. though they reasoned '_de conditione humanæ miseriæ_,' and '_de contemptu mundi_,' yet the whole world was a pageant of god's glory, a testimony to his goodness. their chastened senses, pure hearts, and simple wills were as wings by which they soared above the things of earth, and sent the music of their souls aloft with every other creature in the symphony of praise. to them, as to blake, the sun was no mere blazing disc or ball, but 'an innumerable company of the heavenly host singing, "holy, holy, holy is the lord god almighty."' to them the winds were brothers, and the streams were sisters--brethren in common dependence upon god their father, brethren in common consecration to his service, brethren by blood, brethren by vows of holiness. unquestioning faith rendered this world no puzzle; they overlooked the things of sense because the spiritual things were ever present, and as clear as day. yet did they not forget that spiritual things are symbolised by things of sense; and so the smallest herb of grass was vital to their tranquil contemplations. we who have lost sight of the invisible world, who set our affections more on things of earth, fancy that because these monks despised the world, and did not write about its landscapes, therefore they were dead to its beauty. this is mere vanity: the mountains, stars, seas, fields, and living things were only swallowed up in the one thought of god, and made subordinate to the awfulness of human destinies. we to whom hills are hills, and seas are seas, and stars are ponderable quantities, speak, write, and reason of them as of objects interesting in themselves. the monks were less ostensibly concerned about such things, because they only found in them the vestibules and symbols of a hidden mystery. the contrast between the greek and mediæval modes of regarding nature is not a little remarkable. both greeks and monks, judged by nineteenth-century standards, were unobservant of natural beauties. they make but brief and general remarks upon landscapes and the like. the [greek: pontiôn te kumatôn anêrithmon gelasma] is very rare. but the greeks stopped at the threshold of nature; the forces they found there, the gods, were inherent in nature, and distinct. they did not, like the monks, place one spiritual power, omnipotent and omnipresent, above all, and see in nature lessons of divine government. we ourselves having somewhat overstrained the latter point of view, are now apt to return vaguely to greek fancies. perhaps, too, we talk so much about scenery because it is scenery to us, and the life has gone out of it. i cannot leave the cornice without one word about a place which lies between mentone and san remo. bordighera has a beauty which is quite distinct from both. palms are its chief characteristics. they lean against the garden walls, and feather the wells outside the town, where women come with brazen pitchers to draw water. in some of the marshy tangles of the plain, they spring from a thick undergrowth of spiky leaves, and rear their tall aërial arms against the deep blue background of the sea or darker purple of the distant hills. white pigeons fly about among their branches, and the air is loud with cooings and with rustlings, and the hoarser croaking of innumerable frogs. then, in the olive-groves that stretch along the level shore, are labyrinths of rare and curious plants, painted tulips and white periwinkles, flinging their light of blossoms and dark glossy leaves down the swift channels of the brawling streams. on each side of the rivulets they grow, like sister cataracts of flowers instead of spray. at night fresh stars come out along the coast, beneath the stars of heaven; for you can see the lamps of ventimiglia and mentone and monaco, and, far away, the lighthouses upon the promontories of antibes and the estrelles. at dawn, a vision of corsica grows from the sea. the island lies eighty miles away, but one can trace the dark strip of irregular peaks glowing amid the gold and purple of the rising sun. if the air is clear and bright, the snows and overvaulting clouds which crown its mountains shine all day, and glitter like an apparition in the bright blue sky. 'phantom fair,' half raised above the sea, it stands, as unreal and transparent as the moon when seen in april sunlight, yet not to be confounded with the shape of any cloud. if mentone speaks of greek legends, and san romolo restores the monastic past, we feel ourselves at bordighera transported to the east; and lying under its tall palms can fancy ourselves at tyre or daphne, or in the gardens of a moslem prince. note.--dec. . my old impressions are renewed and confirmed by a third visit, after seven years, to this coast. for purely idyllic loveliness, the cornice is surpassed by nothing in the south. a very few spots in sicily, the road between castellammare and amalfi, and the island of corfu, are its only rivals in this style of scenery. from cannes to sestri is one continuous line of exquisitely modulated landscape beauty, which can only be fully appreciated by travellers in carriage or on foot. * * * * * _ajaccio_ it generally happens that visitors to ajaccio pass over from the cornice coast, leaving nice at night, and waking about sunrise to find themselves beneath the frowning mountains of corsica. the difference between the scenery of the island and the shores which they have left is very striking. instead of the rocky mountains of the cornice, intolerably dry and barren at their summits, but covered at their base with villages and ancient towns and olive-fields, corsica presents a scene of solitary and peculiar grandeur. the highest mountain-tops are covered with snow, and beneath the snow-level to the sea they are as green as irish or as english hills, but nearly uninhabited and uncultivated. valleys of almost alpine verdure are succeeded by tracts of chestnut wood and scattered pines, or deep and flowery brushwood--the 'maquis' of corsica, which yields shelter to its traditional outlaws and bandits. yet upon these hillsides there are hardly any signs of life; the whole country seems abandoned to primeval wildness and the majesty of desolation. nothing can possibly be more unlike the smiling riviera, every square mile of which is cultivated like a garden, and every valley and bay dotted over with white villages. after steaming for a few hours along this savage coast, the rocks which guard the entrance to the bay of ajaccio, murderous-looking teeth and needles ominously christened sanguinari, are passed, and we enter the splendid land-locked harbour, on the northern shore of which ajaccio is built. about three centuries ago the town, which used to occupy the extreme or eastern end of the bay, was removed to a more healthy point upon the northern coast, so that ajaccio is quite a modern city. visitors who expect to find in it the picturesqueness of genoa or san remo, or even of mentone, will be sadly disappointed. it is simply a healthy, well-appointed town of recent date, the chief merits of which are, that it has wide streets, and is free, externally at least, from the filth and rubbish of most southern seaports. but if ajaccio itself is not picturesque, the scenery which it commands, and in the heart of which it lies, is of the most magnificent. the bay of ajaccio resembles a vast italian lake--a lago maggiore, with greater space between the mountains and the shore. from the snow-peaks of the interior, huge granite crystals clothed in white, to the southern extremity of the bay, peak succeeds peak and ridge rises behind ridge in a line of wonderful variety and beauty. the atmospheric changes of light and shadow, cloud and colour, on this upland country, are as subtle and as various as those which lend their beauty to the scenery of the lakes, while the sea below is blue and rarely troubled. one could never get tired with looking at this view. morning and evening add new charms to its sublimity and beauty. in the early morning monte d'oro sparkles like a monte rosa with its fresh snow, and the whole inferior range puts on the crystal blueness of dawn among the alps. in the evening, violet and purple tints and the golden glow of italian sunset lend a different lustre to the fairyland. in fact, the beauties of switzerland and italy are curiously blended in this landscape. in soil and vegetation the country round ajaccio differs much from the cornice. there are very few olive-trees, nor is the cultivated ground backed up so immediately by stony mountains; but between the seashore and the hills there is plenty of space for pasture-land, and orchards of apricot and peach-trees, and orange gardens. this undulating champaign, green with meadows and watered with clear streams, is very refreshing to the eyes of northern people, who may have wearied of the bareness and greyness of nice or mentone. it is traversed by excellent roads, recently constructed on a plan of the french government, which intersect the country in all directions, and offer an infinite variety of rides or drives to visitors. the broken granite of which these roads are made is very pleasant for riding over. most of the hills through which they strike, after starting from ajaccio, are clothed with a thick brushwood of box, ilex, lentisk, arbutus, and laurustinus, which stretches down irregularly into vineyards, olive-gardens, and meadows. it is, indeed, the native growth of the island; for wherever a piece of ground is left untilled, the macchi grow up, and the scent of their multitudinous aromatic blossoms is so strong that it may be smelt miles out at sea. napoleon, at s. helena, referred to this fragrance when he said that he should know corsica blindfold by the smell of its soil. occasional woods of holm oak make darker patches on the landscape, and a few pines fringe the side of enclosure walls or towers. the prickly pear runs riot in and out among the hedges and upon the walls, diversifying the colours of the landscape with its strange grey-green masses and unwieldy fans. in spring, when peach and almond trees are in blossom, and when the roadside is starred with asphodels, this country is most beautiful in its gladness. the macchi blaze with cistus flowers of red and silver. golden broom mixes with the dark purple of the great french lavender, and over the whole mass of blossom wave plumes of mediterranean heath and sweet-scented yellow coronilla. under the stems of the ilex peep cyclamens, pink and sweet; the hedgerows are a tangle of vetches, convolvuluses, lupines, orchises, and alliums, with here and there a purple iris. it would be difficult to describe all the rare and lovely plants which are found here in a profusion that surpasses even the flower-gardens of the cornice, and reminds one of the most favoured alpine valleys in their early spring. since the french occupied corsica they have done much for the island by improving its harbours and making good roads, and endeavouring to mitigate the ferocity of the people. but they have many things to contend against, and corsica is still behind the other provinces of france. the people are idle, haughty, umbrageous, fiery, quarrelsome, fond of gipsy life, and retentive through generations of old feuds and prejudices to an almost inconceivable extent. then the nature of the country itself offers serious obstacles to its proper colonisation and cultivation. the savage state of the island and its internal feuds have disposed the corsicans to quit the seaboard for their mountain villages and fortresses, so that the great plains at the foot of the hills are unwholesome for want of tillage and drainage. again, the mountains themselves have in many parts been stripped of their forests, and converted into mere wildernesses of macchi stretching up and down their slopes for miles and miles of useless desolation. another impediment to proper cultivation is found in the old habit of what is called free pasturage. the highland shepherds are allowed by the national custom to drive down their flocks and herds to the lowlands during the winter, so that fences are broken, young crops are browsed over and trampled down, and agriculture becomes a mere impossibility. the last and chief difficulty against which the french have had to contend, and up to this time with apparent success, is brigandage. the corsican system of brigandage is so very different from that of the italians, sicilians, and greeks, that a word may be said about its peculiar character. in the first place, it has nothing at all to do with robbery and thieving. the corsican bandit took to a free life among the macchi, not for the sake of supporting himself by lawless depredation, but because he had put himself under a legal and social ban by murdering some one in obedience to the strict code of honour of his country. his victim may have been the hereditary foe of his house for generations, or else the newly made enemy of yesterday. but in either case, if he had killed him fairly, after a due notification of his intention to do so, he was held to have fulfilled a duty rather than to have committed a crime. he then betook himself to the dense tangles of evergreens which i have described, where he lived upon the charity of countryfolk and shepherds. in the eyes of those simple people it was a sacred duty to relieve the necessities of the outlaws, and to guard them from the bloodhounds of justice. there was scarcely a respectable family in corsica who had not one or more of its members thus _alla campagna_, as it was euphemistically styled. the corsicans themselves have attributed this miserable state of things to two principal causes. the first of these was the ancient bad government of the island: under its genoese rulers no justice was administered, and private vengeance for homicide or insult became a necessary consequence among the haughty and warlike families of the mountain villages. secondly, the corsicans have been from time immemorial accustomed to wear arms in everyday life. they used to sit at their house doors and pace the streets with musket, pistol, dagger, and cartouch-box on their persons; and on the most trivial occasion of merriment or enthusiasm they would discharge their firearms. this habit gave a bloody termination to many quarrels, which might have ended more peaceably had the parties been unarmed; and so the seeds of _vendetta_ were constantly being sown. statistics published by the french government present a hideous picture of the state of bloodshed in corsica even during this century. in one period of thirty years (between and ) there were murders in the island. almost every man was watching for his neighbour's life, or seeking how to save his own; and agriculture and commerce were neglected for this grisly game of hide-and-seek. in the french began to take strong measures, and, under the prefect thuillier, they hunted the bandits from the macchi, killing between and of them. at the same time an edict was promulgated against bearing arms. it is forbidden to sell the old corsican stiletto in the shops, and no one may carry a gun, even for sporting purposes, unless he obtains a special licence. these licences, moreover, are only granted for short and precisely measured periods. in order to appreciate the stern and gloomy character of the corsicans, it is necessary to leave the smiling gardens of ajaccio, and to visit some of the more distant mountain villages--vico, cavro, bastelica, or bocognano, any of which may easily be reached from the capital. immediately after quitting the seaboard, we enter a country austere in its simplicity, solemn without relief, yet dignified by its majesty and by the sense of freedom it inspires. as we approach the mountains, the macchi become taller, feathering man-high above the road, and stretching far away upon the hills. gigantic masses of granite, shaped like buttresses and bastions, seem to guard the approaches to these hills; while, looking backward over the green plain, the sea lies smiling in a haze of blue among the rocky horns and misty headlands of the coast. there is a stateliness about the abrupt inclination of these granite slopes, rising from their frowning portals by sharp _arêtes_ to the snows piled on their summits, which contrasts in a strange way with the softness and beauty of the mingling sea and plain beneath. in no landscape are more various qualities combined; in none are they so harmonised as to produce so strong a sense of majestic freedom and severe power. suppose that we are on the road to corte, and have now reached bocognano, the first considerable village since we left ajaccio. bocognano might be chosen as typical of corsican hill-villages, with its narrow street, and tall tower-like houses of five or six stories high, faced with rough granite, and pierced with the smallest windows and very narrow doorways. these buildings have a mournful and desolate appearance. there is none of the grandeur of antiquity about them; no sculptured arms or castellated turrets, or balconies or spacious staircases, such as are common in the poorest towns of italy. the signs of warlike occupation which they offer, and their sinister aspect of vigilance, are thoroughly prosaic. they seem to suggest a state of society in which feud and violence were systematised into routine. there is no relief to the savage austerity of their forbidding aspect; no signs of wealth or household comfort; no trace of art, no liveliness and gracefulness of architecture. perched upon their coigns of vantage, these villages seem always menacing, as if saracen pirates, or genoese marauders, or bandits bent on vengeance, were still for ever on the watch. forests of immensely old chestnut-trees surround bocognano on every side, so that you step from the village streets into the shade of woods that seem to have remained untouched for centuries. the country-people support themselves almost entirely upon the fruit of these chestnuts; and there is a large department of corsica called castagniccia, from the prevalence of these trees and the sustenance which the inhabitants derive from them. close by the village brawls a torrent, such as one may see in the monte rosa valleys or the apennines, but very rarely in switzerland. it is of a pure green colour, absolutely like indian jade, foaming round the granite boulders, and gliding over smooth slabs of polished stone, and eddying into still, deep pools fringed with fern. monte d'oro, one of the largest mountains of corsica, soars above, and from his snows the purest water, undefiled by glacier mud or the _débris_ of avalanches, melts away. following the stream, we rise through the macchi and the chestnut woods, which grow more sparely by degrees, until we reach the zone of beeches. here the scene seems suddenly transferred to the pyrenees; for the road is carried along abrupt slopes, thickly set with gigantic beech-trees, overgrown with pink and silver lichens. in the early spring their last year's leaves are still crisp with hoar-frost; one morning's journey has brought us from the summer of ajaccio to winter on these heights, where no flowers are visible but the pale hellebore and tiny lilac crocuses. snow-drifts stretch by the roadside, and one by one the pioneers of the vast pine-woods of the interior appear. a great portion of the pine-forest (_pinus larix_, or corsican pine, not larch) between bocognano and corte had recently been burned by accident when we passed by. nothing could be more forlorn than the black leafless stems and branches emerging from the snow. some of these trees were mast-high, and some mere saplings. corte itself is built among the mountain fastnesses of the interior. the snows and granite cliffs of monte rotondo overhang it to the north-west, while two fair valleys lead downward from its eyrie to the eastern coast. the rock on which it stands rises to a sharp point, sloping southward, and commanding the valleys of the golo and the tavignano. remembering that corte was the old capital of corsica, and the centre of general paoli's government, we are led to compare the town with innsprück, meran, or grenoble. in point of scenery and situation it is hardly second to any of these mountain-girdled cities; but its poverty and bareness are scarcely less striking than those of bocognano. the whole corsican character, with its stern love of justice, its furious revengefulness and wild passion for freedom, seems to be illustrated by the peculiar elements of grandeur and desolation in this landscape. when we traverse the forest of vico or the rocky pasture-lands of niolo, the history of the corsican national heroes, giudice della rocca and sampiero, becomes intelligible, nor do we fail to understand some of the mysterious attraction which led the more daring spirits of the island to prefer a free life among the macchi and pine-woods to placid lawful occupations in farms and villages. the lives of the two men whom i have mentioned are so prominent in corsican history, and are so often still upon the lips of the common people, that it may be well to sketch their outlines in the foreground of the salvator rosa landscape just described. giudice was the governor of corsica, as lieutenant for the pisans, at the end of the thirteenth century. at that time the island belonged to the republic of pisa, but the genoese were encroaching on them by land and sea, and the whole life of their brave champion was spent in a desperate struggle with the invaders, until at last he died, old, blind, and in prison, at the command of his savage foes. giudice was the title which the pisans usually conferred upon their governor, and della rocca deserved it by right of his own inexorable love of justice. indeed, justice seems to have been with him a passion, swallowing up all other feelings of his nature. all the stories which are told of him turn upon this point in his character; and though they may not be strictly true, they illustrate the stern virtues for which he was celebrated among the corsicans, and show what kind of men this harsh and gloomy nation loved to celebrate as heroes. this is not the place either to criticise these legends or to recount them at full length. the most famous and the most characteristic may, however, be briefly told. on one occasion, after a victory over the genoese, he sent a message that the captives in his hands should be released if their wives and sisters came to sue for them. the genoese ladies embarked, and arrived in corsica, and to giudice's nephew was intrusted the duty of fulfilling his uncle's promise. in the course of executing his commission, the youth was so smitten with the beauty of one of the women that he dishonoured her. thereupon giudice had him at once put to death. another story shows the spartan justice of this hero in a less savage light. he was passing by a cowherd's cottage, when he heard some young calves bleating. on inquiring what distressed them, he was told that the calves had not enough milk to drink after the farm people had been served. then giudice made it a law that the calves throughout the land should take their fill before the cows were milked. sampiero belongs to a later period of corsican history. after a long course of misgovernment the genoese rule had become unbearable. there was no pretence of administering justice, and private vengeance had full sway in the island. the sufferings of the nation were so great that the time had come for a new judge or saviour to rise among them. sampiero was the son of obscure parents who lived at bastelica. but his abilities very soon declared themselves, and made a way for him in the world. he spent his youth in the armies of the medici and of the french francis, gaining great renown as a brave soldier. bayard became his friend, and francis made him captain of his corsican bands. but sampiero did not forget the wrongs of his native land while thus on foreign service. he resolved, if possible, to undermine the power of genoa, and spent the whole of his manhood and old age in one long struggle with their great captain, stephen doria. of his stern patriotism and roman severity of virtue the following story is a terrible illustration. sampiero, though a man of mean birth, had married an heiress of the noble corsican house of the ornani. his wife, vannina, was a woman of timid and flexible nature, who, though devoted to her husband, fell into the snares of his enemies. during his absence on an embassy to algiers the genoese induced her to leave her home at marseilles and to seek refuge in their city, persuading her that this step would secure the safety of her child. she was starting on her journey when a friend of sampiero arrested her, and brought her back to aix, in provence. sampiero, when he heard of these events, hurried to france, and was received by a relative of his, who hinted that he had known of vannina's projected flight. 'e tu hai taciuto?' was sampiero's only answer, accompanied by a stroke of his poignard that killed the lukewarm cousin. sampiero now brought his wife from aix to marseilles, preserving the most absolute silence on the way, and there, on entering his house, he killed her with his own hand. it is said that he loved vannina passionately; and when she was dead, he caused her to be buried with magnificence in the church of s. francis. like giudice, sampiero fell at last a prey to treachery. the murder of vannina had made the ornani his deadly foes. in order to avenge her blood, they played into the hands of the genoese, and laid a plot by which the noblest of the corsicans was brought to death. first, they gained over to their scheme a monk of bastelica, called ambrogio, and sampiero's own squire and shield-bearer, vittolo. by means of these men, in whom he trusted, he was drawn defenceless and unattended into a deeply wooded ravine near cavro, not very far from his birthplace, where the ornani and their genoese troops surrounded him. sampiero fired his pistols in vain, for vittolo had loaded them with the shot downwards. then he drew his sword, and began to lay about him, when the same vittolo, the judas, stabbed him from behind, and the old lion fell dead by his friend's hand. sampiero was sixty-nine when he died, in the year . it is satisfactory to know that the corsicans have called traitors and foes to their country vittoli for ever. these two examples of corsican patriots are enough; we need not add to theirs the history of paoli--a milder and more humane, but scarcely less heroic leader. paoli, however, in the hour of corsica's extremest peril, retired to england, and died in philosophic exile. neither giudice nor sampiero would have acted thus. the more forlorn the hope, the more they struggled. among the old corsican customs which are fast dying out, but which still linger in the remote valleys of niolo and vico, is the _vócero_, or funeral chant, improvised by women at funerals over the bodies of the dead. nothing illustrates the ferocious temper and savage passions of the race better than these _vóceri_, many of which have been written down and preserved. most of them are songs of vengeance and imprecation, mingled with hyperbolical laments and utterances of extravagant grief, poured forth by wives and sisters at the side of murdered husbands and brothers. the women who sing them seem to have lost all milk of human kindness, and to have exchanged the virtues of their sex for spartan fortitude and the rage of furies. while we read their turbid lines we are carried in imagination to one of the cheerless houses of bastelica or bocognano, overshadowed by its mournful chestnut-tree, on which the blood of the murdered man is yet red. the _gridata_, or wake, is assembled in a dark room. on the wooden board, called _tola_, the corpse lies stretched; and round it are women, veiled in the blue-black mantle of corsican costume, moaning and rocking themselves upon their chairs. the _pasto_ or _conforto_, food supplied for mourners, stands upon a side table, and round the room are men with savage eyes and bristling beards, armed to the teeth, keen for vengeance. the dead man's musket and pocket-pistol lie beside him, and his bloody shirt is hung up at his head. suddenly, the silence, hitherto only disturbed by suppressed groans and muttered curses, is broken by a sharp cry. a woman rises: it is the sister of the dead man; she seizes his shirt, and holding it aloft with mænad gestures and frantic screams, gives rhythmic utterance to her grief and rage. 'i was spinning, when i heard a great noise: it was a gunshot, which went into my heart, and seemed a voice that cried, "run, thy brother is dying." i ran into the room above; i took the blow into my breast; i said, "now he is dead, there is nothing to give me comfort. who will undertake thy vengeance? when i show thy shirt, who will vow to let his beard grow till the murderer is slain? who is there left to do it? a mother near her death? a sister? of all our race there is only left a woman, without kin, poor, orphan, and a girl. yet, o my brother! never fear. for thy vengeance thy sister is enough! '"ma per fà la to bindetta, sta siguru, basta anch ella! give me the pistol; i will shoulder the gun; i will away to the hills. my brother, heart of thy sister, thou shalt be avenged!"' a _vócero_ declaimed upon the bier of giammatteo and pasquale, two cousins, by the sister of the former, is still fiercer and more energetic in its malediction. this erinnys of revenge prays christ and all the saints to extirpate the murderer's whole race, to shrivel it up till it passes from the earth. then, with a sudden and vehement transition to the pathos of her own sorrow, she exclaims:-- 'halla mai bista nissunu tumbà l'omi pe li canti?' it appears from these words that giammatteo's enemies had killed him because they were jealous of his skill in singing. shortly after, she curses the curate of the village, a kinsman of the murderer, for refusing to toll the funeral bells; and at last, all other threads of rage and sorrow being twined and knotted into one, she gives loose to her raging thirst for blood: 'if only i had a son, to train like a sleuth-hound, that he might track the murderer! oh, if i had a son! oh, if i had a lad!' her words seem to choke her, and she swoons, and remains for a short time insensible. when the bacchante of revenge awakes, it is with milder feelings in her heart: 'o brother mine, matteo! art thou sleeping? here i will rest with thee and weep till daybreak.' it is rare to find in literature so crude and intense an expression of fiery hatred as these untranslatable _vóceri_ present. the emotion is so simple and so strong that it becomes sublime by mere force, and affects us with a strange pathos when contrasted with the tender affection conveyed in such terms of endearment as 'my dove,' 'my flower,' 'my pheasant,' 'my bright painted orange,' addressed to the dead. in the _vóceri_ it often happens that there are several interlocutors: one friend questions and another answers; or a kinswoman of the murderer attempts to justify the deed, and is overwhelmed with deadly imprecations. passionate appeals are made to the corpse: 'arise! do you not hear the women cry? stand up. show your wounds, and let the fountains of your blood flow! alas! he is dead; he sleeps; he cannot hear!' then they turn again to tears and curses, feeling that no help or comfort can come from the clay-cold form. the intensity of grief finds strange language for its utterance. a girl, mourning over her father, cries:-- 'mi l'hannu crucifissatu cume ghiesu cristu in croce.' once only, in viale's collection, does any friend of the dead remember mercy. it is an old woman, who points to the crucifix above the bier. but all the _vóceri_ are not so murderous. several are composed for girls who died unwedded and before their time, by their mothers or companions. the language of these laments is far more tender and ornate. they praise the gentle virtues and beauty of the girl, her piety and helpful household ways. the most affecting of these dirges is that which celebrates the death of romana, daughter of dariola danesi. here is a pretty picture of the girl: 'among the best and fairest maidens you were like a rose among flowers, like the moon among stars; so far more lovely were you than the loveliest. the youths in your presence were like lighted torches, but full of reverence; you were courteous to all, but with none familiar. in church they gazed at you, but you looked at none of them; and after mass you said, "mother, let us go." oh! who will console me for your loss? why did the lord so much desire you? but now you rest in heaven, all joy and smiles; for the world was not worthy of so fair a face. oh, how far more beautiful will paradise be now!' then follows a piteous picture of the old bereaved mother, to whom a year will seem a thousand years, who will wander among relatives without affection, neighbours without love; and who, when sickness comes, will have no one to give her a drop of water, or to wipe the sweat from her brow, or to hold her hand in death. yet all that is left for her is to wait and pray for the end, that she may join again her darling. but it is time to return to ajaccio itself. at present the attractions and ornaments of the town consist of a good public library, cardinal fesch's large but indifferent collection of pictures, two monuments erected to napoleon, and napoleon's house. it will always be the chief pride of ajaccio that she gave birth to the great emperor. close to the harbour, in a public square by the sea-beach, stands an equestrian statue of the conqueror, surrounded by his four brothers on foot. they are all attired in roman fashion, and are turned seaward, to the west, as if to symbolise the emigration of this family to subdue europe. there is something ludicrous and forlorn in the stiffness of the group--something even pathetic, when we think how napoleon gazed seaward from another island, no longer on horseback, no longer laurel-crowned, an unthroned, unseated conqueror, on s. helena. his father's house stands close by. an old italian waiting-woman, who had been long in the service of the murats, keeps it and shows it. she has the manners of a lady, and can tell many stories of the various members of the buonaparte family. those who fancy that napoleon was born in a mean dwelling of poor parents will be surprised to find so much space and elegance in these apartments. of course his family was not rich by comparison with the riches of french or english nobles. but for corsicans they were well-to-do, and their house has an air of antique dignity. the chairs of the entrance-saloon have been literally stripped of their coverings by enthusiastic visitors; the horse-hair stuffing underneath protrudes itself with a sort of comic pride, as if protesting that it came to be so tattered in an honourable service. some of the furniture seems new; but many old presses, inlaid with marbles, agates, and lapis-lazuli, such as italian families preserve for generations, have an air of respectable antiquity about them. nor is there any doubt that the young napoleon led his minuets beneath the stiff girandoles of the formal dancing-room. there, too, in a dark back chamber, is the bed in which he was born. at its foot is a photograph of the prince imperial sent by the empress eugénie, who, when she visited the room, wept much _pianse molto_ (to use the old lady's phrase)--at seeing the place where such lofty destinies began. on the wall of the same room is a portrait of napoleon himself as the young general of the republic--with the citizen's unkempt hair, the fierce fire of the revolution in his eyes, a frown upon his forehead, lips compressed, and quivering nostrils; also one of his mother, the pastille of a handsome woman, with napoleonic eyes and brows and nose, but with a vacant simpering mouth. perhaps the provincial artist knew not how to seize the expression of this feature, the most difficult to draw. for we cannot fancy that letizia had lips without the firmness or the fulness of a majestic nature. the whole first story of this house belonged to the buonaparte family. the windows look out partly on a little court and partly on narrow streets. it was, no doubt, the memory of this home that made napoleon, when emperor, design schemes for the good of corsica--schemes that might have brought him more honour than many conquests, but which he had no time or leisure to carry out. on s. helena his mind often reverted to them, and he would speak of the gummy odours of the macchi wafted from the hillsides to the seashore. * * * * * _monte generoso_ the long hot days of italian summer were settling down on plain and country when, in the last week of may, we travelled northward from florence and bologna seeking coolness. that was very hard to find in lombardy. the days were long and sultry, the nights short, without a respite from the heat. milan seemed a furnace, though in the duomo and the narrow shady streets there was a twilight darkness which at least looked cool. long may it be before the northern spirit of improvement has taught the italians to despise the wisdom of their forefathers, who built those sombre streets of palaces with overhanging eaves, that, almost meeting, form a shelter from the fiercest sun. the lake country was even worse than the towns; the sunlight lay all day asleep upon the shining waters, and no breeze came to stir their surface or to lift the tepid veil of haze, through which the stony mountains, with their yet unmelted patches of winter snow, glared as if in mockery of coolness. then we heard of a new inn, which had just been built by an enterprising italian doctor below the very top of monte generoso. there was a picture of it in the hotel at cadenabbia, but this gave but little idea of any particular beauty. a big square house, with many windows, and the usual ladies on mules, and guides with alpenstocks, advancing towards it, and some round bushes growing near, was all it showed. yet there hung the real monte generoso above our heads, and we thought it must be cooler on its height than by the lake-shore. to find coolness was the great point with us just then. moreover, some one talked of the wonderful plants that grew among its rocks, and of its grassy slopes enamelled with such flowers as make our cottage gardens at home gay in summer, not to speak of others rarer and peculiar to the region of the southern alps. indeed, the generoso has a name for flowers, and it deserves it, as we presently found. this mountain is fitted by its position for commanding one of the finest views in the whole range of the lombard alps. a glance at the map shows that. standing out pre-eminent among the chain of lower hills to which it belongs, the lakes of lugano and como with their long arms enclose it on three sides, while on the fourth the plain of lombardy with its many cities, its rich pasture-lands and cornfields intersected by winding river-courses and straight interminable roads, advances to its very foot. no place could be better chosen for surveying that contrasted scene of plain and mountain, which forms the great attraction of the outlying buttresses of the central alpine mass. the superiority of the monte generoso to any of the similar eminences on the northern outskirts of switzerland is great. in richness of colour, in picturesqueness of suggestion, in sublimity and breadth of prospect, its advantages are incontestable. the reasons for this superiority are obvious. on the italian side the transition from mountain to plain is far more abrupt; the atmosphere being clearer, a larger sweep of distance is within our vision; again, the sunlight blazes all day long upon the very front and forehead of the distant alpine chain, instead of merely slanting along it, as it does upon the northern side. from mendrisio, the village at the foot of the mountain, an easy mule-path leads to the hotel, winding first through english-looking hollow lanes with real hedges, which are rare in this country, and english primroses beneath them. then comes a forest region of luxuriant chestnut-trees, giants with pink boles just bursting into late leafage, yellow and tender, but too thin as yet for shade. a little higher up, the chestnuts are displaced by wild laburnums bending under their weight of flowers. the graceful branches meet above our heads, sweeping their long tassels against our faces as we ride beneath them, while the air for a good mile is full of fragrance. it is strange to be reminded in this blooming labyrinth of the dusty suburb roads and villa gardens of london. the laburnum is pleasant enough in s. john's wood or the regent's park in may--a tame domesticated thing of brightness amid smoke and dust. but it is another joy to see it flourishing in its own home, clothing acres of the mountain-side in a very splendour of spring-colour, mingling its paler blossoms with the golden broom of our own hills, and with the silver of the hawthorn and wild cherry. deep beds of lilies-of-the-valley grow everywhere beneath the trees; and in the meadows purple columbines, white asphodels, the alpine spiræa, tall, with feathery leaves, blue scabious, golden hawkweeds, turkscap lilies, and, better than all, the exquisite narcissus poeticus, with its crimson-tipped cup, and the pure pale lilies of san bruno, are crowded in a maze of dazzling brightness. higher up the laburnums disappear, and flaunting crimson peonies gleam here and there upon the rocks, until at length the gentians and white ranunculuses of the higher alps displace the less hardy flowers of italy. about an hour below the summit of the mountain we came upon the inn, a large clean building, with scanty furniture and snowy wooden floors, guiltless of carpets. it is big enough to hold about a hundred guests; and doctor pasta, who built it, a native of mendrisio, was gifted either with much faith or with a real prophetic instinct.[ ] anyhow he deserves commendation for his spirit of enterprise. as yet the house is little known to english travellers: it is mostly frequented by italians from milan, novara, and other cities of the plain, who call it the italian righi, and come to it, as cockneys go to richmond, for noisy picnic excursions, or at most for a few weeks' _villeggiatura_ in the summer heats. when we were there in may the season had scarcely begun, and the only inmates besides ourselves were a large party from milan, ladies and gentlemen in holiday guise, who came, stayed one night, climbed the peak at sunrise, and departed amid jokes and shouting and half-childish play, very unlike the doings of a similar party in sober england. after that the stillness of nature descended on the mountain, and the sun shone day after day upon that great view which seemed created only for ourselves. and what a view it was! the plain stretching up to the high horizon, where a misty range of pink cirrus-clouds alone marked the line where earth ended and the sky began, was islanded with cities and villages innumerable, basking in the hazy shimmering heat. milan, seen through the doctor's telescope, displayed its duomo perfect as a microscopic shell, with all its exquisite fretwork, and napoleon's arch of triumph surmounted by the four tiny horses, as in a fairy's dream. far off, long silver lines marked the lazy course of po and ticino, while little lakes like varese and the lower end of maggiore spread themselves out, connecting the mountains with the plain. five minutes' walk from the hotel brought us to a ridge where the precipice fell suddenly and almost sheer over one arm of lugano lake. sullenly outstretched asleep it lay beneath us, coloured with the tints of fluor-spar, or with the changeful green and azure of a peacock's breast. the depth appeared immeasurable. san salvadore had receded into insignificance: the houses and churches and villas of lugano bordered the lake-shore with an uneven line of whiteness. and over all there rested a blue mist of twilight and of haze, contrasting with the clearness of the peaks above. it was sunset when we first came here; and, wave beyond wave, the purple italian hills tossed their crested summits to the foot of a range of stormy clouds that shrouded the high alps. behind the clouds was sunset, clear and golden; but the mountains had put on their mantle for the night, and the hem of their garment was all we were to see. and yet--over the edge of the topmost ridge of cloud, what was that long hard line of black, too solid and immovable for cloud, rising into four sharp needles clear and well defined? surely it must be the familiar outline of monte rosa itself, the form which every one who loves the alps knows well by heart, which picture-lovers know from ruskin's woodcut in the 'modern painters.' for a moment only the vision stayed: then clouds swept over it again, and from the place where the empress of the alps had been, a pillar of mist shaped like an angel's wing, purple and tipped with gold, shot up against the pale green sky. that cloud-world was a pageant in itself, as grand and more gorgeous perhaps than the mountains would have been. deep down through the hollows of the simplon a thunderstorm was driving; and we saw forked flashes once and again, as in a distant world, lighting up the valleys for a moment, and leaving the darkness blacker behind them as the storm blurred out the landscape forty miles away. darkness was coming to us too, though our sky was clear and the stars were shining brightly. at our feet the earth was folding itself to sleep; the plain was wholly lost; little islands of white mist had formed themselves, and settled down upon the lakes and on their marshy estuaries; the birds were hushed; the gentian-cups were filling to the brim with dew. night had descended on the mountain and the plain; the show was over. the dawn was whitening in the east next morning, when we again scrambled through the dwarf beechwood to the precipice above the lake. like an ink-blot it lay, unruffled, slumbering sadly. broad sheets of vapour brooded on the plain, telling of miasma and fever, of which we on the mountain, in the pure cool air, knew nothing. the alps were all there now--cold, unreal, stretching like a phantom line of snowy peaks, from the sharp pyramids of monte viso and the grivola in the west to the distant bernina and the ortler in the east. supreme among them towered monte rosa--queenly, triumphant, gazing down in proud pre-eminence, as she does when seen from any point of the italian plain. there is no mountain like her. mont blanc himself is scarcely so regal; and she seems to know it, for even the clouds sweep humbled round her base, girdling her at most, but leaving her crown clear and free. now, however, there were no clouds to be seen in all the sky. the mountains had a strange unshriven look, as if waiting to be blessed. above them, in the cold grey air, hung a low black arch of shadow, the shadow of the bulk of the huge earth, which still concealed the sun. slowly, slowly this dark line sank lower, till, one by one, at last, the peaks caught first a pale pink flush; then a sudden golden glory flashed from one to the other, as they leapt joyfully into life. it is a supreme moment this first burst of life and light over the sleeping world, as one can only see it on rare days and in rare places like the monte generoso. the earth--enough of it at least for us to picture to ourselves the whole--lies at our feet; and we feel as the saviour might have felt, when from the top of that high mountain he beheld the kingdoms of the world and all the glory of them. strangely and solemnly may we image to our fancy the lives that are being lived down in those cities of the plain: how many are waking at this very moment to toil and a painful weariness, to sorrow, or to 'that unrest which men miscall delight;' while we upon our mountain buttress, suspended in mid-heaven and for a while removed from daily cares, are drinking in the beauty of the world that god has made so fair and wonderful. from this same eyrie, only a few years ago, the hostile armies of france, italy, and austria might have been watched moving in dim masses across the plains, for the possession of which they were to clash in mortal fight at solferino and magenta. all is peaceful now. it is hard to picture the waving cornfields trodden down, the burning villages and ransacked vineyards, all the horrors of real war to which that fertile plain has been so often the prey. but now these memories of old, unhappy, far-off things, and battles long ago, do but add a calm and beauty to the radiant scene that lies before us. and the thoughts which it suggests, the images with which it stores our mind, are not without their noblest uses. the glory of the world sinks deeper into our shallow souls than we well know; and the spirit of its splendour is always ready to revisit us on dark and dreary days at home with an unspeakable refreshment. even as i write, i seem to see the golden glow sweeping in broad waves over the purple hills nearer and nearer, till the lake brightens at our feet, and the windows of lugano flash with sunlight, and little boats creep forth across the water like spiders on a pond, leaving an arrowy track of light upon the green behind them, while monte salvadore with its tiny chapel and a patch of the further landscape are still kept in darkness by the shadow of the generoso itself. the birds wake into song as the sun's light comes; cuckoo answers cuckoo from ridge to ridge; dogs bark; and even the sounds of human life rise up to us: children's voices and the murmurs of the market-place ascending faintly from the many villages hidden among the chestnut-trees beneath our feet; while the creaking of a cart we can but just see slowly crawling along the straight road by the lake, is heard at intervals. the full beauty of the sunrise is but brief. already the low lakelike mists we saw last night have risen and spread, and shaken themselves out into masses of summer clouds, which, floating upward, threaten to envelop us upon our vantage-ground. meanwhile they form a changeful sea below, blotting out the plain, surging up into the valleys with the movement of a billowy tide, attacking the lower heights like the advance-guard of a besieging army, but daring not as yet to invade the cold and solemn solitudes of the snowy alps. these, too, in time, when the sun's heat has grown strongest, will be folded in their midday pall of sheltering vapour. the very summit of monte generoso must not be left without a word of notice. the path to it is as easy as the sheep-walks on an english down, though cut along grass-slopes descending at a perilously sharp angle. at the top the view is much the same, as far as the grand features go, as that which is commanded from the cliff by the hotel. but the rocks here are crowded with rare alpine flowers--delicate golden auriculas with powdery leaves and stems, pale yellow cowslips, imperial purple saxifrages, soldanellas at the edge of lingering patches of the winter snow, blue gentians, crocuses, and the frail, rosy-tipped ranunculus, called glacialis. their blooming time is brief. when summer comes the mountain will be bare and burned, like all italian hills. the generoso is a very dry mountain, silent and solemn from its want of streams. there is no sound of falling waters on its crags; no musical rivulets flow down its sides, led carefully along the slopes, as in switzerland, by the peasants, to keep their hay-crops green and gladden the thirsty turf throughout the heat and drought of summer. the soil is a jurassic limestone: the rain penetrates the porous rock, and sinks through cracks and fissures, to reappear above the base of the mountain in a full-grown stream. this is a defect in the generoso, as much to be regretted as the want of shade upon its higher pastures. here, as elsewhere in piedmont, the forests are cut for charcoal; the beech-scrub, which covers large tracts of the hills, never having the chance of growing into trees much higher than a man. it is this which makes an italian mountain at a distance look woolly, like a sheep's back. among the brushwood, however, lilies-of-the-valley and solomon's seals delight to grow; and the league-long beds of wild strawberries prove that when the laburnums have faded, the mountain will become a garden of feasting. it was on the crest of monte generoso, late one afternoon in may, that we saw a sight of great beauty. the sun had yet about an hour before it sank behind the peaks of monte rosa, and the sky was clear, except for a few white clouds that floated across the plain of lombardy. then as we sat upon the crags, tufted with soldanellas and auriculas, we could see a fleecy vapour gliding upward from the hollows of the mountain, very thin and pale, yet dense enough to blot the landscape to the south and east from sight. it rose with an imperceptible motion, as the oceanides might have soared from the sea to comfort prometheus in the tragedy of Æschylus. already the sun had touched its upper edge with gold, and we were expecting to be enveloped in a mist; when suddenly upon the outspread sheet before us there appeared two forms, larger than life, yet not gigantic, surrounded with haloes of such tempered iridescence as the moon half hidden by a summer cloud is wont to make. they were the glorified figures of ourselves; and what we did, the phantoms mocked, rising or bowing, or spreading wide their arms. some scarce-felt breeze prevented the vapour from passing across the ridge to westward, though it still rose from beneath, and kept fading away into thin air above our heads. therefore the vision lasted as long as the sun stayed yet above the alps; and the images with their aureoles shrank and dilated with the undulations of the mist. i could not but think of that old formula for an anthropomorphic deity--'the brocken-spectre of the human spirit projected on the mists of the non-ego.' even like those cloud-phantoms are the gods made in the image of man, who have been worshipped through successive ages of the world, gods dowered with like passions to those of the races who have crouched before them, gods cruel and malignant and lustful, jealous and noble and just, radiant or gloomy, the counterparts of men upon a vast and shadowy scale. but here another question rose. if the gods that men have made and ignorantly worshipped be really but glorified copies of their own souls, where is the sun in this parallel? without the sun's rays the mists of monte generoso could have shown, no shadowy forms. without some other power than the mind of man, could men have fashioned for themselves those ideals that they named their gods? unseen by greek, or norseman, or hindoo, the potent force by which alone they could externalise their image, existed outside them, independent of their thought. nor does the trite epigram touch the surface of the real mystery. the sun, the human beings on the mountain, and the mists are all parts of one material universe: the transient phenomenon we witnessed was but the effect of a chance combination. is, then, the anthropomorphic god as momentary and as accidental in the system of the world as that vapoury spectre? the god in whom we live and move and have our being must be far more all-pervasive, more incognisable by the souls of men, who doubt not for one moment of his presence and his power. except for purposes of rhetoric the metaphor that seemed so clever fails. nor, when once such thoughts have been stirred in us by such a sight, can we do better than repeat goethe's sublime profession of a philosophic mysticism. this translation i made one morning on the pasterze gletscher beneath the spires of the gross glockner:-- to him who from eternity, self-stirred, himself hath made by his creative word! to him, supreme, who causeth faith to be, trust, hope, love, power, and endless energy! to him, who, seek to name him as we will, unknown within himself abideth still! strain ear and eye, till sight and sense be dim; thou'lt find but faint similitudes of him: yea, and thy spirit in her flight of flame still strives to gauge the symbol and the name: charmed and compelled thou climb'st from height to height, and round thy path the world shines wondrous bright; time, space, and size, and distance cease to be, and every step is fresh infinity. what were the god who sat outside to scan the spheres that 'neath his finger circling ran? god dwells within, and moves the world and moulds, himself and nature in one form enfolds: thus all that lives in him and breathes and is, shall ne'er his puissance, ne'er his spirit miss. the soul of man, too, is an universe: whence follows it that race with race concurs in naming all it knows of good and true god,--yea, its own god; and with homage due surrenders to his sway both earth and heaven; fears him, and loves, where place for love is given. * * * * * _lombard vignettes_ on the superga this is the chord of lombard colouring in may. lowest in the scale: bright green of varied tints, the meadow-grasses mingling with willows and acacias, harmonised by air and distance. next, opaque blue--the blue of something between amethyst and lapis-lazuli--that belongs alone to the basements of italian mountains. higher, the roseate whiteness of ridged snow on alps or apennines. highest, the blue of the sky, ascending from pale turquoise to transparent sapphire filled with light. a mediæval mystic might have likened this chord to the spiritual world. for the lowest region is that of natural life, of plant and bird and beast, and unregenerate man; it is the place of faun and nymph and satyr, the plain where wars are fought and cities built, and work is done. thence we climb to purified humanity, the mountains of purgation, the solitude and simplicity of contemplative life not yet made perfect by freedom from the flesh. higher comes that thin white belt, where are the resting places of angelic feet, the points whence purged souls take their flight toward infinity. above all is heaven, the hierarchies ascending row on row to reach the light of god. this fancy occurred to me as i climbed the slope of the superga, gazing over acacia hedges and poplars to the mountains bare in morning light. the occasional occurrence of bars across this chord--poplars shivering in sun and breeze, stationary cypresses as black as night, and tall campanili with the hot red shafts of glowing brick--adds just enough of composition to the landscape. without too much straining of the allegory, the mystic might have recognised in these aspiring bars the upward effort of souls rooted in the common life of earth. the panorama, unrolling as we ascend, is enough to overpower a lover of beauty. there is nothing equal to it for space and breadth and majesty. monte rosa, the masses of mont blanc blent with the grand paradis, the airy pyramid of monte viso, these are the battlements of that vast alpine rampart, in which the vale of susa opens like a gate. to west and south sweep the maritime alps and the apennines. beneath, glides the infant po; and where he leads our eyes, the plain is only limited by pearly mist. a bronze bust of caligula at turin the albertina bronze is one of the most precious portraits of antiquity, not merely because it confirms the testimony of the green basalt bust in the capitol, but also because it supplies an even more emphatic and impressive illustration to the narrative of suetonius. caligula is here represented as young and singularly beautiful. it is indeed an ideal roman head, with the powerful square modelling, the crisp short hair, low forehead and regular firm features, proper to the noblest roman type. the head is thrown backward from the throat; and there is a something of menace or defiance or suffering in the suggestion of brusque movement given to the sinews of the neck. this attitude, together with the tension of the forehead, and the fixed expression of pain and strain communicated by the lines of the mouth--strong muscles of the upper lip and abruptly chiselled under lip--in relation to the small eyes, deep set beneath their cavernous and level brows, renders the whole face a monument of spiritual anguish. i remember that the green basalt bust of the capitol has the same anxious forehead, the same troubled and overburdened eyes; but the agony of this fretful mouth, comparable to nothing but the mouth of pandolfo sigismondo malatesta, and, like that, on the verge of breaking into the spasms of delirium, is quite peculiar to the albertina bronze. it is just this which the portrait of the capitol lacks for the completion of caligula. the man who could be so represented in art had nothing wholly vulgar in him. the brutality of caracalla, the overblown sensuality of nero, the effeminacy of commodus or heliogabalus, are all absent here. this face idealises the torture of a morbid soul. it is withal so truly beautiful that it might easily be made the poem of high suffering or noble passion. if the bronze were plastic, i see how a great sculptor, by but few strokes, could convert it into an agonising stephen or sebastian. as it is, the unimaginable touch of disease, the unrest of madness, made caligula the genius of insatiable appetite; and his martyrdom was the torment of lust and ennui and everlasting agitation. the accident of empire tantalised him with vain hopes of satisfying the charybdis of his soul's sick cravings. from point to point he passed of empty pleasure and unsatisfying cruelty, for ever hungry; until the malady of his spirit, unrestrained by any limitations, and with the right medium for its development, became unique--the tragic type of pathological desire. what more than all things must have plagued a man with that face was probably the unavoidable meanness of his career. when we study the chapters of suetonius, we are forced to feel that, though the situation and the madness of caligula were dramatically impressive, his crimes were trivial and, small. in spite of the vast scale on which he worked his devilish will, his life presents a total picture of sordid vice, differing only from pot-house dissipation and schoolboy cruelty in point of size. and this of a truth is the nemesis of evil. after a time, mere tyrannous caprice must become commonplace and cloying, tedious to the tyrant, and uninteresting to the student of humanity: nor can i believe that caligula failed to perceive this to his own infinite disgust. suetonius asserts that he was hideously ugly. how are we to square this testimony with the witness of the bronze before us? what changed the face, so beautiful and terrible in youth, to ugliness that shrank from sight in manhood? did the murderers find it blurred in its fine lineaments, furrowed with lines of care, hollowed with the soul's hunger? unless a life of vice and madness had succeeded in making caligula's face what the faces of some maniacs are--the bloated ruin of what was once a living witness to the soul within--i could fancy that death may have sanctified it with even more beauty than this bust of the self-tormented young man shows. have we not all seen the anguish of thought-fretted faces smoothed out by the hands of the deliverer? ferrari at vercelli it is possible that many visitors to the cathedral of como have carried away the memory of stately women with abundant yellow hair and draperies of green and crimson, in a picture they connect thereafter with gaudenzio ferrari. and when they come to milan, they are probably both impressed and disappointed by a martyrdom of s. catherine in the brera, bearing the same artist's name. if they wish to understand this painter, they must seek him at varallo, at saronno, and at vercelli. in the church of s. cristoforo in vercelli, gaudenzio ferrari at the full height of his powers showed what he could do to justify lomazzo's title chosen for him of the eagle. he has indeed the strong wing and the swiftness of the king of birds. and yet the works of few really great painters--and among the really great we place ferrari--leave upon the mind a more distressing sense of imperfection. extraordinary fertility of fancy, vehement dramatic passion, sincere study of nature, and great command of technical resources are here (as elsewhere in ferrari's frescoes) neutralised by an incurable defect of the combining and harmonising faculty, so essential to a masterpiece. there is stuff enough of thought and vigour and imagination to make a dozen artists. and yet we turn away disappointed from the crowded, dazzling, stupefying wilderness of forms and faces on these mighty walls. all that ferrari derived from actual life--the heads of single figures, the powerful movement of men and women in excited action, the monumental pose of two praying nuns--is admirably rendered. his angels too, in s. cristoforo as elsewhere, are quite original; not only in their type of beauty, which is terrestrial and peculiar to ferrari, without a touch of correggio's sensuality; but also in the intensity of their emotion, the realisation of their vitality. those which hover round the cross in the fresco of the 'crucifixion' are as passionate as any angels of the giottesque masters in assisi. those again which crowd the stable of bethlehem in the 'nativity' yield no point of idyllic charm to gozzoli's in the riccardi chapel. the 'crucifixion' and the 'assumption of madonna' are very tall and narrow compositions, audacious in their attempt to fill almost unmanageable space with a connected action. of the two frescoes the 'crucifixion,' which has points of strong similarity to the same subject at varallo, is by far the best. ferrari never painted anything at once truer to life and nobler in tragic style than the fainting virgin. her face expresses the very acme of martyrdom--not exaggerated nor spasmodic, but real and sublime--in the suffering of a stately matron. in points like this ferrari cannot be surpassed. raphael could scarcely have done better; besides, there is an air of sincerity, a stamp of popular truth, in this episode, which lies beyond raphael's sphere. it reminds us rather of tintoretto. after the 'crucifixion,' i place the 'adoration of the magi,' full of fine mundane motives and gorgeous costumes; then the 'sposalizio' (whose marriage, i am not certain), the only grandly composed picture of the series, and marked by noble heads; then the 'adoration of the shepherds,' with two lovely angels holding the bambino. the 'assumption of the magdalen'--for which fresco there is a valuable cartoon in the albertina collection at turin--must have been a fine picture; but it is ruined now. an oil altar-piece in the choir of the same church struck me less than the frescoes. it represents madonna and a crowd of saints under an orchard of apple-trees, with cherubs curiously flung about almost at random in the air. the motive of the orchard is prettily conceived and carried out with spirit. what ferrari possessed was rapidity of movement, fulness and richness of reality, exuberance of invention, excellent portraiture, dramatic vehemence, and an almost unrivalled sympathy with the swift and passionate world of angels. what he lacked was power of composition, simplicity of total effect, harmony in colouring, control over his own luxuriance, the sense of tranquillity. he seems to have sought grandeur in size and multitude, richness, éclat, contrast. being the disciple of lionardo and raphael, his defects are truly singular. as a composer, the old leaven of giovenone remained in him; but he felt the dramatic tendencies of a later age, and in occasional episodes he realised them with a force and _furia_ granted to very few of the italian painters. lanini at vercelli the casa mariano is a palace which belonged to a family of that name. like many houses of the sort in italy, it fell to vile uses; and its hall of audience was turned into a lumber-room. the operai of vercelli, i was told, bought the palace a few years ago, restored the noble hall, and devoted a smaller room to a collection of pictures valuable for students of the early vercellese style of painting. of these there is no need to speak. the great hall is the gem of the casa mariano. it has a coved roof, with a large flat oblong space in the centre of the ceiling. the whole of this vault and the lunettes beneath were painted by lanini; so runs the tradition of the fresco-painter's name; and though much injured by centuries of outrage, and somewhat marred by recent restoration, these frescoes form a precious monument of lombard art. the object of the painter's design seems to have been the glorification of music. in the central compartment of the roof is an assembly of the gods, obviously borrowed from raphael's 'marriage of cupid and psyche' in the farnesina at rome. the fusion of roman composition with lombard execution constitutes the chief charm of this singular work, and makes it, so far as i am aware, unique. single figures of the goddesses, and the whole movement of the scene upon olympus, are transcribed without attempt at concealment. and yet the fresco is not a barefaced copy. the manner of feeling and of execution is quite different from that of raphael's school. the poetry and sentiment are genuinely lombard. none of raphael's pupils could have carried out his design with a delicacy of emotion and a technical skill in colouring so consummate. what, we think, as we gaze upward, would the master have given for such a craftsman? the hardness, coarseness, and animal crudity of the roman school are absent: so also is their vigour. but where the grace of form and colour is so soft and sweet, where the high-bred calm of good company is so sympathetically rendered, where the atmosphere of amorous languor and of melody is so artistically diffused, we cannot miss the powerful modelling and rather vulgar _tours de force_ of giulio romano. the scale of tone is silvery golden. there are no hard blues, no coarse red flesh-tints, no black shadows. mellow lights, the morning hues of primrose, or of palest amber, pervade the whole society. it is a court of gentle and harmonious souls; and though this style of beauty might cloy, at first sight there is something ravishing in those yellow-haired white-limbed, blooming deities. no movement of lascivious grace as in correggio, no perturbation of the senses as in some of the venetians, disturbs the rhythm of their music; nor is the pleasure of the flesh, though felt by the painter and communicated to the spectator, an interruption to their divine calm. the white, saffron-haired goddesses are grouped together like stars seen in the topaz light of evening, like daffodils half smothered in snowdrops, and among them, diana, with the crescent on her forehead, is the fairest. her dream-like beauty need fear no comparison with the diana of the camera di s. paolo. apollo and bacchus are scarcely less lovely in their bloom of earliest manhood; honey-pale, as greeks would say; like statues of living electron; realising simaetha's picture of her lover and his friend: [greek: tois d' ên xanthotera men elichrysoio geneias, stêthea de stilbonta poly pleon ê tu selana.[ ]] it was thus that the almost childlike spirit of the milanese painters felt the antique: how differently from their roman brethren! it was thus that they interpreted the lines of their own poets:-- e i tuoi capei più volte ho somigliati di cerere a le paglie secche o bionde dintorno crespi al tuo capo legati.[ ] yet the painter of this hall--whether we are to call him lanini or another--was not a composer. where he has not robbed the motives and the distribution of the figures from raphael, he has nothing left but grace of detail. the intellectual feebleness of his style may be seen in many figures of women playing upon instruments of music, ranged around the walls. one girl at the organ is graceful; another with a tambourine has a sort of bassarid beauty. but the group of apollo, pegasus, and a muse upon parnassus, is a failure in its meaningless frigidity, while few of these subordinate compositions show power of conception or vigour of design. lanini, like sodoma, was a native of vercelli; and though he was ferrari's pupil, there is more in him of luini or of sodoma than of his master. he does not rise at any point to the height of these three great masters, but he shares some of luini's and sodoma's fine qualities, without having any of ferrari's force. a visit to the mangled remnants of his frescoes in s. caterina will repay the student of art. this was once, apparently, a double church, or a church with the hall and chapel of a _confraternita_ appended to it. one portion of the building was painted with the history of the saint; and very lovely must this work have been, to judge by the fragments which have recently been rescued from whitewash, damp, and ruthless mutilation. what wonderful lombard faces, half obliterated on the broken wall and mouldering plaster, smile upon us like drowned memories swimming up from the depths of oblivion! wherever three or four are grouped together, we find an exquisite little picture--an old woman and two young women in a doorway, for example, telling no story, but touching us with simple harmony of form. nothing further is needed to render their grace intelligible. indeed, knowing the faults of the school, we may seek some consolation by telling ourselves that these incomplete fragments yield lanini's best. in the coved compartments of the roof, above the windows, ran a row of dancing boys; and these are still most beautifully modelled, though the pallor of recent whitewash is upon them. all the boys have blonde hair. they are naked, with scrolls or ribbons wreathed around them, adding to the airiness of their continual dance. some of the loveliest are in a room used to stow away the lumber of the church--old boards and curtains, broken lanterns, candle-ends in tin sconces, the musty apparatus of festival adornments, and in the midst of all a battered, weather-beaten bier. the piazza of piacenza the great feature of piacenza is its famous piazza--romantically, picturesquely perfect square, surpassing the most daring attempts of the scene-painter, and realising a poet's dreams. the space is considerable, and many streets converge upon it at irregular angles. its finest architectural feature is the antique palace of the commune: gothic arcades of stone below, surmounted by a brick building with wonderfully delicate and varied terra-cotta work in the round-arched windows. before this façade, on the marble pavement, prance the bronze equestrian statues of two farnesi--insignificant men, exaggerated horses, flying drapery--as _barocco_ as it is possible to be in style, but so splendidly toned with verdigris, so superb in their _bravura_ attitude, and so happily placed in the line of two streets lending far vistas from the square into the town beyond, that it is difficult to criticise them seriously. they form, indeed, an important element in the pictorial effect, and enhance the terra-cotta work of the façade by the contrast of their colour. the time to see this square is in evening twilight--that wonderful hour after sunset--when the people are strolling on the pavement, polished to a mirror by the pacing of successive centuries, and when the cavalry soldiers group themselves at the angles under the lamp-posts or beneath the dimly lighted gothic arches of the palace. this is the magical mellow hour to be sought by lovers of the picturesque in all the towns of italy, the hour which, by its tender blendings of sallow western lights with glimmering lamps, casts the veil of half shadow over any crudeness and restores the injuries of time; the hour when all the tints of these old buildings are intensified, etherealised, and harmonised by one pervasive glow. when i last saw piacenza, it had been raining all day; and ere sundown a clearing had come from the alps, followed by fresh threatenings of thunderstorms. the air was very liquid. there was a tract of yellow sunset sky to westward, a faint new moon half swathed in mist above, and over all the north a huge towered thundercloud kept flashing distant lightnings. the pallid primrose of the west, forced down and reflected back from that vast bank of tempest, gave unearthly beauty to the hues of church and palace--tender half-tones of violet and russet paling into greys and yellows on what in daylight seemed but dull red brick. even the uncompromising façade of s. francesco helped; and the dukes were like statues of the 'gran commendatore,' waiting for don giovanni's invitation. masolino at castiglione d'olona through the loveliest arcadian scenery of woods and fields and rushing waters the road leads downward from varese to castiglione. the collegiate church stands on a leafy hill above the town, with fair prospect over groves and waterfalls and distant mountains. here in the choir is a series of frescoes by masolino da panicale, the master of masaccio, who painted them about the year . 'masolinus de florentia pinxit' decides their authorship. the histories of the virgin, s. stephen and s. lawrence, are represented: but the injuries of time and neglect have been so great that it is difficult to judge them fairly. all we feel for certain is that masolino had not yet escaped from the traditional giottesque mannerism. only a group of jews stoning stephen, and lawrence before the tribunal, remind us by dramatic energy of the brancacci chapel. the baptistery frescoes, dealing with the legend of s. john, show a remarkable advance; and they are luckily in better preservation. a soldier lifting his two-handed sword to strike off the baptist's head is a vigorous figure, full of florentine realism. also in the baptism in jordan we are reminded of masaccio by an excellent group of bathers--one man taking off his hose, another putting them on again, a third standing naked with his back turned, and a fourth shivering half-dressed with a look of curious sadness on his face. the nude has been carefully studied and well realised. the finest composition of this series is a large panel representing a double action--salome at herod's table begging for the baptist's head, and then presenting it to her mother herodias. the costumes are quattrocento florentine, exactly rendered. salome is a graceful slender creature; the two women who regard her offering to herodias with mingled curiosity and horror, are well conceived. the background consists of a mountain landscape in masaccio's simple manner, a rich renaissance villa, and an open loggia. the architecture perspective is scientifically accurate, and a frieze of boys with garlands on the villa is in the best manner of florentine sculpture. on the mountain side, diminished in scale, is a group of elders, burying the body of s. john. these are massed together and robed in the style of masaccio, and have his virile dignity of form and action. indeed this interesting wall-painting furnishes an epitome of florentine art, in its intentions and achievements, during the first half of the fifteenth century. the colour is strong and brilliant, and the execution solid. the margin of the salome panel has been used for scratching the chronicle of castiglione. i read one date, , several of the next century, the record of a duel between two gentlemen, and many inscriptions to this effect, 'erodiana regina,' 'omnia praetereunt,' &c. a dirty one-eyed fellow keeps the place. in my presence he swept the frescoes over with a scratchy broom, flaying their upper surface in profound unconsciousness of mischief. the armour of the executioner has had its steel colours almost rubbed off by this infernal process. damp and cobwebs are far kinder. the certosa the certosa of pavia leaves upon the mind an impression of bewildering sumptuousness: nowhere else are costly materials so combined with a lavish expenditure of the rarest art. those who have only once been driven round together with the crew of sightseers, can carry little away but the memory of lapis-lazuli and bronze-work, inlaid agates and labyrinthine sculpture, cloisters tenantless in silence, fair painted faces smiling from dark corners on the senseless crowd, trim gardens with rows of pink primroses in spring, and of begonia in autumn, blooming beneath colonnades of glowing terra-cotta. the striking contrast between the gothic of the interior and the renaissance façade, each in its own kind perfect, will also be remembered; and thoughts of the two great houses, visconti and sforza, to whose pride of power it is a monument, may be blended with the recollection of art-treasures alien to their spirit. two great artists, ambrogio borgognone and antonio amadeo, are the presiding genii of the certosa. to minute criticism, based upon the accurate investigation of records and the comparison of styles, must be left the task of separating their work from that of numerous collaborators. but it is none the less certain that the keynote of the whole music is struck by them, amadeo, the master of the colleoni chapel at bergamo, was both sculptor and architect. if the façade of the certosa be not absolutely his creation, he had a hand in the distribution of its masses and the detail of its ornaments. the only fault in this otherwise faultless product of the purest quattrocento inspiration, is that the façade is a frontispiece, with hardly any structural relation to the church it masks: and this, though serious from the point of view of architecture, is no abatement of its sculpturesque and picturesque refinement. at first sight it seems a wilderness of loveliest reliefs and statues--of angel faces, fluttering raiment, flowing hair, love-laden youths, and stationary figures of grave saints, mid wayward tangles of acanthus and wild vine and cupid-laden foliage; but the subordination of these decorative details to the main design, clear, rhythmical, and lucid, like a chaunt of pergolese or stradella, will enrapture one who has the sense for unity evoked from divers elements, for thought subduing all caprices to the harmony of beauty. it is not possible elsewhere in italy to find the instinct of the earlier renaissance, so amorous in its expenditure of rare material, so lavish in its bestowal of the costliest workmanship on ornamental episodes, brought into truer keeping with a pure and simple structural effect. all the great sculptor-architects of lombardy worked in succession on this miracle of beauty; and this may account for the sustained perfection of style, which nowhere suffers from the languor of exhaustion in the artist or from repetition of motives. it remains the triumph of north italian genius, exhibiting qualities of tenderness and self-abandonment to inspiration, which we lack in the severer masterpieces of the tuscan school. to borgognone is assigned the painting of the roof in nave and choir--exceeding rich, varied, and withal in sympathy with stately gothic style. borgognone again is said to have designed the saints and martyrs worked in _tarsia_ for the choir-stalls. his frescoes are in some parts well preserved, as in the lovely little madonna at the end of the south chapel, while the great fresco above the window in the south transept has an historical value that renders it interesting in spite of partial decay. borgognone's oil pictures throughout the church prove, if such proof were needed after inspection of the altar-piece in our national gallery, that he was one of the most powerful and original painters of italy, blending the repose of the earlier masters and their consummate workmanship with a profound sensibility to the finest shades of feeling and the rarest forms of natural beauty. he selected an exquisite type of face for his young men and women; on his old men he bestowed singular gravity and dignity. his saints are a society of strong, pure, restful, earnest souls, in whom the passion of deepest emotion is transfigured by habitual calm. the brown and golden harmonies he loved, are gained without sacrifice of lustre: there is a self-restraint in his colouring which corresponds to the reserve of his emotion; and though a regret sometimes rises in our mind that he should have modelled the light and shade upon his faces with a brusque, unpleasing hardness, their pallor dwells within our memory as something delicately sought if not consummately attained. in a word, borgognone was a true lombard of the best time. the very imperfection of his flesh-painting repeats in colour what the greatest lombard sculptors sought in stone--a sharpness of relief that passes over into angularity. this brusqueness was the counterpoise to tenderness of feeling and intensity of fancy in these northern artists. of all borgognone's pictures in the certosa i should select the altar-piece of s. siro with s. lawrence and s. stephen and two fathers of the church, for its fusion of this master's qualities. the certosa is a wilderness of lovely workmanship. from borgognone's majesty we pass into the quiet region of luini's christian grace, or mark the influence of lionardo on that rare assumption of madonna by his pupil, andrea solari. like everything touched by the lionardesque spirit, this great picture was left unfinished: yet northern italy has nothing finer to show than the landscape, outspread in its immeasurable purity of calm, behind the grouped apostles and the ascendant mother of heaven. the feeling of that happy region between the alps and lombardy, where there are many waters--_et tacitos sine labe laous sine murmure rivos_--and where the last spurs of the mountains sink in undulations to the plain, has passed into this azure vista, just as all umbria is suggested in a twilight background of young raphael or perugino. the portraits of the dukes of milan and their families carry us into a very different realm of feeling. medallions above the doors of sacristy and chancel, stately figures reared aloft beneath gigantic canopies, men and women slumbering with folded hands upon their marble biers--we read in all those sculptured forms a strange record of human restlessness, resolved into the quiet of the tomb. the iniquities of gian galeazzo visconti, _il gran biscione_, the blood-thirst of gian maria, the dark designs of filippo and his secret vices, francesco sforza's treason, galeazzo maria's vanities and lusts; their tyrants' dread of thunder and the knife; their awful deaths by pestilence and the assassin's poignard; their selfishness, oppression, cruelty and fraud; the murders of their kinsmen; their labyrinthine plots and acts of broken faith;--all is tranquil now, and we can say to each what bosola found for the duchess of malfi ere her execution:-- much you had of land and rent; your length in clay's now competent: a long war disturbed your mind; here your perfect peace is signed! some of these faces are commonplace, with _bourgeois_ cunning written on the heavy features; one is bluff, another stolid, a third bloated, a fourth stately. the sculptors have dealt fairly with all, and not one has the lineaments of utter baseness. to cristoforo solari's statues of lodovico sforza and his wife, beatrice d'este, the palm of excellence in art and of historical interest must be awarded. sculpture has rarely been more dignified and true to life than here. the woman with her short clustering curls, the man with his strong face, are resting after that long fever which brought woe to italy, to europe a new age, and to the boasted minion of fortune a slow death in the prison palace of loches. attired in ducal robes, they lie in state; and the sculptor has carved the lashes on their eyelids, heavy with death's marmoreal sleep. he at least has passed no judgment on their crimes. let us too bow and leave their memories to the historian's pen, their spirits to god's mercy. after all wanderings in this temple of art, we return to antonio amadeo, to his long-haired seraphs playing on the lutes of paradise, to his angels of the passion with their fluttering robes and arms outspread in agony, to his saints and satyrs mingled on pilasters of the marble doorways, his delicate _lavabo_ decorations, and his hymns of piety expressed in noble forms of weeping women and dead christs. wherever we may pass, this master-spirit of the lombard style enthralls attention. his curious treatment of drapery as though it ¦were made of crumpled paper, and his trick of enhancing relief by sharp angles and attenuated limbs, do not detract from his peculiar charm. that is his way, very different from donatello's, of attaining to the maximum of life and lightness in the stubborn vehicle of stone. nor do all the riches of the choir--those multitudes of singing angels, those ascensions and assumptions, and innumerable basreliefs of gleaming marble moulded into softest wax by mastery of art--distract our eyes from the single round medallion, not larger than a common plate, inscribed by him upon the front of the high altar. perhaps, if one who loved amadeo were bidden to point out his masterpiece, he would lead the way at once to this. the space is small: yet it includes the whole tragedy of the passion. christ is lying dead among the women on his mother's lap, and there are pitying angels in the air above. one woman lifts his arm, another makes her breast a pillow for his head. their agony is hushed, but felt in every limb and feature; and the extremity of suffering is seen in each articulation of the worn and wounded form just taken from the cross. it would be too painful, were not the harmony of art so rare, the interlacing of those many figures in a simple round so exquisite. the noblest tranquillity and the most passionate emotion are here fused in a manner of adorable naturalness. from the church it is delightful to escape into the cloisters, flooded with sunlight, where the swallows skim, and the brown hawks circle, and the mason bees are at work upon their cells among the carvings. the arcades of the two cloisters are the final triumph of lombard terra-cotta. the memory fails before such infinite invention, such facility and felicity of execution. wreaths of cupids gliding round the arches among grape-bunches and bird-haunted foliage of vine; rows of angels, like rising and setting planets, some smiling and some grave, ascending and descending by the gothic curves; saints stationary on their pedestals, and faces leaning from the rounds above; crowds of cherubs, and courses of stars, and acanthus leaves in woven lines, and ribands incessantly inscribed with ave maria! then, over all, the rich red light and purple shadows of the brick, than which no substance sympathises more completely with the sky of solid blue above, the broad plain space of waving summer grass beneath our feet. it is now late afternoon, and when evening comes, the train will take us back to milan. there is yet a little while to rest tired eyes and strained spirits among the willows and the poplars by the monastery wall. through that grey-green leafage, young with early spring, the pinnacles of the certosa leap like flames into the sky. the rice-fields are under water, far and wide, shining like burnished gold beneath the level light now near to sun-down. frogs are croaking; those persistent frogs, whom the muses have ordained to sing for aye, in spite of bion and all tuneful poets dead. we sit and watch the water-snakes, the busy rats, the hundred creatures swarming in the fat well-watered soil. nightingales here and there, new-comers, tune their timid april song: but, strangest of all sounds in such a place, my comrade from the grisons jodels forth an alpine cowherd's melody. _auf den alpen droben ist ein herrliches leben!_ did the echoes of gian galeazzo's convent ever wake to such a tune as this before? san maurizio the student of art in italy, after mastering the characters of different styles and epochs, finds a final satisfaction in the contemplation of buildings designed and decorated by one master, or by groups of artists interpreting the spirit of a single period. such supreme monuments of the national genius are not very common, and they are therefore the more precious. giotto's chapel at padua; the villa farnesina at rome, built by peruzzi and painted in fresco by raphael and sodoma; the palazzo del te at mantua, giulio romano's masterpiece; the scuola di san rocco, illustrating the venetian renaissance at its climax, might be cited among the most splendid of these achievements. in the church of the monastero maggiore at milan, dedicated to s. maurizio, lombard architecture and fresco-painting may be studied in this rare combination. the monastery itself, one of the oldest in milan, formed a retreat for cloistered virgins following the rule of s. benedict. it may have been founded as early as the tenth century; but its church was rebuilt in the first two decades of the sixteenth, between and , and was immediately afterwards decorated with frescoes by luini and his pupils. gian giacomo dolcebono, architect and sculptor, called by his fellow-craftsmen _magistro di taliare pietre_, gave the design, at once simple and harmonious, which was carried out with hardly any deviation from his plan. the church is a long parallelogram, divided into two unequal portions, the first and smaller for the public, the second for the nuns. the walls are pierced with rounded and pilastered windows, ten on each side, four of which belong to the outer and six to the inner section. the dividing wall or septum rises to the point from which the groinings of the roof spring; and round three sides of the whole building, north, east, and south, runs a gallery for the use of the convent. the altars of the inner and outer church are placed against the septum, back to back, with certain differences of structure that need not be described. simple and severe, s. maurizio owes its architectural beauty wholly and entirely to purity of line and perfection of proportion. there is a prevailing spirit of repose, a sense of space, fair, lightsome, and adapted to serene moods of the meditative fancy in this building, which is singularly at variance with the religious mysticism and imaginative grandeur of a gothic edifice. the principal beauty of the church, however, is its tone of colour. every square inch is covered with fresco or rich woodwork, mellowed by time into that harmony of tints which blends the work of greater and lesser artists in one golden hue of brown. round the arcades of the convent-loggia run delicate arabesques with faces of fair female saints--catherine, agnes, lucy, agatha,--gem-like or star-like, gazing from their gallery upon the church below. the luinesque smile is on their lips and in their eyes, quiet, refined, as though the emblems of their martyrdom brought back no thought of pain to break the paradise of rest in which they dwell. there are twenty-six in all, a sisterhood of stainless souls, the lilies of love's garden planted round christ's throne. soldier saints are mingled with them in still smaller rounds above the windows, chosen to illustrate the virtues of an order which renounced the world. to decide whose hand produced these masterpieces of lombard suavity and grace, or whether more than one, would not be easy. near the altar we can perhaps trace the style of bartolommeo suardi in an annunciation painted on the spandrils--that heroic style, large and noble, known to us by the chivalrous s. martin and the glorified madonna of the brera frescoes. it is not impossible that the male saints of the loggia may be also his, though a tenderer touch, a something more nearly lionardesque in its quietude, must be discerned in lucy and her sisters. the whole of the altar in this inner church belongs to luini. were it not for darkness and decay, we should pronounce this series of the passion in nine great compositions, with saints and martyrs and torch-bearing genii, to be one of his most ambitious and successful efforts. as it is, we can but judge in part; the adolescent beauty of sebastian, the grave compassion of s. rocco, the classical perfection of the cupid with lighted tapers, the gracious majesty of women smiling on us sideways from their lombard eyelids--these remain to haunt our memory, emerging from the shadows of the vault above. the inner church, as is fitting, excludes all worldly elements. we are in the presence of christ's agony, relieved and tempered by the sunlight of those beauteous female faces. all is solemn here, still as the convent, pure as the meditations of a novice. we pass the septum, and find ourselves in the outer church appropriated to the laity. above the high altar the whole wall is covered with luini's loveliest work, in excellent light and far from ill preserved. the space divides into eight compartments. a pietà, an assumption, saints and founders of the church, group themselves under the influence of luini's harmonising colour into one symphonious whole. but the places of distinction are reserved for two great benefactors of the convent, alessandro de' bentivogli and his wife, ippolita sforza. when the bentivogli were expelled from bologna by the papal forces, alessandro settled at milan, where he dwelt, honoured by the sforzas and allied to them by marriage, till his death in . he was buried in the monastery by the side of his sister alessandra, a nun of the order. luini has painted the illustrious exile in his habit as he lived. he is kneeling, as though in ever-during adoration of the altar mystery, attired in a long black senatorial robe trimmed with furs. in his left hand he holds a book; and above his pale, serenely noble face is a little black berretta. saints attend him, as though attesting to his act of faith. opposite kneels ippolita, his wife, the brilliant queen of fashion, the witty leader of society, to whom bandello dedicated his novelle, and whom he praised as both incomparably beautiful and singularly learned. her queenly form is clothed from head to foot in white brocade, slashed and trimmed with gold lace, and on her forehead is a golden circlet. she has the proud port of a princess, the beauty of a woman past her prime but stately, the indescribable dignity of attitude which no one but luini could have rendered so majestically sweet. in her hand is a book; and she, like alessandro, has her saintly sponsors, agnes and catherine and s. scolastica. few pictures bring the splendid milanese court so vividly before us as these portraits of the bentivogli: they are, moreover, very precious for the light they throw on what luini could achieve in the secular style so rarely touched by him. great, however, as are these frescoes, they are far surpassed both in value and interest by his paintings in the side chapel of s. catherine. here more than anywhere else, more even than at saronno or lugano, do we feel the true distinction of luini--his unrivalled excellence as a colourist, his power over pathos, the refinement of his feeling, and the peculiar beauty of his favourite types. the chapel was decorated at the expense of a milanese advocate, francesco besozzi, who died in . it is he who is kneeling, grey-haired and bareheaded, under the protection of s. catherine of alexandria, intently gazing at christ unbound from the scourging pillar. on the other side stand s. lawrence and s. stephen, pointing to the christ and looking at us, as though their lips were framed to say: 'behold and see if there be any sorrow like unto his sorrow.' even the soldiers who have done their cruel work, seem softened. they untie the cords tenderly, and support the fainting form, too weak to stand alone. what sadness in the lovely faces of s. catherine and lawrence! what divine anguish in the loosened limbs and bending body of christ; what piety in the adoring old man! all the moods proper to this supreme tragedy of the faith are touched as in some tenor song with low accompaniment of viols; for it was luini's special province to feel profoundly and to express musically. the very depth of the passion is there; and yet there is no discord. just in proportion to this unique faculty for yielding a melodious representation of the most intense moments of stationary emotion, was his inability to deal with a dramatic subject. the first episode of s. catherine's execution, when the wheel was broken and the executioners struck by lightning, is painted in this chapel without energy and with a lack of composition that betrays the master's indifference to his subject. far different is the second episode when catherine is about to be beheaded. the executioner has raised his sword to strike. she, robed in brocade of black and gold, so cut as to display the curve of neck and back, while the bosom is covered, leans her head above her praying hands, and waits the blow in sweetest resignation. two soldiers stand at some distance in a landscape of hill and meadow; and far up are seen the angels carrying her body to its tomb upon mount sinai. i cannot find words or summon courage to describe the beauty of this picture; its atmosphere of holy peace, the dignity of its composition, the golden richness of its colouring. the most tragic situation has here again been alchemised by luini's magic into a pure idyll, without the loss of power, without the sacrifice of edification. s. catherine in this incomparable fresco is a portrait, the history of which so strikingly illustrates the relation of the arts to religion on the one hand, and to life on the other, in the age of the renaissance, that it cannot be omitted. at the end of his fourth novella, having related the life of the contessa di cellant, bandello says: 'and so the poor woman was beheaded; such was the end of her unbridled desires; and he who would fain see her painted to the life, let him go to the church of the monistero maggiore, and there will he behold her portrait.' the contessa di cellant was the only child of a rich usurer who lived at casal monferrato. her mother was a greek; and she was a girl of such exquisite beauty, that, in spite of her low origin, she became the wife of the noble ermes visconti in her sixteenth year. he took her to live with him at milan, where she frequented the house of the bentivogli, but none other. her husband told bandello that he knew her temper better than to let her visit with the freedom of the milanese ladies. upon his death, while she was little more than twenty, she retired to casale and led a gay life among many lovers. one of these, the count of cellant in the val d'aosta, became her second husband, conquered by her extraordinary loveliness. they could not, however, agree together. she left him, and established herself at pavia. rich with her father's wealth and still of most seductive beauty, she now abandoned herself to a life of profligacy. three among her lovers must be named: ardizzino valperga, count of masino; roberto sanseverino, of the princely naples family; and don pietro di cardona, a sicilian. with each of the two first she quarrelled, and separately besought each to murder the other. they were friends and frustrated her plans by communicating them to one another. the third loved her with the insane passion of a very young man. what she desired, he promised to do blindly; and she bade him murder his two predecessors in her favour. at this time she was living at milan, where the duke of bourbon was acting as viceroy for the emperor. don pietro took twenty-five armed men of his household, and waylaid the count of masino, as he was returning with his brother and eight or nine servants, late one night from supper. both the brothers and the greater part of their suite were killed: but don pietro was caught. he revealed the atrocity of his mistress; and she was sent to prison. incapable of proving her innocence, and prevented from escaping, in spite of , golden crowns with which she hoped to bribe her jailors, she was finally beheaded. thus did a vulgar and infamous messalina, distinguished only by rare beauty, furnish luini with a s. catherine for this masterpiece of pious art! the thing seems scarcely credible. yet bandello lived in milan while the church of s. maurizio was being painted; nor does he show the slightest sign of disgust at the discord between the contessa's life and her artistic presentation in the person of a royal martyr. a humanist's monument in the sculpture gallery of the brera is preserved a fair white marble tomb, carved by that excellent lombard sculptor, agostino busti. the epitaph runs as follows:-- en virtutem mortis nesciam. vivet lancinus curtius sæcula per omnia quascunque lustrans oras, tantum possunt camoenæ. 'look here on virtue that knows nought of death! lancinus curtius shall live through all the centuries, and visit every shore of earth. such power have the muses.' the timeworn poet reclines, as though sleeping or resting, ready to be waked; his head is covered with flowing hair, and crowned with laurel; it leans upon his left hand. on either side of his couch stand cupids or genii with torches turned to earth. above is a group of the three graces, flanked by winged pegasi. higher up are throned two victories with palms, and at the top a naked fame. we need not ask who was lancinus curtius. he is forgotten, and his virtue has not saved him from oblivion; though he strove in his lifetime, _pro virili parte_, for the palm that busti carved upon his grave. yet his monument teaches in short compass a deep lesson; and his epitaph sums up the dream which lured the men of italy in the renaissance to their doom. we see before us sculptured in this marble the ideal of the humanistic poet-scholar's life: love, grace, the muse, and nakedness, and glory. there is not a single intrusive thought derived from christianity. the end for which the man lived was pagan. his hope was earthly fame. yet his name survives, if this indeed be a survival, not in those winged verses which were to carry him abroad across the earth, but in the marble of a cunning craftsman, scanned now and then by a wandering scholar's eye in the half-darkness of a vault. the monument of gaston de foix in the brera the hero of ravenna lies stretched upon his back in the hollow of a bier covered with laced drapery; and his head rests on richly ornamented cushions. these decorative accessories, together with the minute work of his scabbard, wrought in the fanciful mannerism of the _cinquecento_, serve to enhance the statuesque simplicity of the young soldier's effigy. the contrast between so much of richness in the merely subordinate details, and this sublime severity of treatment in the person of the hero, is truly and touchingly dramatic. there is a smile as of content in death, upon his face; and the features are exceedingly beautiful--with the beauty of a boy, almost of a woman. the heavy hair is cut straight above the forehead and straight over the shoulders, falling in massive clusters. a delicately sculptured laurel branch is woven into a victor's crown, and laid lightly on the tresses it scarcely seems to clasp. so fragile is this wreath that it does not break the pure outline of the boy-conqueror's head. the armour is quite plain. so is the surcoat. upon the swelling bust, that seems fit harbour for a hero's heart, there lies the collar of an order composed of cockle-shells; and this is all the ornament given to the figure. the hands are clasped across a sword laid flat upon the breast, and placed between the legs. upon the chin is a little tuft of hair, parted, and curling either way; for the victor of ravenna, like the hermes of homer, was [greek: prôton hypênêtês], 'a youth of princely blood, whose beard hath just begun to grow, for whom the season of bloom is in its prime of grace.' the whole statue is the idealisation of _virtù_--that quality so highly prized by the italians and the ancients, so well fitted for commemoration in the arts. it is the apotheosis of human life resolved into undying memory because of one great deed. it is the supreme portrait in modern times of a young hero, chiselled by artists belonging to a race no longer heroic, but capable of comprehending and expressing the æsthetic charm of heroism. standing before it, we may say of gaston what arrian wrote to hadrian of achilles:--'that he was a hero, if hero ever lived, i cannot doubt; for his birth and blood were noble, and he was beautiful, and his spirit was mighty, and he passed in youth's prime away from men.' italian sculpture, under the condition of the _cinquecento_, had indeed no more congenial theme than this of bravery and beauty, youth and fame, immortal honour and untimely death; nor could any sculptor of death have poetised the theme more thoroughly than agostino busti, whose simple instinct, unlike that of michelangelo, led him to subordinate his own imagination to the pathos of reality. saronno the church of saronno is a pretty building with a bramantesque cupola, standing among meadows at some distance from the little town. it is the object of a special cult, which draws pilgrims from the neighbouring country-side; but the concourse is not large enough to load the sanctuary with unnecessary wealth. everything is very quiet in the holy place, and the offerings of the pious seem to have been only just enough to keep the building and its treasures of art in repair. the church consists of a nave, a central cupola, a vestibule leading to the choir, the choir itself, and a small tribune behind the choir. no other single building in north italy can boast so much that is first-rate of the work of luini and gandenzio ferrari. the cupola is raised on a sort of drum composed of twelve pieces, perforated with round windows and supported on four massive piers. on the level of the eye are frescoes by luini of s. rocco, s. sebastian, s. christopher, and s. antony--by no means in his best style, and inferior to all his other paintings in this church. the sebastian, for example, shows an effort to vary the traditional treatment of this saint. he is tied in a sprawling attitude to a tree; and little of luini's special pathos or sense of beauty--the melody of idyllic grace made spiritual--appears in him. these four saints are on the piers. above are frescoes from the early bible history by lanini, painted in continuation of ferrari's medallions from the story of adam expelled from paradise, which fill the space beneath the cupola, leading the eye upward to ferrari's masterpiece. the dome itself is crowded with a host of angels singing and playing upon instruments of music. at each of the twelve angles of the drum stands a coryphæus of this celestial choir, full length, with waving drapery. higher up, the golden-haired, broad-winged, divine creatures are massed together, filling every square inch of the vault with colour. yet there is no confusion. the simplicity of the selected motive and the necessities of the place acted like a check on ferrari, who, in spite of his dramatic impulse, could not tell a story coherently or fill a canvas with harmonised variety. there is no trace of his violence here. though the motion of music runs through the whole multitude like a breeze, though the joy expressed is a real _tripudio celeste_, not one of all these angels flings his arms abroad or makes a movement that disturbs the rhythm. we feel that they are keeping time and resting quietly, each in his appointed seat, as though the sphere was circling with them round the throne of god, who is their centre and their source of gladness. unlike correggio and his imitators, ferrari has introduced no clouds, and has in no case made the legs of his angels prominent. it is a mass of noble faces and voluminously robed figures, emerging each above the other like flowers in a vase. bach too has specific character, while all are robust and full of life, intent upon the service set them. their instruments of music are all the lutes and viols, flutes, cymbals, drums, fifes, citherns, organs, and harps that ferrari's day could show. the scale of colour, as usual with ferrari, is a little heavy; nor are the tints satisfactorily harmonised. but the vigour and invention of the whole work would atone for minor defects of far greater consequence. it is natural, beneath this dome, to turn aside and think one moment of correggio at parma. before the _macchinisti_ of the seventeenth century had vulgarised the motive, correggio's bold attempt to paint heaven in flight from earth--earth left behind in the persons of the apostles standing round the empty tomb, heaven soaring upward with a spiral vortex into the abyss of light above--had an originality which set at nought all criticism. there is such ecstasy of jubilation, such rapturous rapidity of flight, that we who strain our eyes from below, feel we are in the darkness of the grave which mary left. a kind of controlling rhythm for the composition is gained by placing gabriel, madonna, and christ at three points in the swirl of angels. nevertheless, composition--the presiding all-controlling intellect--is just what makes itself felt by absence; and correggio's special qualities of light and colour have now so far vanished from the cupola of the duomo that the, constructive poverty is not disguised. here if anywhere in painting, we may apply goethe's words--_gefühl ist alles._ if then we return to ferrari's angels at saronno, we find that the painter of varallo chose a safer though a far more modest theme. nor did he expose himself to that most cruel of all degradations which the ethereal genius of correggio has suffered from incompetent imitators. to daub a tawdry and superficial reproduction of those parmese frescoes, to fill the cupolas of italy with veritable _guazzetti di rane_, was comparatively easy; and between our intelligence and what remains of that stupendous masterpiece of boldness, crowd a thousand memories of such ineptitude. on the other hand, nothing but solid work and conscientious inspiration could enable any workman, however able, to follow ferrari in the path struck out by him at saronno. his cupola has had no imitator; and its only rival is the noble pendant painted at varallo by his own hand, of angels in adoring anguish round the cross. in the ante-choir of the sanctuary are luini's priceless frescoes of the 'marriage of the virgin,' and the 'dispute with the doctors.'[ ] their execution is flawless, and they are perfectly preserved. if criticism before such admirable examples of so excellent a master be permissible, it may be questioned whether the figures are not too crowded, whether the groups are sufficiently varied and connected by rhythmic lines. yet the concords of yellow and orange with blue in the 'sposalizio,' and the blendings of dull violet and red in the 'disputa,' make up for much of stiffness. here, as in the chapel of s. catherine at milan, we feel that luini was the greatest colourist among _frescanti._ in the 'sposalizio' the female heads are singularly noble and idyllically graceful. some of the young men too have luini's special grace and abundance of golden hair. in the 'disputa' the gravity and dignity of old men are above all things striking. passing into the choir, we find on either hand the 'adoration of the magi' and the 'purification of the virgin,' two of luini's divinest frescoes. above them in lunettes are four evangelists and four latin fathers, with four sibyls. time and neglect have done no damage here: and here, again, perforce we notice perfect mastery of colour in fresco. the blues detach themselves too much, perhaps, from the rest of the colouring; and that is all a devil's advocate could say. it is possible that the absence of blue makes the s. catherine frescoes in the monastero maggiore at milan surpass all other works of luini. but nowhere else has he shown more beauty and variety in detail than here. the group of women led by joseph, the shepherd carrying the lamb upon his shoulder, the girl with a basket of white doves, the child with an apple on the altar-steps, the lovely youth in the foreground heedless of the scene; all these are idyllic incidents treated with the purest, the serenest, the most spontaneous, the truest, most instinctive sense of beauty. the landscape includes a view of saronno, and an episodical picture of the 'flight into egypt' where a white-robed angel leads the way. all these lovely things are in the 'purification,' which is dated _bernardinus lovinus pinxit_, mdxxv. the fresco of the 'magi' is less notable in detail, and in general effect is more spoiled by obtrusive blues. there is, however, one young man of wholly lionardesque loveliness, whose divine innocence of adolescence, unalloyed by serious thought, unstirred by passions, almost forces a comparison with sodoma. the only painter who approaches luini in what may be called the lombard, to distinguish it from the venetian idyll, is sodoma; and the work of his which comes nearest to luini's masterpieces is the legend of s. benedict, at monte oliveto, near siena. yet sodoma had not all luini's innocence or _naïveté._ if he added something slightly humorous which has an indefinite charm, he lacked that freshness as of 'cool, meek-blooded flowers' and boyish voices, which fascinates us in luini. sodoma was closer to the earth, and feared not to impregnate what he saw of beauty with the fiercer passions of his nature. if luini had felt passion, who shall say? it appears nowhere in his work, where life is toned to a religious joyousness. when shelley compared the poetry of the theocritean amourists to the perfume of the tuberose, and that of the earlier greek poets to 'a meadow-gale of june, which mingles the fragrance of all the flowers of the field,' he supplied us with critical images which may not unfairly be used to point the distinction between sodoma at monte oliveto and luini at saronno. the castello of ferrara is it possible that the patron saints of cities should mould the temper of the people to their own likeness? s. george, the chivalrous, is champion of ferrara. his is the marble group above the cathedral porch, so feudal in its medieval pomp. he and s. michael are painted in fresco over the south portcullis of the castle. his lustrous armour gleams with giorgionesque brilliancy from dossi's masterpiece in the pinacoteca. that ferrara, the only place in italy where chivalry struck any root, should have had s. george for patron, is at any rate significant. the best preserved relic of princely feudal life in italy is this castello of the este family, with its sombre moat, chained drawbridges, doleful dungeons, and unnumbered tragedies, each one of which may be compared with parisina's history. i do not want to dwell on these things now. it is enough to remember the castello, built of ruddiest brick, time-mellowed with how many centuries of sun and soft sea-air, as it appeared upon the close of one tempestuous day. just before evening the rain-clouds parted and the sun flamed out across the misty lombard plain. the castello burned like a hero's funeral pyre, and round its high-built turrets swallows circled in the warm blue air. on the moat slept shadows, mixed with flowers of sunset, tossed from pinnacle and gable. then the sky changed. a roof of thunder-cloud spread overhead with the rapidity of tempest. the dying sun gathered his last strength against it, fretting those steel-blue arches with crimson; and all the fierce light, thrown from vault to vault of cloud, was reflected back as from a shield, and cast in blots and patches on the buildings. the castle towered up rosy-red and shadowy sombre, enshrined, embosomed in those purple clouds; and momently ran lightning forks like rapiers through the growing mass. everything around, meanwhile, was quiet in the grass-grown streets. the only sound was a high, clear boy's voice chanting an opera tune. petrarch's tomb at arqua the drive from este along the skirts of the euganean hills to arqua takes one through a country which is tenderly beautiful, because of its contrast between little peaked mountains and the plain. it is not a grand landscape. it lacks all that makes the skirts of alps and apennines sublime. its charm is a certain mystery and repose--an undefined sense of the neighbouring adriatic, a pervading consciousness of venice unseen, but felt from far away. from the terraces of arqua the eye ranges across olive-trees, laurels, and pomegranates on the southern slopes, to the misty level land that melts into the sea, with churches and tall campanili like gigantic galleys setting sail for fairyland over 'the foam of perilous seas forlorn.' let a blue-black shadow from a thunder-cloud be cast upon this plain, and let one ray of sunlight strike a solitary bell-tower;--it burns with palest flame of rose against the steely dark, and in its slender shaft and shell-like tint of pink all venice is foreseen. the village church of arqua stands upon one of these terraces, with a full stream of clearest water flowing by. on the little square before the church-door, where the peasants congregate at mass-time--open to the skies with all their stars and storms, girdled by the hills, and within hearing of the vocal stream--is petrarch's sepulchre. fit resting-place for what remains to earth of such a poet's clay! it is as though archangels, flying, had carried the marble chest and set it down here on the hillside, to be a sign and sanctuary for after-men. a simple rectilinear coffin, of smooth verona _mandorlato_, raised on four thick columns, and closed by a heavy cippus-cover. without emblems, allegories, or lamenting genii, this tomb of the great poet, the great awakener of europe from mental lethargy, encircled by the hills, beneath the canopy of heaven, is impressive beyond the power of words. bending here, we feel that petrarch's own winged thoughts and fancies, eternal and aërial, 'forms more real than living man, nurslings of immortality,' have congregated to be the ever-ministering and irremovable attendants on the shrine of one who, while he lived, was purest spirit in a veil of flesh. on a mountain milan is shining in sunset on those purple fields; and a score of cities flash back the last red light, which shows each inequality and undulation of lombardy outspread four thousand feet beneath. both ranges, alps and apennines, are clear to view; and all the silvery lakes are over-canopied and brought into one picture by flame-litten mists. monte rosa lifts her crown of peaks above a belt of clouds into light of living fire. the mischabelhörner and the dom rest stationary angel-wings upon the rampart, which at this moment is the wall of heaven. the pyramid of distant monte viso burns like solid amethyst far, far away. mont cervin beckons to his brother, the gigantic finsteraarhorn, across tracts of liquid ether. bells are rising from the villages, now wrapped in gloom, between me and the glimmering lake. a hush of evening silence falls upon the ridges, cliffs, and forests of this billowy hill, ascending into wave-like crests, and toppling with awful chasms over the dark waters of lugano. it is good to be alone here at this hour. yet i must rise and go--passing through meadows, where white lilies sleep in silvery drifts, and asphodel is pale with spires of faintest rose, and narcissus dreams of his own beauty, loading the air with fragrance sweet as some love-music of mozart. these fields want only the white figure of persephone to make them poems: and in this twilight one might fancy that the queen had left her throne by pluto's side, to mourn for her dead youth among the flowers uplifted between earth and heaven. nay, they are poems now, these fields; with that unchanging background of history, romance, and human life--the lombard plain, against whose violet breadth the blossoms bend their faint heads to the evening air. downward we hurry, on pathways where the beeches meet, by silent farms, by meadows honey-scented, deep in dew. the columbine stands tall and still on those green slopes of shadowy grass. the nightingale sings now, and now is hushed again. streams murmur through the darkness, where the growth of trees, heavy with honeysuckle and wild rose, is thickest. fireflies begin to flit above the growing corn. at last the plain is reached, and all the skies are tremulous with starlight. alas, that we should vibrate so obscurely to these harmonies of earth and heaven! the inner finer sense of them seems somehow unattainable--that spiritual touch of soul evoking soul from nature, which should transfigure our dull mood of self into impersonal delight. man needs to be a mytho-poet at some moments, or, better still, to be a mystic steeped through half-unconsciousness in the vast wonder of the world. gold and untouched to poetry or piety by scenes that ought to blend the spirit in ourselves with spirit in the world without, we can but wonder how this phantom show of mystery and beauty will pass away from us--how soon--and we be where, see what, use all our sensibilities on aught or nought? sic genius in the picture-gallery at modena there is a masterpiece of dosso dossi. the frame is old and richly carved; and the painting, bordered by its beautiful dull gold, shines with the lustre of an emerald. in his happy moods dosso set colour upon canvas, as no other painter out of venice ever did; and here he is at his happiest. the picture is the portrait of a jester, dressed in courtly clothes and with a feathered cap upon his head. he holds a lamb in his arms, and carries the legend, _sic genius_. behind him is a landscape of exquisite brilliancy and depth. his face is young and handsome. dosso has made it one most wonderful laugh. even so perhaps laughed yorick. nowhere else have i seen a laugh thus painted: not violent, not loud, although the lips are opened to show teeth of dazzling whiteness;--but fine and delicate, playing over the whole face like a ripple sent up from the depths of the soul within. who was he? what does the lamb mean? how should the legend be interpreted? we cannot answer these questions. he may have been the court-fool of ferrara; and his genius, the spiritual essence of the man, may have inclined him to laugh at all things. that at least is the value he now has for us. he is the portrait of perpetual irony, the spirit of the golden sixteenth century which delicately laughed at the whole world of thoughts and things, the quintessence of the poetry of ariosto, the wit of berni, all condensed into one incarnation and immortalised by truthfullest art. with the gaul, the spaniard, and the german at her gates, and in her cities, and encamped upon her fields, italy still laughed; and when the voice of conscience sounding through savonarola asked her why, she only smiled--_sic genius_. one evening in may we rowed from venice to torcello, and at sunset broke bread and drank wine together among the rank grasses just outside that ancient church. it was pleasant to sit in the so-called chair of attila and feel the placid stillness of the place. then there came lounging by a sturdy young fellow in brown country clothes, with a marvellous old wide-awake upon his head, and across his shoulders a bunch of massive church-keys. in strange contrast to his uncouth garb he flirted a pink japanese fan, gracefully disposing it to cool his sunburned olive cheeks. this made us look at him. he was not ugly. nay, there was something of attractive in his face--the smooth-curved chin, the shrewd yet sleepy eyes, and finely cut thin lips--a curious mixture of audacity and meekness blent upon his features. yet this impression was but the prelude to his smile. when that first dawned, some breath of humour seeming to stir in him unbidden, the true meaning was given to his face. each feature helped to make a smile that was the very soul's life of the man expressed. i broadened, showing brilliant teeth, and grew into a noiseless laugh; and then i saw before me dosso's jester, the type of shakspere's fools, the life of that wild irony, now rude, now fine, which once delighted courts. the laughter of the whole world and of all the centuries was silent in his face. what he said need not be repeated. the charm was less in his words than in his personality; for momus-philosophy lay deep in every look and gesture of the man. the place lent itself to irony: parties of americans and english parsons, the former agape for any rubbishy old things, the latter learned in the lore of obsolete church-furniture, had thronged torcello; and now they were all gone, and the sun had set behind the alps, while an irreverent stranger drank his wine in attila's chair, and nature's jester smiled--_sic genius_. when i slept that night i dreamed of an altar-piece in the temple of folly. the goddess sat enthroned beneath a canopy hung with bells and corals. on her lap was a beautiful winged smiling genius, who flourished two bright torches. on her left hand stood the man of modena with his white lamb, a new s. john. on her right stood the man of torcello with his keys, a new s. peter. both were laughing after their all-absorbent, divine, noiseless fashion; and under both was written, _sic genius_. are not all things, even profanity, permissible in dreams? * * * * * como and il medeghino to which of the italian lakes should the palm of beauty be accorded? this question may not unfrequently have moved the idle minds of travellers, wandering through that loveliest region from orta to garda--from little orta, with her gemlike island, rosy granite crags, and chestnut-covered swards above the colma; to garda, bluest of all waters, surveyed in majestic length from desenzano or poetic sirmione, a silvery sleeping haze of hill and cloud and heaven and clear waves bathed in modulated azure. and between these extreme points what varied lovelinesses lie in broad maggiore, winding como, varese with the laughing face upturned to heaven, lugano overshadowed by the crested crags of monte generoso, and iseo far withdrawn among the rocky alps! he who loves immense space, cloud shadows slowly sailing over purple slopes, island gardens, distant glimpses of snow-capped mountains, breadth, air, immensity, and flooding sunlight, will choose maggiore. but scarcely has he cast his vote for this, the juno of the divine rivals, when he remembers the triple lovelinesses of the larian aphrodite, disclosed in all their placid grace from villa serbelloni;--the green blue of the waters, clear as glass, opaque through depth; the _millefleurs_ roses clambering into cypresses by cadenabbia; the laburnums hanging their yellow clusters from the clefts of sasso eancio; the oleander arcades of varenna; the wild white limestone crags of san martiuo, which he has climbed to feast his eyes with the perspective, magical, serene, lionardesquely perfect, of the distant gates of adda. then while this modern paris is yet doubting, perhaps a thought may cross his mind of sterner, solitary lake iseo--the pallas of the three. she offers her own attractions. the sublimity of monte adamello, dominating lovere and all the lowland like hesiod's hill of virtue reared aloft above the plain of common life, has charms to tempt heroic lovers. nor can varese be neglected. in some picturesque respects, varese is the most perfect of the lakes. those long lines of swelling hills that lead into the level, yield an infinite series of placid foregrounds, pleasant to the eye by contrast with the dominant snow-summits, from monte viso to monte leone: the sky is limitless to southward; the low horizons are broken by bell-towers and farmhouses; while armaments of clouds are ever rolling in the interval of alps and plain. of a truth, to decide which is the queen of the italian lakes, is but an _infinita quæstio_; and the mere raising of it is folly. still each lover of the beautiful may give his vote; and mine, like that of shepherd paris, is already given to the larian goddess. words fail in attempting to set forth charms which have to be enjoyed, or can at best but lightly be touched with most consummate tact, even as great poets have already touched on como lake--from virgil with his 'lari maxume,' to tennyson and the italian manzoni. the threshold of the shrine is, however, less consecrated ground; and the cathedral of como may form a vestibule to the temple where silence is more golden than the speech of a describer. the cathedral of como is perhaps the most perfect building in italy for illustrating the fusion of gothic and renaissance styles, both of a good type and exquisite in their sobriety. the gothic ends with the nave. the noble transepts and the choir, each terminating in a rounded tribune of the same dimensions, are carried out in a simple and decorous bramantesque manner. the transition from the one style to the other is managed so felicitously, and the sympathies between them are so well developed, that there is no discord. what we here call gothic, is conceived in a truly southern spirit, without fantastic efflorescence or imaginative complexity of multiplied parts; while the renaissance manner, as applied by tommaso rodari, has not yet stiffened into the lifeless neo-latinism of the later _cinquecento_: it is still distinguished by delicate inventiveness, and beautiful subordination of decorative detail to architectural effect. under these happy conditions we feel that the gothic of the nave, with its superior severity and sombreness, dilates into the lucid harmonies of choir and transepts like a flower unfolding. in the one the mind is tuned to inner meditation and religious awe; in the other the worshipper passes into a temple of the clear explicit faith--as an initiated neophyte might be received into the meaning of the mysteries. after the collapse of the roman empire the district of como seems to have maintained more vividly than the rest of northern italy some memory of classic art. _magistri comacini_ is a title frequently inscribed upon deeds and charters of the earlier middle ages, as synonymous with sculptors and architects. this fact may help to account for the purity and beauty of the duomo. it is the work of a race in which the tradition of delicate artistic invention had never been wholly interrupted. to tommaso rodari and his brothers, bernardino and jacopo, the world owes this sympathetic fusion of the gothic and the bramantesque styles; and theirs too is the sculpture with which the duomo is so richly decorated. they were natives of maroggia, a village near mendrisio, beneath the crests of monte generoso, close to campione, which sent so many able craftsmen out into the world between the years and . indeed the name of campionesi would probably have been given to the rodari, had they left their native province for service in eastern lombardy. the body of the duomo had been finished when tommaso rodari was appointed master of the fabric in . to complete the work by the addition of a tribune was his duty. he prepared a wooden model and exposed it, after the fashion of those times, for criticism in his _bottega_; and the usual difference of opinion arose among the citizens of como concerning its merits. cristoforo solaro, surnamed il gobbo, was called in to advise. it may be remembered that when michelangelo first placed his pietà in s. peter's, rumour gave it to this celebrated lombard sculptor, and the florentine was constrained to set his own signature upon the marble. the same solaro carved the monument of beatrice sforza in the certosa of pavia. he was indeed in all points competent to criticise or to confirm the design of his fellow-craftsman. il gobbo disapproved of the proportions chosen by rodari, and ordered a new model to be made; but after much discussion, and some concessions on the part of rodari, who is said to have increased the number of the windows and lightened the orders of his model, the work was finally entrusted to the master of maroggia. not less creditable than the general design of the tribune is the sculpture executed by the brothers. the north side door is a master-work of early renaissance chiselling, combining mixed christian and classical motives with a wealth of floral ornament. inside, over the same door, is a procession of children seeming to represent the triumph of bacchus, with perhaps some christian symbolism. opposite, above the south door, is a frieze of fighting tritons--horsed sea deities pounding one another with bunches of fish and splashing the water, in mantegna's spirit. the doorways of the façade are decorated with the same rare workmanship; and the canopies, supported by naked fauns and slender twisted figures, under which the two plinies are seated, may be reckoned among the supreme achievements of delicate renaissance sculpture. the plinies are not like the work of the same master. they are older, stiffer, and more gothic. the chief interest attaching to them is that they are habited and seated after the fashion of humanists. this consecration of the two pagan saints beside the portals of the christian temple is truly characteristic of the fifteenth century in italy. beneath, are little basreliefs representing scenes from their respective lives, in the style of carved predellas on the altars of saints. the whole church is peopled with detached statues, among which a sebastian in the chapel of the madonna must be mentioned as singularly beautiful. it is a finely modelled figure, with the full life and exuberant adolescence of venetian inspiration. a peculiar feature of the external architecture is the series of atlantes, bearing on their shoulders urns, heads of lions, and other devices, and standing on brackets round the upper cornice just below the roof. they are of all sorts; young and old, male and female; classically nude, and boldly outlined. these water-conduits, the work of bernardo bianco and francesco rusca, illustrate the departure of the earlier renaissance from the gothic style. they are gargoyles; but they have lost the grotesque element. at the same time the sculptor, while discarding gothic tradition, has not betaken himself yet to a servile imitation of the antique. he has used invention, and substituted for grinning dragons' heads something wild and bizarre of his own in harmony with classic taste. the pictures in the chapels, chiefly by luini and ferrari--an idyllic nativity, with faun-like shepherds and choirs of angels--a sumptuous adoration of the magi--a jewelled sposalizio with abundance of golden hair flowing over draperies of green and crimson--will interest those who are as yet unfamiliar with lombard painting. yet their architectural setting, perhaps, is superior to their intrinsic merit as works of art; and their chief value consists in adding rare dim flakes of colour to the cool light of the lovely church. more curious, because less easily matched, is the gilded woodwork above the altar of s. abondio, attributed to a german carver, but executed for the most part in the purest luinesque manner. the pose of the enthroned madonna, the type and gesture of s. catherine, and the treatment of the pietà above, are thoroughly lombard, showing how luini's ideal of beauty could be expressed in carving. some of the choicest figures in the monastero maggiore at milan seem to have descended from the walls and stepped into their tabernacles on this altar. yet the style is not maintained consistently. in the reliefs illustrating the life of s. abondio we miss luini's childlike grace, and find instead a something that reminds us of donatello--a seeking after the classical in dress, carriage, and grouping of accessory figures. it may have been that the carver, recognising luini's defective composition, and finding nothing in that master's manner adapted to the spirit of relief, had the good taste to render what was luinesquely lovely in his female figures, and to fall back on a severer model for his basreliefs. the building-fund for the duomo was raised in como and its districts. boxes were placed in all the churches to receive the alms of those who wished to aid the work. the clergy begged in lent, and preached the duty of contributing on special days. presents of lime and bricks and other materials were thankfully received. bishops, canons, and municipal magistrates were expected to make costly gifts on taking office. notaries, under penalty of paying soldi if they neglected their engagement, were obliged to persuade testators, _cum bonis modis dulciter_, to inscribe the duomo on their wills. fines for various offences were voted to the building by the city. each new burgher paid a certain sum; while guilds and farmers of the taxes bought monopolies and privileges at the price of yearly subsidies. a lottery was finally established for the benefit of the fabric. of course each payment to the good work carried with it spiritual privileges; and so willingly did the people respond to the call of the church, that during the sixteenth century the sums subscribed amounted to , golden crowns. among the most munificent donators are mentioned the marchese giacomo gallio, who bequeathed , lire, and a benzi, who gave , ducats. while the people of como were thus straining every nerve to complete a pious work, which at the same time is one of the most perfect masterpieces of italian art, their lovely lake was turned into a pirate's stronghold, and its green waves stained with slaughter of conflicting navies. so curious is this episode in the history of the larian lake that it is worth while to treat of it at some length. moreover, the lives of few captains of adventure offer matter more rich in picturesque details and more illustrative of their times than that of gian giacomo de' medici, the larian corsair, long known and still remembered as il medeghino. he was born in milan in , at the beginning of that darkest and most disastrous period of italian history, when the old fabric of social and political existence went to ruin under the impact of conflicting foreign armies. he lived on until the year , witnessing and taking part in the dismemberment of the milanese duchy, playing a game of hazard at high stakes for his own profit with the two last sforzas, the empire, the french, and the swiss. at the beginning of the century, while he was still a youth, the rich valley of the valtelline, with bormio and chiavenna, had been assigned to the grisons. the swiss cantons at the same time had possessed themselves of lugano and bellinzona. by these two acts of robbery the mountaineers tore a portion of its fairest territory from the duchy; and whoever ruled in milan, whether a sforza, or a spanish viceroy, or a french general, was impatient to recover the lost jewel of the ducal crown. so much has to be premised, because the scene of our hero's romantic adventures was laid upon the borderland between the duchy and the cantons. intriguing at one time with the duke of milan, at another with his foes the french or spaniards, il medeghino found free scope for his peculiar genius in a guerilla warfare, carried on with the avowed purpose of restoring the valtelline to milan. to steer a plain course through that chaos of politics, in which the modern student, aided by the calm clear lights of history and meditation, cannot find a clue, was of course impossible for an adventurer whose one aim was to gratify his passions and exalt himself at the expense of others. it is therefore of little use to seek motives of statecraft or of patriotism in the conduct of il medeghino. he was a man shaped according to machiavelli's standard of political morality--self-reliant, using craft and force with cold indifference to moral ends, bent only upon wringing for himself the largest share of this world's power for men who, like himself, identified virtue with unflinching and immitigable egotism. il medeghino's father was bernardo de' medici, a lombard, who neither claimed nor could have proved cousinship with the great medicean family of florence. his mother was cecilia serbelloni. the boy was educated in the fashionable humanistic studies, nourishing his young imagination with the tales of roman heroes. the first exploit by which he proved his _virtù_, was the murder of a man he hated, at the age of sixteen. this 'virile act of vengeance,' as it was called, brought him into trouble, and forced him to choose the congenial profession of arms. at a time when violence and vigour passed for manliness, a spirited assassination formed the best of introductions to the captains of mixed mercenary troops. il medeghino rose in favour with his generals, helped to reinstate francesco sforza in his capital, and, returning himself to milan, inflicted severe vengeance on the enemies who had driven him to exile. it was his ambition, at this early period of his life, to be made governor of the castle of musso, on the lake of como. while fighting in the neighbourhood, he had observed the unrivalled capacities for defence presented by its site; and some pre-vision of his future destinies now urged him to acquire it, as the basis for the free marauding life he planned. the headland of musso lies about halfway between gravedona and menaggio, on the right shore of the lake of como. planted on a pedestal of rock, and surmounted by a sheer cliff, there then stood a very ancient tower, commanding this promontory on the side of the land. between it and the water the visconti, in more recent days, had built a square fort; and the headland had been further strengthened by the addition of connecting walls and bastions pierced for cannon. combining precipitous cliffs, strong towers, and easy access from the lake below, this fortress of musso was exactly the fit station for a pirate. so long as he kept the command of the lake, he had little to fear from land attacks, and had a splendid basis for aggressive operations. il medeghino made his request to the duke of milan; but the foxlike sforza would not grant him a plain answer. at length he hinted that if his suitor chose to rid him of a troublesome subject, the noble and popular astore visconti, he should receive musso for payment. crimes of bloodshed and treason sat lightly on the adventurer's conscience. in a short time he compassed the young visconti's death, and claimed his reward. the duke despatched him thereupon to musso, with open letters to the governor, commanding him to yield the castle to the bearer. private advice, also entrusted to il medeghino, bade the governor, on the contrary, cut the bearer's throat. the young man, who had the sense to read the duke's letter, destroyed the secret document, and presented the other, or, as one version of the story goes, forged a ducal order in his own favour.[ ] at any rate, the castle was placed in his hands; and affecting to know nothing of the duke's intended treachery, il medeghino took possession of it as a trusted servant of the ducal crown. as soon as he was settled in his castle, the freebooter devoted all his energies to rendering it still more impregnable by strengthening the walls and breaking the cliffs into more horrid precipices. in this work he was assisted by his numerous friends and followers; for musso rapidly became, like ancient rome, an asylum for the ruffians and outlaws of neighbouring provinces. it is even said that his sisters, clarina and margherita, rendered efficient aid with manual labour. the mention of clarina's name justifies a parenthetical side-glance at il medeghino's pedigree, which will serve to illustrate the exceptional conditions of italian society during this age. she was married to the count giberto borromeo, and became the mother of the pious carlo borromeo, whose shrine is still adored at milan in the duomo. il medeghino's brother, giovan angelo, rose to the papacy, assuming the title of pius iv. thus this murderous marauder was the brother of a pope and the uncle of a saint; and these three persons of one family embraced the various degrees and typified the several characters which flourished with peculiar lustre in renaissance italy--the captain of adventure soaked in blood, the churchman unrivalled for intrigue, and the saint aflame with holiest enthusiasm. il medeghino was short of stature, but well made and powerful; broad-chested; with a penetrating voice and winning countenance. he dressed simply, like one of his own soldiers; slept but little; was insensible to carnal pleasure; and though he knew how to win the affection of his men by jovial speech, he maintained strict discipline in his little army. in all points he was an ideal bandit chief, never happy unless fighting or planning campaigns, inflexible of purpose, bold and cunning in the execution of his schemes, cruel to his enemies, generous to his followers, sacrificing all considerations, human and divine, to the one aim of his life, self-aggrandisement by force and intrigue. he knew well how to make himself both feared and respected. one instance of his dealing will suffice. a gentleman of bellano, polidoro boldoni, in return to his advances, coldly replied that he cared for neither amity nor relationship with thieves and robbers; whereupon il medeghino extirpated his family, almost to a man. soon after his settlement in musso, il medeghino, wishing to secure the gratitude of the duke, his master, began war with the grisons. from coire, from the engadine, and from davos, the alpine pikemen were now pouring down to swell the troops of francis i.; and their road lay through the lake of como. il medeghino burned all the boats upon the lake, except those which he took into his own service, and thus made himself master of the water passage. he then swept the 'length of lordly lario' from colico to lecco, harrying the villages upon the shore, and cutting off the bands of journeying switzers at his pleasure. not content with this guerilla, he made a descent upon the territory of the trepievi, and pushed far up towards chiavenna, forcing the grisons to recall their troops from the milanese. these acts of prowess convinced the duke that he had found a strong ally in the pirate chief. when francis i. continued his attacks upon the duchy, and the grisons still adhered to their french paymaster, the sforza formally invested gian giacomo de' medici with the perpetual governorship of musso, the lake of como, and as much as he could wrest from the grisons above the lake. furnished now with a just title for his depredations, il medeghino undertook the siege of chiavenna. that town is the key to the valleys of the splügen and bregaglia. strongly fortified and well situated for defence, the burghers of the grisons well knew that upon its possession depended their power in the italian valleys. to take it by assault was impossible, il medeghino used craft, entered the castle, and soon had the city at his disposition. nor did he lose time in sweeping val bregaglia. the news of this conquest recalled the switzers from the duchy; and as they hurried homeward just before the battle of pavia, it may be affirmed that gian giacomo de' medici was instrumental in the defeat and capture of the french king. the mountaineers had no great difficulty in dislodging their pirate enemy from chiavenna, the valtelline, and val bregaglia. but he retained his hold on the trepievi, occupied the valsassina, took porlezza, and established himself still more strongly in musso as the corsair monarch of the lake. the tyranny of the sforzas in milan was fast going to pieces between france and spain; and in the marquis of pescara occupied the capital in the name of charles v. the duke, meanwhile, remained a prisoner in his castello. il medeghino was now without a master; for he refused to acknowledge the spaniards, preferring to watch events and build his own power on the ruins of the dukedom. at the head of , men, recruited from the lakes and neighbouring valleys, he swept the country far and wide, and occupied the rich champaign of the brianza. he was now lord of the lakes of como and lugano, and absolute in lecco and the adjoining valleys. the town of como itself alone belonged to the spaniards; and even como was blockaded by the navy of the corsair. il medeghino had a force of seven big ships, with three sails and forty-eight oars, bristling with guns and carrying marines. his flagship was a large brigantine, manned by picked rowers, from the mast of which floated the red banner with the golden palle of the medicean arms. besides these larger vessels, he commanded a flotilla of countless small boats. it is clear that to reckon with him was a necessity. if he could not be put down with force, he might be bought over by concessions. the spaniards adopted the second course, and il medeghino, judging that the cause of the sforza family was desperate, determined in to attach himself to the empire. charles v. invested him with the castle of musso and the larger part of como lake, including the town of lecco. he now assumed the titles of marquis of musso and count of lecco: and in order to prove his sovereignty before the world, he coined money with his own name and devices. it will be observed that gian giacomo de' medici had hitherto acted with a single-hearted view to his own interests. at the age of thirty he had raised himself from nothing to a principality, which, though petty, might compare with many of some name in italy--with carpi, for example, or mirandola, or camerino. nor did he mean to remain quiet in the prime of life. he regarded como lake as the mere basis for more arduous undertakings. therefore, when the whirligig of events restored francesco sforza to his duchy in , il medeghino refused to obey his old lord. pretending to move under the duke's orders, but really acting for himself alone, he proceeded to attack his ancient enemies, the grisons. by fraud and force he worked his way into their territory, seized morbegno, and overran the valtelline. he was destined, however, to receive a serious check. twelve thousand switzers rose against him on the one hand, on the other the duke of milan sent a force by land and water to subdue his rebel subject, while alessandro gonzaga marched upon his castles in the brianza. he was thus assailed by formidable forces from three quarters, converging upon the lake of como, and driving him to his chosen element, the water. hastily quitting the valtelline, he fell back to the castle of mandello on the lake, collected his navy, and engaged the ducal ships in a battle off menaggio. in this battle he was worsted. but he did not lose his courage. from bellagio, from varenna, from bellano he drove forth his enemies, rolled the cannon of the switzers into the lake, regained lecco, defeated the troops of alessandro gonzaga, and took the duke of mantua prisoner. had he but held como, it is probable that he might have obtained such terms at this time as would have consolidated his tyranny. the town of como, however, now belonged to the duke of milan, and formed an excellent basis for operations against the pirate. overmatched, with an exhausted treasury and broken forces, il medeghino was at last compelled to give in. yet he retired with all the honours of war. in exchange for musso and the lake, the duke agreed to give him , golden crowns, together with the feud and marquisate of marignano. a free pardon was promised not only to himself and his brothers, but to all his followers; and the duke further undertook to transport his artillery and munitions of war at his own expense to marignano. having concluded this treaty under the auspices of charles v. and his lieutenant, il medeghino, in march , set sail from musso, and turned his back upon the lake for ever. the switzers immediately destroyed the towers, forts, walls, and bastions of the musso promontory, leaving in the midst of their ruins the little chapel of s. eufemia. gian giacomo de' medici, henceforth known to europe as the marquis of marignano, now took service under spain; and through the favour of anton de leyva, viceroy for the duchy, rose to the rank of field marshal. when the marquis del vasto succeeded to the spanish governorship of milan in , he determined to gratify an old grudge against the ex-pirate, and, having invited him to a banquet, made him prisoner. ii medeghino was not, however, destined to languish in a dungeon. princes and kings interested themselves in his fate. he was released, and journeyed to the court of charles v. in spain. the emperor received him kindly, and employed him first in the low countries, where he helped to repress the burghers of ghent, and at the siege of landrecy commanded the spanish artillery against other italian captains of adventure: for, italy being now dismembered and enslaved, her sons sought foreign service where they found best pay and widest scope for martial science. afterwards the medici ruled bohemia as spanish viceroy; and then, as general of the league formed by the duke of florence, the emperor, and the pope to repress the liberties of tuscany, distinguished himself in that cruel war of extermination, which turned the fair contado of siena into a poisonous maremma. to the last il medeghino preserved the instincts and the passions of a brigand chief. it was at this time that, acting for the grand duke of tuscany, he first claimed open kinship with the medici of florence. heralds and genealogists produced a pedigree, which seemed to authorise this pretension; he was recognised, together with his brother, pius iv., as an offshoot of the great house which had already given dukes to florence, kings to france, and two popes to the christian world. in the midst of all this foreign service he never forgot his old dream of conquering the valtelline; and in he made proposals to the emperor for a new campaign against the grisons. charles v. did not choose to engage in a war, the profits of which would have been inconsiderable for the master of half the civilised world, and which might have proved troublesome by stirring up the tameless switzers. il medeghino was obliged to abandon a project cherished from the earliest dawn of his adventurous manhood. when gian giacomo died in , his brother battista succeeded to his claims upon lecco and the trepievi. his monument, magnificent with five bronze figures, the masterpiece of leone lioni, from menaggio, michelangelesque in style, and of consummate workmanship, still adorns the duomo of milan. it stands close by the door that leads to the roof. this mausoleum, erected to the memory of gian giacomo and his brother gabrio, is said to have cost golden crowns. on the occasion of the pirate's funeral the senate of milan put on mourning, and the whole city followed the great robber, the hero of renaissance _virtù_, to the grave. between the cathedral of como and the corsair medeghino there is but a slight link. yet so extraordinary were the social circumstances of renaissance italy, that almost at every turn, on her seaboard, in her cities, from her hill-tops, we are compelled to blend our admiration for the loveliest and purest works of art amid the choicest scenes of nature with memories of execrable crimes and lawless characters. sometimes, as at perugia, the _nexus_ is but local. at others, one single figure, like that of cellini, unites both points of view in a romance of unparalleled dramatic vividness. or, again, beneath the vaults of the certosa, near pavia, a masterpiece of the serenest beauty carries our thoughts perforce back to the hideous cruelties and snake-like frauds of its despotic founder. this is the excuse for combining two such diverse subjects in one study. * * * * * _bergamo and bartolommeo colleoni_ from the new town of commerce to the old town of history upon the hill, the road is carried along a rampart lined, with horse-chestnut trees--clumps of massy foliage, and snowy pyramids of bloom, expanded in the rapture of a southern spring. each pair of trees between their stems and arch of intermingling leaves includes a space of plain, checkered with cloud-shadows, melting blue and green in amethystine haze. to right and left the last spurs of the alps descend, jutting like promontories, heaving like islands from the misty breadth below: and here and there are towers, half-lost in airy azure; and cities dwarfed to blots; and silvery lines where rivers flow; and distant, vapour-drowned, dim crests of apennines. the city walls above us wave with snapdragons and iris among fig-trees sprouting from the riven stones. there are terraces over-rioted with pergolas of vine, and houses shooting forward into balconies and balustrades, from which a romeo might launch himself at daybreak, warned by the lark's song. a sudden angle in the road is turned, and we pass from airspace and freedom into the old town, beneath walls of dark brown masonry, where wild valerians light their torches of red bloom in immemorial shade. squalor and splendour live here side by side. grand renaissance portals grinning with satyr masks are flanked by tawdry frescoes shamming stonework, or by doorways where the withered bush hangs out a promise of bad wine. the cappella colleoni is our destination, that masterpiece of the sculptor-architect's craft, with its variegated marbles,--rosy and white and creamy yellow and jet-black,--in patterns, basreliefs, pilasters, statuettes, encrusted on the fanciful domed shrine. upon the façade are mingled, in the true renaissance spirit of genial acceptance, motives christian and pagan with supreme impartiality. medallions of emperors and gods alternate with virtues, angels and cupids in a maze of loveliest arabesque; and round the base of the building are told two stories--the one of adam from his creation to his fall, the other of hercules and his labours. italian craftsmen of the _quattrocento_ were not averse to setting thus together, in one framework, the myths of our first parents and alemena's son: partly perhaps because both subjects gave scope to the free treatment of the nude; but partly also, we may venture to surmise, because the heroism of hellas counterbalanced the sin of eden. here then we see how adam and eve were made and tempted and expelled from paradise and set to labour, how cain killed abel, and lamech slew a man to his hurt, and isaac was offered on the mountain. the tale of human sin and the promise of redemption are epitomised in twelve of the sixteen basreliefs. the remaining four show hercules wrestling with antæus, taming the nemean lion, extirpating the hydra, and bending to his will the bull of crete. labour, appointed for a punishment to adam, becomes a title to immortality for the hero. the dignity of man is reconquered by prowess for the greek, as it is repurchased for the christian by vicarious suffering. many may think this interpretation of amadeo's basreliefs far-fetched; yet, such as it is, it agrees with the spirit of humanism, bent ever on harmonising the two great traditions of the past. of the workmanship little need be said, except that it is wholly lombard, distinguished from the similar work of della quercia at bologna and siena by a more imperfect feeling for composition, and a lack of monumental gravity, yet graceful, rich in motives, and instinct with a certain wayward _improvvisatore_ charm. this chapel was built by the great condottiere bartolommeo colleoni, to be the monument of his puissance even in the grave. it had been the sacristy of s. maria maggiore, which, when the consiglio della misericordia refused it to him for his half-proud, half-pious purpose, he took and held by force. the structure, of costliest materials, reared by gian antonio amadeo, cost him , golden florins. an equestrian statue of gilt wood, voted to him by the town of bergamo, surmounts his monument inside the chapel. this was the work of two german masters, called 'sisto figlio di enrico syri da norimberga' and 'leonardo tedesco.' the tomb itself is of marble, executed for the most part in a lombard style resembling amadeo's, but scarcely worthy of his genius. the whole effect is disappointing. five figures representing mars, hercules, and three sons-in-law of colleoni, who surround the sarcophagus of the buried general, are indeed almost grotesque. the angularity and crumpled draperies of the milanese manner, when so exaggerated, produce an impression of caricature. yet many subordinate details--a row of _putti_ in a _cinquecento_ frieze, for instance--and much of the low relief work--especially the crucifixion with its characteristic episodes of the fainting maries and the soldiers casting dice--are lovely in their unaffected lombardism. there is another portrait of colleoni in a round above the great door, executed with spirit, though in a _bravura_ style that curiously anticipates the decline of italian sculpture. gaunt, hollow-eyed, with prominent cheek bones and strong jaws, this animated, half-length statue of the hero bears the stamp of a good likeness; but when or by whom it was made, i do not know. far more noteworthy than colleoni's own monument is that of his daughter medea. she died young in , and her father caused her tomb, carved of carrara marble, to be placed in the dominican church of basella, which he had previously founded. it was not until that this most precious masterpiece of antonio amadeo's skill was transferred to bergamo. _hic jacet medea virgo._ her hands are clasped across her breast. a robe of rich brocade, gathered to the waist and girdled, lies in simple folds upon the bier. her throat, exceedingly long and slender, is circled with a string of pearls. her face is not beautiful, for the features, especially the nose, are large and prominent; but it is pure and expressive of vivid individuality. the hair curls in crisp short clusters, and the ear, fine and shaped almost like a faun's, reveals the scrupulous fidelity of the sculptor. italian art has, in truth, nothing more exquisite than this still sleeping figure of the girl, who, when she lived, must certainly have been so rare of type and lovable in personality. if busti's lancinus curtius be the portrait of a humanist, careworn with study, burdened by the laurel leaves that were so dry and dusty--if gaston de foix in the brera, smiling at death and beautiful in the cropped bloom of youth, idealise the hero of romance--if michelangelo's penseroso translate in marble the dark broodings of a despot's soul--if della porta's julia farnese be the roman courtesan magnificently throned in nonchalance at a pope's footstool--if verocchio's colleoni on his horse at venice impersonate the pomp and circumstance of scientific war--surely this medea exhales the flower-like graces, the sweet sanctities of human life, that even in that turbid age were found among high-bred italian ladies. such power have mighty sculptors, even in our modern world, to make the mute stone speak in poems and clasp the soul's life of a century in some five or six transcendent forms. the colleoni, or coglioni, family were of considerable antiquity and well-authenticated nobility in the town of bergamo. two lions' heads conjoined formed one of their canting ensigns; another was borrowed from the vulgar meaning of their name. many members of the house held important office during the three centuries preceding the birth of the famous general, bartolommeo. he was born in the year at solza, in the bergamasque contado. his father paolo, or pùho as he was commonly called, was poor and exiled from the city, together with the rest of the guelf nobles, by the visconti. being a man of daring spirit, and little inclined to languish in a foreign state as the dependent on some patron, pùho formed the bold design of seizing the castle of trezzo. this he achieved in by fraud, and afterwards held it as his own by force. partly with the view of establishing himself more firmly in his acquired lordship, and partly out of family affection, pùho associated four of his first-cousins in the government of trezzo. they repaid his kindness with an act of treason and cruelty, only too characteristic of those times in italy. one day while he was playing at draughts in a room of the castle, they assaulted him and killed him, seized his wife and the boy bartolommeo, and flung them into prison. the murdered pùho had another son, antonio, who escaped and took refuge with giorgio benzone, the tyrant of crema. after a short time the colleoni brothers found means to assassinate him also; therefore bartolommeo alone, a child of whom no heed was taken, remained to be his father's avenger. he and his mother lived together in great indigence at solza, until the lad felt strong enough to enter the service of one of the numerous petty lombard princes, and to make himself if possible a captain of adventure. his name alone was a sufficient introduction, and the duchy of milan, dismembered upon the death of gian maria visconti, was in such a state that all the minor despots were increasing their forces and preparing to defend by arms the fragments they had seized from the visconti heritage. bartolommeo therefore had no difficulty in recommending himself to filippo d'arcello, sometime general in the pay of the milanese, but now the new lord of piacenza. with this master he remained as page for two or three years, learning the use of arms, riding, and training himself in the physical exercises which were indispensable to a young italian soldier. meanwhile filippo maria visconti reacquired his hereditary dominions; and at the age of twenty, bartolommeo found it prudent to seek a patron stronger than d'arcello. the two great condottieri, sforza attendolo and braccio, divided the military glories of italy at this period; and any youth who sought to rise in his profession, had to enrol himself under the banners of the one or the other. bartolommeo chose braccio for his master, and was enrolled among his men as a simple trooper, or _ragazzo_, with no better prospects than he could make for himself by the help of his talents and his borrowed horse and armour. braccio at this time was in apulia, prosecuting the war of the neapolitan succession disputed between alfonso of aragon and louis of anjou under the weak sovereignty of queen joan. on which side of a quarrel a condottiere fought mattered but little: so great was the confusion of italian politics, and so complete was the egotism of these fraudful, violent, and treacherous party leaders. yet it may be mentioned that braccio had espoused alfonso's cause. bartolommeo colleoni early distinguished himself among the ranks of the bracceschi. but he soon perceived that he could better his position by deserting to another camp. accordingly he offered his services to jacopo caldora, one of joan's generals, and received from him a commission of twenty men-at-arms. it may here be parenthetically said that the rank and pay of an italian captain varied with the number of the men he brought into the field. his title 'condottiere' was derived from the circumstance that he was said to have received a _condotta di venti cavalli_, and so forth. each _cavallo_ was equal to one mounted man-at-arms and two attendants, who were also called _ragazzi_. it was his business to provide the stipulated number of men, to keep them in good discipline, and to satisfy their just demands. therefore an italian army at this epoch consisted of numerous small armies varying in size, each held together by personal engagements to a captain, and all dependent on the will of a general-in-chief, who had made a bargain with some prince or republic for supplying a fixed contingent of fighting-men. the _condottiere_ was in other words a contractor or _impresario_, undertaking to do a certain piece of work for a certain price, and to furnish the requisite forces for the business in good working order. it will be readily seen upon this system how important were the personal qualities of the captain, and what great advantages those condottieri had, who, like the petty princes of romagna and the march, the montefeltri, ordelaffi, malatesti, manfredi, orsini, and vitelli, could rely upon a race of hardy vassals for their recruits. it is not necessary to follow colleoni's fortunes in the regno, at aquila, ancona, and bologna. he continued in the service of caldora, who was now general of the church, and had his _condotta_ gradually increased. meanwhile his cousins, the murderers of his father, began to dread his rising power, and determined, if possible, to ruin him. he was not a man to be easily assassinated; so they sent a hired ruffian to caldora's camp to say that bartolommeo had taken his name by fraud, and that he was himself the real son of pùho colleoni. bartolommeo defied the liar to a duel; and this would have taken place before the army, had not two witnesses appeared, who knew the fathers of both colleoni and the _bravo_, and who gave such evidence that the captains of the army were enabled to ascertain the truth. the impostor was stripped and drummed out of the camp. at the conclusion of a peace between the pope and the bolognese, bartolommeo found himself without occupation. he now offered himself to the venetians, and began to fight again under the great carmagnola against filippo visconti. his engagement allowed him forty men, which, after the judicial murder of carmagnola at venice in , were increased to eighty. erasmo da narni, better known as gattamelata, was now his general-in-chief--a man who had risen from the lowest fortunes to one of the most splendid military positions in italy. colleoni spent the next years of his life, until , in lombardy, manoeuvring against il piccinino, and gradually rising in the venetian service, until his condotta reached the number of men. upon gattamelata's death at padua in , colleoni became the most important of the generals who had fought with caldora in the march. the lordships of romano in the bergamasque and of covo and antegnate in the cremonese had been assigned to him; and he was in a position to make independent engagements with princes. what distinguished him as a general, was a combination of caution with audacity. he united the brilliant system of his master braccio with the more prudent tactics of the sforzeschi; and thus, though he often surprised his foes by daring stratagems and vigorous assaults, he rarely met with any serious check. he was a captain who could be relied upon for boldly seizing an advantage, no less than for using a success with discretion. moreover he had acquired an almost unique reputation for honesty in dealing with his masters, and for justice combined with humane indulgence to his men. his company was popular, and he could always bring capital troops into the field. in the year colleoni quitted the venetian service on account of a quarrel with gherardo dandolo, the provoditore of the republic. he now took a commission from filippo maria visconti, who received him at milan with great honour, bestowed on him the castello adorno at pavia, and sent him into the march of ancona upon a military expedition. of all italian tyrants this visconti was the most difficult to serve. constitutionally timid, surrounded with a crowd of spies and base informers, shrinking from the sight of men in the recesses of his palace, and controlling the complicated affairs of his duchy by means of correspondents and intelligencers, this last scion of the milanese despots lived like a spider in an inscrutable network of suspicion and intrigue. his policy was one of endless plot and counterplot. he trusted no man; his servants were paid to act as spies on one another; his bodyguard consisted of mutually hostile mercenaries; his captains in the field were watched and thwarted by commissioners appointed to check them at the point of successful ambition or magnificent victory. the historian has a hard task when he tries to fathom the visconti's schemes, or to understand his motives. half the duke's time seems to have been spent in unravelling the webs that he had woven, in undoing his own work, and weakening the hands of his chosen ministers. conscious that his power was artificial, that the least breath might blow him back into the nothingness from which he had arisen on the wrecks of his father's tyranny, he dreaded the personal eminence of his generals above all things. his chief object was to establish a system of checks, by means of which no one whom he employed should at any moment be great enough to threaten him. the most formidable of these military adventurers, francesco sforza, had been secured by marriage with bianca maria visconti, his master's only daughter, in ; but the duke did not even trust his son-in-law. the last six years of his life were spent in scheming to deprive sforza of his lordships; and the war in the march, on which he employed colleoni, had the object of ruining the principality acquired by this daring captain from pope eugenius iv. in . colleoni was by no means deficient in those foxlike qualities which were necessary to save the lion from the toils spread for him by italian intriguers. he had already shown that he knew how to push his own interests, by changing sides and taking service with the highest bidder, as occasion prompted. nor, though his character for probity and loyalty stood exceptionally high among the men of his profession, was he the slave to any questionable claims of honour or of duty. in that age of confused politics and extinguished patriotism, there was not indeed much scope for scrupulous honesty. but filippo maria visconti proved more than a match for him in craft. while colleoni was engaged in pacifying the revolted population of bologna, the duke yielded to the suggestion of his parasites at milan, who whispered that the general was becoming dangerously powerful. he recalled him, and threw him without trial into the dungeons of the forni at monza. here colleoni remained a prisoner more than a year, until the duke's death in , when he made his escape, and profited by the disturbance of the duchy to reacquire his lordships in the bergamasque territory. the true motive for his imprisonment remains still buried in obscure conjecture. probably it was not even known to the visconti, who acted on this, as on so many other occasions, by a mere spasm of suspicious jealousy, for which he could have given no account. from the year to the year , it is difficult to follow colleoni's movements, or to trace his policy. first, we find him employed by the milanese republic, during its brief space of independence; then he is engaged by the venetians, with a commission for horse; next, he is in the service of francesco sforza; once more in that of the venetians, and yet again in that of the duke of milan. his biographer relates with pride that, during this period, he was three times successful against french troops in piedmont and lombardy. it appears that he made short engagements, and changed his paymasters according to convenience. but all this time he rose in personal importance, acquired fresh lordships in the bergamasque, and accumulated wealth. he reached the highest point of his prosperity in , when the republic of s. mark elected him general-in-chief of their armies, with the fullest powers, and with a stipend of , florins. for nearly twenty-one years, until the day of his death, in , colleoni held this honourable and lucrative office. in his will he charged the signory of venice that they should never again commit into the hands of a single captain such unlimited control over their military resources. it was indeed no slight tribute to colleoni's reputation for integrity, that the jealous republic, which had signified its sense of carmagnola's untrustworthiness by capital punishment, should have left him so long in the undisturbed disposal of their army. the standard and the bâton of s. mark were conveyed to colleoni by two ambassadors, and presented to him at brescia on june , . three years later he made a triumphal entry into venice, and received the same ensigns of military authority from the hands of the new doge, pasquale malipiero. on this occasion his staff consisted of some two hundred officers, splendidly armed, and followed by a train of serving-men. noblemen from bergamo, brescia, and other cities of the venetian territory, swelled the cortege. when they embarked on the lagoons, they found the water covered with boats and gondolas, bearing the population of venice in gala attire, to greet the illustrious guest with instruments of music. three great galleys of the republic, called bucentaurs, issued from the crowd of smaller craft. on the first was the doge in his state robes, attended by the government in office, or the signoria of s. mark. on the second were members of the senate and minor magistrates. the third carried the ambassadors of foreign powers. colleoni was received into the first state-galley, and placed by the side of the doge. the oarsmen soon cleared the space between the land and venice, passed the small canals, and swept majestically up the canalozzo among the plaudits of the crowds assembled on both sides to cheer their general. thus they reached the piazzetta, where colleoni alighted between the two great pillars, and, conducted by the doge in person, walked to the church of s. mark. here, after mass had been said, and a sermon had been preached, kneeling before the high altar he received the truncheon from the doge's hands. the words of his commission ran as follows:-- 'by authority and decree of this most excellent city of venice, of us the prince, and of the senate, you are to be commander and captain general of all our forces and armaments on terra firma. take from our hands this truncheon, with good augury and fortune, as sign and warrant of your power. be it your care and effort, with dignity and splendour to maintain and to defend the majesty, the loyalty, and the principles of this empire. neither provoking, not yet provoked, unless at our command, shall you break into open warfare with our enemies. free jurisdiction and lordship over each one of our soldiers, except in cases of treason, we hereby commit to you.' after the ceremony of his reception, colleoni was conducted with no less pomp to his lodgings, and the next ten days were spent in festivities of all sorts. the commandership-in-chief of the venetian forces was perhaps the highest military post in italy. it placed colleoni on the pinnacle of his profession, and made his camp the favourite school of young soldiers. among his pupils or lieutenants we read of ercole d'este, the future duke of ferrara; alessandro sforza, lord of pesaro; boniface, marquis of montferrat; cicco and pino ordelaffi, princes of forli; astorre manfredi, the lord of faenza; three counts of mirandola; two princes of carpi; deifobo, the count of anguillara; giovanni antonio caldora, lord of jesi in the march; and many others of less name. honours came thick upon him. when one of the many ineffectual leagues against the infidel was formed in , during the pontificate of paul ii., he was named captain-general for the crusade. pius ii. designed him for the leader of the expedition he had planned against the impious and savage despot, sigismondo malatesta. king rené of anjou, by special patent, authorised him to bear his name and arms, and made him a member of his family. the duke of burgundy, by a similar heraldic fiction, conferred upon him his name and armorial bearings. this will explain why colleoni is often styled 'di andegavia e borgogna.' in the case of rené, the honour was but a barren show. but the patent of charles the bold had more significance. in he entertained the project of employing the great italian general against his swiss foes; nor does it seem reasonable to reject a statement made by colleoni's biographer, to the effect that a secret compact had been drawn up between him and the duke of burgundy, for the conquest and partition of the duchy of milan. the venetians, in whose service colleoni still remained, when they became aware of this project, met it with peaceful but irresistible opposition. colleoni had been engaged continually since his earliest boyhood in the trade of war. it was not therefore possible that he should have gained a great degree of literary culture. yet the fashion of the times made it necessary that a man in his position should seek the society of scholars. accordingly his court and camp were crowded with students, in whose wordy disputations he is said to have delighted. it will be remembered that his contemporaries, alfonso the magnanimous, francesco sforza, federigo of urbino, and sigismondo pandolfo malatesta, piqued themselves at least as much upon their patronage of letters, as upon their prowess in the field. colleoni's court, like that of urbino, was a model of good manners. as became a soldier, he was temperate in food and moderate in slumber. it was recorded of him that he had never sat more than one hour at meat in his own house, and that he never overslept the sunrise. after dinner he would converse with his friends, using commonly his native dialect of bergamo, and entertaining the company now with stories of adventure, and now with pithy sayings. in another essential point he resembled his illustrious contemporary, the duke of urbino; for he was sincerely pious in an age which, however it preserved the decencies of ceremonial religion, was profoundly corrupt at heart. his principal lordships in the bergamasque territory owed to his munificence their fairest churches and charitable institutions. at martinengo, for example, he rebuilt and re-endowed two monasteries, the one dedicated to s. chiara, the other to s. francis. in bergamo itself he founded an establishment named' la pieta,' for the good purpose of dowering and marrying poor girls. this house he endowed with a yearly income of ducats. the sulphur baths of trescorio, at some distance from the city, were improved and opened to poor patients by a hospital which he provided. at rumano he raised a church to s. peter, and erected buildings of public utility, which on his death he bequeathed to the society of the misericordia in that town. all the places of his jurisdiction owed to him such benefits as good water, new walls, and irrigation works. in addition to these munificent foundations must be mentioned the basella, or monastery of dominican friars, which he established not far from bergamo, upon the river serio, in memory of his beloved daughter medea. last, not least, was the chapel of s. john the baptist, attached to the church of s. maria maggiore, which he endowed with fitting maintenance for two priests and deacons. the one defect acknowledged by his biographer was his partiality for women. early in life he married tisbe, of the noble house of the brescian martinenghi, who bore him one daughter, caterina, wedded to gasparre martinengo. two illegitimate daughters, ursina and isotta, were recognised and treated by him as legitimate. the first he gave in marriage to gherardo martinengo, and the second to jacopo of the same family. two other natural children, doratina and ricardona, were mentioned in his will: he left them four thousand ducats a piece for dowry. medea, the child of his old age (for she was born to him when he was sixty), died before her father, and was buried, as we have seen, in the chapel of basella. throughout his life he was distinguished for great physical strength and agility. when he first joined the troop of braccio, he could race, with his corselet on, against the swiftest runner of the army; and when he was stripped, few horses could beat him in speed. far on into old age he was in the habit of taking long walks every morning for the sake of exercise, and delighted in feats of arms and jousting matches. 'he was tall, straight, and full of flesh, well proportioned, and excellently made in all his limbs. his complexion inclined somewhat to brown, but was coloured with sanguine and lively carnation. his eyes were black; in look and sharpness of light, they were vivid, piercing, and terrible. the outlines of his nose and all his countenance expressed a certain manly nobleness, combined with goodness and prudence.' such is the portrait drawn of colleoni by his biographer; and it well accords with the famous bronze statue of the general at venice. colleoni lived with a magnificence that suited his rank. his favourite place of abode was malpaga, a castle built by him at the distance of about an hour's drive from bergamo. the place is worth a visit, though its courts and gates and galleries have now been turned into a monster farm, and the southern rooms, where colleoni entertained his guests, are given over to the silkworms. half a dozen families, employed upon a vast estate of the martinengo family, occupy the still substantial house and stables. the moat is planted with mulberry-trees; the upper rooms are used as granaries for golden maize; cows, pigs, and horses litter in the spacious yard. yet the walls of the inner court and of the ancient state rooms are brilliant with frescoes, executed by some good venetian hand, which represent the chief events of colleoni's life--his battles, his reception by the signory of venice, his tournaments and hawking parties, and the great series of entertainments with which he welcomed christiern of denmark. this king had made his pilgrimage to rome and was returning westward, when the fame of colleoni and his princely state at malpaga induced him to turn aside and spend some days as the general's guest. in order to do him honour, colleoni left his castle at the king's disposal and established himself with all his staff and servants in a camp at some distance from malpaga. the camp was duly furnished with tents and trenches, stockades, artillery, and all the other furniture of war. on the king's approach, colleoni issued with trumpets blowing and banners flying to greet his guest, gratifying him thus with a spectacle of the pomp and circumstance of war as carried on in italy. the visit was further enlivened by sham fights, feats of arms, and trials of strength. when it ended, colleoni presented the king with one of his own suits of armour, and gave to each of his servants a complete livery of red and white, his colours. among the frescoes at malpaga none are more interesting, and none, thanks to the silkworms rather than to any other cause, are fortunately in a better state of preservation, than those which represent this episode in the history of the castle. colleoni died in the year , at the age of seventy-five. since he left no male representative, he constituted the republic of s. mark his heir-in-chief, after properly providing for his daughters and his numerous foundations. the venetians received under this testament a sum of , ducats, together with all arrears of pay due to him, and , ducats owed him by the duke of ferrara. it set forth the testator's intention that this money should be employed in defence of the christian faith against the turk. one condition was attached to the bequest. the legatees were to erect a statue to colleoni on the piazza of s. mark. this, however, involved some difficulty; for the proud republic had never accorded a similar honour, nor did they choose to encumber their splendid square with a monument. they evaded the condition by assigning the campo in front of the scuola di s. marco, where also stands the church of s. zanipolo, to the purpose. here accordingly the finest bronze equestrian statue in italy, if we except the marcus aurelius of the capitol, was reared upon its marble pedestal by andrea verocchio and alessandro leopardi. colleoni's liberal expenditure of wealth found its reward in the immortality conferred by art. while the names of braccio, his master in the art of war, and of piccinino, his great adversary, are familiar to few but professed students, no one who has visited either bergamo or venice can fail to have learned something about the founder of the chapel of s. john and the original of leopardi's bronze. the annals of sculpture assign to verocchio, of florence, the principal share in this statue: but verocchio died before it was cast; and even granting that he designed the model, its execution must be attributed to his collaborator, the venetian leopardi. for my own part, i am loth to admit that the chief credit of this masterpiece belongs to a man whose undisputed work at florence shows but little of its living spirit and splendour of suggested motion. that the tuscan science of verocchio secured conscientious modelling for man and horse may be assumed; but i am fain to believe that the concentrated fire which animates them both is due in no small measure to the handling of his northern fellow-craftsman. while immersed in the dreary records of crimes, treasons, cruelties, and base ambitions, which constitute the bulk of fifteenth-century italian history, it is refreshing to meet with a character so frank and manly, so simply pious and comparatively free from stain, as colleoni. the only general of his day who can bear comparison with him for purity of public life and decency in conduct, was federigo di montefeltro. even here, the comparison redounds to colleoni's credit; for he, unlike the duke of urbino, rose to eminence by his own exertion in a profession fraught with peril to men of ambition and energy. federigo started with a principality sufficient to satisfy his just desires for power. nothing but his own sense of right and prudence restrained colleoni upon the path which brought francesco sforza to a duchy by dishonourable dealings, and carmagnola to the scaffold by questionable practice against his masters. * * * * * _crema and the crucifix_ few people visit crema. it is a little country town of lombardy, between cremona and treviglio, with no historic memories but very misty ones belonging to the days of the visconti dynasty. on every side around the city walls stretch smiling vineyards and rich meadows, where the elms are married to the mulberry-trees by long festoons of foliage hiding purple grapes, where the sunflowers droop their heavy golden heads among tall stems of millet and gigantic maize, and here and there a rice-crop ripens in the marshy loam. in vintage time the carts, drawn by their white oxen, come creaking townward in the evening, laden with blue bunches. down the long straight roads, between rows of poplars, they creep on; and on the shafts beneath the pyramid of fruit lie contadini stained with lees of wine. far off across that 'waveless sea' of lombardy, which has been the battlefield of countless generations, rise the dim grey alps, or else pearled domes of thunder-clouds in gleaming masses over some tall solitary tower. such backgrounds, full of peace, suggestive of almost infinite distance, and dignified with colours of incomparable depth and breadth, the venetian painters loved. no landscape in europe is more wonderful than this--thrice wonderful in the vastness of its arching heavens, in the stillness of its level plain, and in the bulwark of huge crested mountains, reared afar like bastions against the northern sky. the little town is all alive in this september weather. at every corner of the street, under rustling abeles and thick-foliaged planes, at the doors of palaces and in the yards of inns, men, naked from the thighs downward, are treading the red must into vats and tuns; while their mild-eyed oxen lie beneath them in the road, peaceably chewing the cud between one journey to the vineyard and another. it must not be imagined that the scene of alma tadema's 'roman vintage,' or what we fondly picture to our fancy of the athenian lenaea, is repeated in the streets of crema. this modern treading of the wine-press is a very prosaic affair. the town reeks with a sour smell of old casks and crushed grape-skins, and the men and women at work bear no resemblance whatever to bacchus and his crew. yet even as it is, the lombard vintage, beneath floods of sunlight and a pure blue sky, is beautiful; and he who would fain make acquaintance with crema, should time his entry into the old town, if possible, on some still golden afternoon of autumn. it is then, if ever, that he will learn to love the glowing brickwork of its churches and the quaint terra-cotta traceries that form its chief artistic charm. how the unique brick architecture of the lombard cities took its origin--whether from the precepts of byzantine aliens in the earliest middle ages, or from the native instincts of a mixed race composed of gallic, ligurian, roman, and teutonic elements, under the leadership of longobardic rulers--is a question for antiquarians to decide. there can, however, be no doubt that the monuments of the lombard style, as they now exist, are no less genuinely local, no less characteristic of the country they adorn, no less indigenous to the soil they sprang from, than the attic colonnades of mnesicles and ictinus. what the marble quarries of pentelicus were to the athenian builders, the clay beneath their feet was to those lombard craftsmen. from it they fashioned structures as enduring, towers as majestic, and cathedral aisles as solemn, as were ever wrought from chiselled stone. there is a true sympathy between those buildings and the lombard landscape, which by itself might suffice to prove the originality of their almost unknown architects. the rich colour of the baked clay--finely modulated from a purplish red, through russet, crimson, pink, and orange, to pale yellow and dull grey--harmonises with the brilliant greenery of lombard vegetation and with the deep azure of the distant alpine range. reared aloft above the flat expanse of plain, those square _torroni_, tapering into octagons and crowned with slender cones, break the long sweeping lines and infinite horizons with a contrast that affords relief, and yields a resting-place to tired eyes; while, far away, seen haply from some bridge above ticino, or some high-built palace loggia, they gleam like columns of pale rosy fire against the front of mustering storm-clouds blue with rain. in that happy orchard of italy, a pergola of vines in leaf, a clump of green acacias, and a campanile soaring above its church roof, brought into chance combination with the reaches of the plain and the dim mountain range, make up a picture eloquent in its suggestive beauty. those ancient builders wrought cunningly with their material. the bricks are fashioned and fixed to last for all time. exposed to the icy winds of a lombard winter, to the fierce fire of a lombard summer, and to the moist vapours of a lombard autumn; neglected by unheeding generations; with flowers clustering in their crannies, and birds nesting in their eaves, and mason-bees filling the delicate network of their traceries--they still present angles as sharp as when they were but finished, and joints as nice as when the mortar dried in the first months of their building. this immunity from age and injury they owe partly to the imperishable nature of baked clay; partly to the care of the artists who selected and mingled the right sorts of earth, burned them with scrupulous attention, and fitted them together with a patience born of loving service. each member of the edifice was designed with a view to its ultimate place. the proper curve was ascertained for cylindrical columns and for rounded arches. larger bricks were moulded for the supporting walls, and lesser pieces were adapted to the airy vaults and lanterns. in the brickfield and the kiln the whole church was planned and wrought out in its details, before the hands that made a unity of all these scattered elements were set to the work of raising it in air. when they came to put the puzzle together, they laid each brick against its neighbour, filling up the almost imperceptible interstices with liquid cement composed of quicklime and fine sand in water. after five centuries the seams between the layers of bricks that make the bell-tower of s. gottardo at milan, yield no point of vantage to the penknife or the chisel. nor was it in their welding of the bricks alone that these craftsmen showed their science. they were wont to enrich the surface with marble, sparingly but effectively employed--as in those slender detached columns, which add such beauty to the octagon of s. gottardo, or in the string-courses of strange beasts and reptiles that adorn the church fronts of pavia. they called to their aid the _mandorlato_ of verona, supporting their porch pillars on the backs of couchant lions, inserting polished slabs on their façades, and building huge sarcophagi into their cloister alleys. between terra-cotta and this marble of verona there exists a deep and delicate affinity. it took the name of _mandorlato_, i suppose, from a resemblance to almond blossoms. but it is far from having the simple beauty of a single hue. like all noble veined stones, it passes by a series of modulations and gradations through a gamut of associated rather than contrasted tints. not the pink of the almond blossom only, but the creamy whiteness of the almond kernel, and the dull yellow of the almond nut may be found in it; and yet these colours are so blent and blurred to all-pervading mellowness, that nowhere is there any shock of contrast or violence of a preponderating tone. the veins which run in labyrinths of crossing, curving, and contorted lines all over its smooth surface add, no doubt, to this effect of unity. the polish, lastly, which it takes, makes the _mandorlato_ shine like a smile upon the sober face of the brickwork: for, serviceable as terra-cotta is for nearly all artistic purposes, it cannot reflect light or gain the illumination which comes from surface brightness. what the clay can do almost better than any crystalline material, may be seen in the mouldings so characteristic of lombard architecture. geometrical patterns of the rarest and most fanciful device; scrolls of acanthus foliage, and traceries of tendrils; cupids swinging in festoons of vines; angels joining hands in dance, with fluttering skirts and windy hair, and mouths that symbol singing; grave faces of old men and beautiful profiles of maidens leaning from medallions; wide-winged genii filling the spandrils of cloister arches, and cherubs clustered in the rondure of rose-windows--ornaments like these, wrought from the plastic clay, and adapted with true taste to the requirements of the architecture, are familiar to every one who has studied the church front of crema, the cloisters of the certosa, the courts of the ospedale maggiore at milan, or the public palace of cremona. if the _mandorlato_ gives a smile to those majestic lombard buildings, the terra-cotta decorations add the element of life and movement. the thought of the artist in its first freshness and vivacity is felt in them. they have all the spontaneity of improvisation, the seductive melody of unpremeditated music. moulding the supple earth with 'hand obedient to the brain,' the _plasticatore_ has impressed his most fugitive dreams of beauty on it without effort; and what it cost him but a few fatigueless hours to fashion, the steady heat of the furnace has gifted with imperishable life. such work, no doubt, has the defects of its qualities. as there are few difficulties to overcome, it suffers from a fatal facility--_nec pluteum coedit nec demorsos sapit ungues_. it is therefore apt to be unequal, touching at times the highest point of inspiration, as in the angels of guccio at perugia, and sinking not unfrequently into the commonplace of easygoing triviality, as in the common floral traceries of milanese windows. but it is never laboured, never pedantic, never dulled by the painful effort to subdue an obstinate material to the artist's will. if marble is required to develop the strength of the few supreme sculptors, terra-cotta saves intact the fancies of a crowd of lesser men. when we reflect that all the force, solemnity, and beauty of the lombard buildings was evoked from clay, we learn from them this lesson: that the thought of man needs neither precious material nor yet stubborn substance for the production of enduring masterpieces. the red earth was enough for god when he made man in his own image; and mud dried in the sun suffices for the artist, who is next to god in his creative faculty--since _non merita nome di creatore se non iddio ed il poeta_. after all, what is more everlasting than terra-cotta? the hobnails of the boys who ran across the brickfields in the roman town of silchester, may still be seen, mingled with the impress of the feet of dogs and hoofs of goats, in the tiles discovered there. such traces might serve as a metaphor for the footfall of artistic genius, when the form-giver has stamped his thought upon the moist clay, and fire has made that imprint permanent. of all these lombard edifices, none is more beautiful than the cathedral of crema, with its delicately finished campanile, built of choicely tinted yellow bricks, and ending in a lantern of the gracefullest, most airily capricious fancy. this bell-tower does not display the gigantic force of cremona's famous torrazzo, shooting feet into blue ether from the city square; nor can it rival the octagon of s. gottardo for warmth of hue. yet it has a character of elegance, combined with boldness of invention, that justifies the citizens of crema in their pride. it is unique; and he who has not seen it does not know the whole resources of the lombard style. the façade of the cathedral displays that peculiar blending of byzantine or romanesque round arches with gothic details in the windows, and with the acute angle of the central pitch, which forms the characteristic quality of the late _trecento_ lombard manner. in its combination of purity and richness it corresponds to the best age of decorated work in english gothic. what, however, strikes a northern observer is the strange detachment of this elaborate façade from the main structure of the church. like a frontispiece cut out of cardboard and pierced with ornamental openings, it shoots far above the low roof of the nave; so that at night the moon, rising above the southern aisle, shines through its topmost window, and casts the shadow of its tracery upon the pavement of the square. this is a constructive blemish to which the italians in no part of the peninsula were sensitive. they seem to have regarded their church fronts as independent of the edifice, capable of separate treatment, and worthy in themselves of being made the subject of decorative skill. in the so-called santuario of crema--a circular church dedicated to s. maria della croce, outside the walls--the lombard style has been adapted to the manner of the mid-renaissance. this church was raised in the last years of the fifteenth century by gian battista battagli, an architect of lodi, who followed the pure rules of taste, bequeathed to north italian builders by bramante. the beauty of the edifice is due entirely to its tranquil dignity and harmony of parts, the lightness of its circling loggia, and the just proportion maintained between the central structure and the four projecting porticoes. the sharp angles of these vestibules afford a contrast to the simplicity of the main building, while their clustered cupolas assist the general effect of roundness aimed at by the architect. such a church as this proves how much may be achieved by the happy distribution of architectural masses. it was the triumph of the best renaissance style to attain lucidity of treatment, and to produce beauty by geometrical proportion. when leo battista alberti complained to his friend, matteo di bastia, that a slight alteration of the curves in his design for s. francesco at rimini would 'spoil his music,' _ciò che tu muti discorda tutta quella musica_, this is what he meant. the melody of lines and the harmony of parts made a symphony to his eyes no less agreeable than a concert of tuned lutes and voices to his ears; and to this concord he was so sensitive that any deviation was a discord. after visiting the churches of crema and sauntering about the streets awhile, there is nothing left to do but to take refuge in the old albergo del pozzo. this is one of those queer italian inns, which carry you away at once into a scene of goldoni. it is part of some palace, where nobles housed their _bravi_ in the sixteenth century, and which the lesser people of to-day have turned into a dozen habitations. its great stone staircase leads to a saloon upon which the various bedchambers open; and round its courtyard runs an open balcony, and from the court grows up a fig-tree poking ripe fruit against a bedroom window. oleanders in tubs and red salvias in pots, and kitchen herbs in boxes, flourish on the pavement, where the ostler comes to wash his carriages, and where the barber shaves the poodle of the house. visitors to the albergo del pozzo are invariably asked if they have seen the museo; and when they answer in the negative, they are conducted with some ceremony to a large room on the ground-floor of the inn, looking out upon the courtyard and the fig-tree. it was here that i gained the acquaintance of signor folcioni, and became possessor of an object that has made the memory of crema doubly interesting to me ever since. when we entered the museo, we found a little old man, gentle, grave, and unobtrusive, varnishing the ugly portrait of some signor of the _cinquecento_. round the walls hung pictures, of mediocre value, in dingy frames; but all of them bore sounding titles. titians, lionardos, guido renis, and luinis, looked down and waited for a purchaser. in truth this museum was a _bric-à-brac_ shop of a sort that is common enough in italy, where treasures of old lace, glass, armour, furniture, and tapestry, may still be met with. signor folcioni began by pointing out the merits of his pictures; and after making due allowance for his zeal as amateur and dealer, it was possible to join in some of his eulogiums. a would-be titian, for instance, bought in verona from a noble house in ruins, showed venetian wealth of colour in its gemmy greens and lucid crimsons shining from a background deep and glowing. then he led us to a walnut-wood bureau of late renaissance work, profusely carved with nymphs and cupids, and armed men, among festoons of fruits embossed in high relief. deeply drilled worm-holes set a seal of antiquity upon the blooming faces and luxuriant garlandslike the touch of time who 'delves the parallels in beauty's brow.' on the shelves of an ebony cabinet close by he showed us a row of cups cut out of rock-crystal and mounted in gilt silver, with heaps of engraved gems, old snuff-boxes, coins, medals, sprays of coral, and all the indescribable lumber that one age flings aside as worthless for the next to pick up from the dust-heap and regard as precious. surely the genius of culture in our century might be compared to a chiffonnier of paris, who, when the night has fallen, goes into the streets, bag on back and lantern in hand, to rake up the waifs and strays a day of whirling life has left him. the next curiosity was an ivory carving of s. anthony preaching to the fishes, so fine and small you held it on your palm, and used a lens to look at it. yet there stood the santo gesticulating, and there were the fishes in rows--the little fishes first, and then the middle-sized, and last of all the great big fishes almost out at sea, with their heads above the water and their mouths wide open, just as the _fioretti di san francesco_ describes them. after this came some original drawings of doubtful interest, and then a case of fifty-two _nielli_. these were of unquestionable value; for has not cicognara engraved them on a page of his classic monograph? the thin silver plates, over which once passed the burin of maso finiguerra, cutting lines finer than hairs, and setting here a shadow in dull acid-eaten grey, and there a high light of exquisite polish, were far more delicate than any proofs impressed from them. these frail masterpieces of florentine art--the first beginnings of line engraving--we held in our hands while signor folcioni read out cicognara's commentary in a slow impressive voice, breaking off now and then to point at the originals before us. the sun had set, and the room was almost dark, when he laid his book down, and said: 'i have not much left to show--yet stay! here are still some little things of interest.' he then opened the door into his bedroom, and took down from a nail above his bed a wooden crucifix. few things have fascinated me more than this crucifix--produced without parade, half negligently, from the dregs of his collection by a dealer in old curiosities at crema. the cross was, or is--for it is lying on the table now before me--twenty-one inches in length, made of strong wood, covered with coarse yellow parchment, and shod at the four ends with brass. the christ is roughly hewn in reddish wood, coloured scarlet, where the blood streams from the five wounds. over the head an oval medallion, nailed into the cross, serves as framework to a miniature of the madonna, softly smiling with a correggiesque simper. the whole crucifix is not a work of art, but such as may be found in every convent. its date cannot be earlier than the beginning of the eighteenth century. as i held it in my hand, i thought--perhaps this has been carried to the bedside of the sick and dying; preachers have brandished it from the pulpit over conscience-stricken congregations; monks have knelt before it on the brick floor of their cells, and novices have kissed it in the vain desire to drown their yearnings after the relinquished world; perhaps it has attended criminals to the scaffold, and heard the secrets of repentant murderers; but why should it be shown me as a thing of rarity? these thoughts passed through my mind, while signor folcioni quietly remarked: 'i bought this cross from the frati when their convent was dissolved in crema.' then he bade me turn it round, and showed a little steel knob fixed into the back between the arms. this was a spring. he pressed it, and the upper and lower parts of the cross came asunder; and holding the top like a handle, i drew out as from a scabbard a sharp steel blade, concealed in the thickness of the wood, behind the very body of the agonising christ. what had been a crucifix became a deadly poniard in my grasp, and the rust upon it in the twilight looked like blood. 'i have often wondered,' said signor folcioni, 'that the frati cared to sell me this.' there is no need to raise the question of the genuineness of this strange relic, though i confess to having had my doubts about it, or to wonder for what nefarious purposes the impious weapon was designed--whether the blade was inserted by some rascal monk who never told the tale, or whether it was used on secret service by the friars. on its surface the infernal engine carries a dark certainty of treason, sacrilege, and violence. yet it would be wrong to incriminate the order of s. francis by any suspicion, and idle to seek the actual history of this mysterious weapon. a writer of fiction could indeed produce some dark tale in the style of de stendhal's 'nouvelles,' and christen it 'the crucifix of crema.' and how delighted would webster have been if he had chanced to hear of such a sword-sheath! he might have placed it in the hands of bosola for the keener torment of his duchess. flamineo might have used it; or the disguised friars, who made the deathbed of bracciano hideous, might have plunged it in the duke's heart after mocking his eyes with the figure of the suffering christ. to imagine such an instrument of moral terror mingled with material violence, lay within the scope of webster's sinister and powerful genius. but unless he had seen it with his eyes, what poet would have ventured to devise the thing and display it even in the dumb show of a tragedy? fact is more wonderful than romance. no apocalypse of antichrist matches what is told of roderigo borgia; and the crucifix of crema exceeds the sombre fantasy of webster. whatever may be the truth about this cross, it has at any rate the value of a symbol or a metaphor. the idea which it materialises, the historical events of which it is a sign, may well arrest attention. a sword concealed in the crucifix--what emblem brings more forcibly to mind than this that two-edged glaive of persecution which dominic unsheathed to mow down the populations of provence and to make spain destitute of men? looking upon the crucifix of crema, we may seem to see pestilence-stricken multitudes of moors and jews dying on the coasts of africa and italy. the spaniards enter mexico; and this is the cross they carry in their hands. they take possession of peru; and while the gentle people of the incas come to kiss the bleeding brows of christ, they plunge this dagger in their sides. what, again, was the temporal power of the papacy but a sword embedded in a cross? each papa rè, when he ascended the holy chair, was forced to take the crucifix of crema and to bear it till his death. a long procession of war-loving pontiffs, levying armies and paying captains with the pence of s. peter, in order to keep by arms the lands they had acquired by fraud, defiles before our eyes. first goes the terrible sixtus iv., who died of grief when news was brought him that the italian princes had made peace. he it was who sanctioned the conspiracy to murder the medici in church, at the moment of the elevation of the host. the brigands hired to do this work refused at the last moment. the sacrilege appalled them. 'then,' says the chronicler, 'was found a priest, who, being used to churches, had no scruple.' the poignard this priest carried was this crucifix of crema. after sixtus came the blood-stained borgia; and after him julius ii., whom the romans in triumphal songs proclaimed a second mars, and who turned, as michelangelo expressed it, the chalices of rome into swords and helms. leo x., who dismembered italy for his brother and nephew; and clement vii., who broke the neck of florence and delivered the eternal city to the spoiler, follow. of the antinomy between the vicariate of christ and an earthly kingdom, incarnated by these and other holy fathers, what symbol could be found more fitting than a dagger with a crucifix for case and covering? it is not easy to think or write of these matters without rhetoric. when i laid my head upon my pillow that night in the albergo del pozzo at crema, it was full of such thoughts; and when at last sleep came, it brought with it a dream begotten doubtless by the perturbation of my fancy. for i thought that a brown franciscan, with hollow cheeks, and eyes aflame beneath his heavy cowl, sat by my bedside, and, as he raised the crucifix in his lean quivering hands, whispered a tale of deadly passion and of dastardly revenge. his confession carried me away to a convent garden of palermo; and there was love in the story, and hate that is stronger than love, and, for the ending of the whole matter, remorse which dies not even in the grave. each new possessor of the crucifix of crema, he told me, was forced to hear from him in dreams his dreadful history. but, since it was a dream and nothing more, why should i repeat it? i have wandered far enough already from the vintage and the sunny churches of the little lombard town. * * * * * _cherubino at the scala theatre_ i it was a gala night. the opera-house of milan was one blaze of light and colour. royalty in field-marshal's uniform and diamonds, attended by decorated generals and radiant ladies of the court, occupied the great box opposite the stage. the tiers from pit to gallery were filled with brilliantly dressed women. from the third row, where we were fortunately placed, the curves of that most beautiful of theatres presented to my gaze a series of retreating and approaching lines, composed of noble faces, waving feathers, sparkling jewels, sculptured shoulders, uniforms, robes of costly stuffs and every conceivable bright colour. light poured from the huge lustre in the centre of the roof, ran along the crimson velvet cushions of the boxes, and flashed upon the gilded frame of the proscenium--satyrs and acanthus scrolls carved in the manner of a century ago. pit and orchestra scarcely contained the crowd of men who stood in lively conversation, their backs turned to the stage, their lorgnettes raised from time to time to sweep the boxes. this surging sea of faces and sober costumes enhanced by contrast the glitter, variety, and luminous tranquillity of the theatre above it. no one took much thought of the coming spectacle, till the conductor's rap was heard upon his desk, and the orchestra broke into the overture to mozart's _nozze_. before they were half through, it was clear that we should not enjoy that evening the delight of perfect music added to the enchantment of so brilliant a scene. the execution of the overture was not exactly bad. but it lacked absolute precision, the complete subordination of all details to the whole. in rendering german music italians often fail through want of discipline, or through imperfect sympathy with a style they will not take the pains to master. nor, when the curtain lifted and the play began, was the vocalisation found in all parts satisfactory. the contessa had a meagre _mezza voce_. susanna, though she did not sing false, hovered on the verge of discords, owing to the weakness of an organ which had to be strained in order to make any effect on that enormous stage. on the other hand, the part of almaviva was played with dramatic fire, and figaro showed a truly southern sense of comic fun. the scenes were splendidly mounted, and something of a princely grandeur--the largeness of a noble train of life--was added to the drama by the vast proportions of the theatre. it was a performance which, in spite of drawbacks, yielded pleasure. and yet it might have left me frigid but for the artist who played cherubino. this was no other than pauline lucca, in the prime of youth and petulance. from her first appearance to the last note she sang, she occupied the stage. the opera seemed to have been written for her. the mediocrity of the troupe threw her commanding merits--the richness of her voice, the purity of her intonation, her vivid conception of character, her indescribable brusquerie of movement and emotion--into that relief which a sapphire gains from a setting of pearls. i can see her now, after the lapse of nearly twenty years, as she stood there singing in blue doublet and white mantle, with the slouched spanish hat and plume of ostrich feathers, a tiny rapier at her side, and blue rosettes upon her white silk shoes! the _nozze di figaro_ was followed by a ballo. this had for its theme the favourite legend of a female devil sent from the infernal regions to ruin a young man. instead of performing the part assigned her, satanella falls in love with the hero, sacrifices herself, and is claimed at last by the powers of goodness. _quia multum amavit_, her lost soul is saved. if the opera left much to be desired, the ballo was perfection. that vast stage of the scala theatre had almost overwhelmed the actors of the play. now, thrown open to its inmost depths, crowded with glittering moving figures, it became a fairyland of fantastic loveliness. italians possess the art of interpreting a serious dramatic action by pantomime. a ballo with them is no mere affair of dancing--fine dresses, evolutions performed by brigades of pink-legged women with a fixed smile on their faces. it takes the rank of high expressive art. and the motive of this ballo was consistently worked out in an intelligible sequence of well-ordered scenes. to moralise upon its meaning would be out of place. it had a conflict of passions, a rhythmical progression of emotions, a tragic climax in the triumph of good over evil. ii at the end of the performance there were five persons in our box--the beautiful miranda, and her husband, a celebrated english man of letters; a german professor of biology; a young milanese gentleman, whom we called edoardo; and myself. edoardo and the professor had joined us just before the ballet. i had occupied a seat behind miranda and my friend the critic from the commencement. we had indeed dined together first at their hotel, the rebecchino; and they now proposed that we should all adjourn together there on foot for supper. from the scala theatre to the rebecchino is a walk of some three minutes. when we were seated at the supper-table and had talked some while upon indifferent topics, the enthusiasm roused in me by pauline lucca burst out. i broke a moment's silence by exclaiming, 'what a wonder-world music creates! i have lived this evening in a sphere of intellectual enjoyment raised to rapture. i never lived so fast before!' 'do you really think so?' said miranda. she had just finished a _beccafico_, and seemed disposed for conversation. 'do you really think so? for my part, music is in a wholly different region from experience, thought, or feeling. what does it communicate to you?' and she hummed to herself the _motif_ of cherubino's 'non so più cosa son cosa faccio.'--'what does it teach me?' i broke in upon the melody. 'why, to-night, when i heard the music, and saw her there, and felt the movement of the play, it seemed to me that a new existence was revealed. for the first time i understood what love might be in one most richly gifted for emotion.' miranda bent her eyes on the table-cloth and played with her wineglass. 'i don't follow you at all. i enjoyed myself to-night. the opera, indeed, might have been better rendered. the ballet, i admit, was splendid. but when i remember the music--even the best of it--even pauline lucca's part'--here she looked up, and shot me a quick glance across the table--'i have mere music in my ears. nothing more. mere music!' the professor of biology, who was gifted with, a sense of music and had studied it scientifically, had now crunched his last leaf of salad. wiping his lips with his napkin, he joined our _tête-à-tête_. 'gracious madam, i agree with you. he who seeks from music more than music gives, is on the quest--how shall i put it?--of the holy grail.' 'and what,' i struck in, 'is this minimum or maximum that music gives?' 'dear young friend,' replied the professor, 'music gives melodies, harmonies, the many beautiful forms to which sound shall be fashioned. just as in the case of shells and fossils, lovely in themselves, interesting for their history and classification, so is it with music. you must not seek an intellectual meaning. no; there is no _inhalt_ in music' and he hummed contentedly the air of 'voi che sapete.' while he was humming, miranda whispered to me across the table, 'separate the lucca from the music.' 'but,' i answered rather hotly, for i was nettled by miranda's argument _ad hominem_, 'but it is not possible in an opera to divide the music from the words, the scenery, the play, the actor. mozart, when he wrote the score to da ponte's libretto, was excited to production by the situations. he did not conceive his melodies out of connection with a certain cast of characters, a given ethical environment.' 'i do not know, my dear young friend,' responded the professor, 'whether you have read mozart's life and letters. it is clearly shown in them how he composed airs at times and seasons when he had no words to deal with. these he afterwards used as occasion served. whence i conclude that music was for him a free and lovely play of tone. the words of our excellent da ponte were a scaffolding to introduce his musical creations to the public. but without that carpenter's work, the melodies of cherubino are _selbst-ständig_, sufficient in themselves to vindicate their place in art. do i interpret your meaning, gracious lady?' this he said bending to miranda. 'yes,' she replied. but she still played with her wineglass, and did not look as though she were quite satisfied. i meanwhile continued: 'of course i have read mozart's life, and know how he went to work. but mozart was a man of feeling, of experience, of ardent passions. how can you prove to me that the melodies he gave to cherubino had not been evolved from situations similar to those in which cherubino finds himself? how can you prove he did not feel a natural appropriateness in the _motifs_ he selected from his memory for cherubino? how can you be certain that the part itself did not stimulate his musical faculty to fresh and still more appropriate creativeness? and if we must fall back on documents, do you remember what he said himself about the love-music in _die entführung?_ i think he tells us that he meant it to express his own feeling for the woman who had just become his wife.' miranda looked up as though she were almost half-persuaded. yet she hummed again 'non so più,' then said to herself, 'yes, it is wiser to believe with the professor that these are sequences of sounds, and nothing more.' then she sighed. in the pause which followed, her husband, the famous critic, filled his glass, stretched his legs out, and began: 'you have embarked, i see, upon the ocean of æsthetics. for my part, to-night i was thinking how much better fitted for the stage beaumarchais' play was than this musical mongrel--this operatic adaptation. the wit, observe, is lost. and cherubino--that sparkling little _enfant terrible_--becomes a sentimental fellow--a something i don't know what--between a girl and a boy--a medley of romance and impudence--anyhow a being quite unlike the sharply outlined playwright's page. i confess i am not a musician; the drama is my business, and i judge things by their fitness for the stage. my wife agrees with me to differ. she likes music, i like plays. to-night she was better pleased than i was; for she got good music tolerably well rendered, while i got nothing but a mangled comedy.' we bore the critic's monologue with patience. but once again the spirit, seeking after something which neither miranda, nor her husband, nor the professor could be got to recognise, moved within me. i cried out at a venture, 'people who go to an opera must forget music pure and simple, must forget the drama pure and simple. you must welcome a third species of art, in which the play, the music, the singers with their voices, the orchestra with its instruments--pauline lucca, if you like, with her fascination' (and here i shot a side-glance at miranda), 'are so blent as to create a world beyond the scope of poetry or music or acting taken by themselves. i give mozart credit for having had insight into this new world, for having brought it near to us. and i hold that every fresh representation of his work is a fresh revelation of its possibilities.' to this the critic answered, 'you now seem to me to be confounding the limits of the several arts.' 'what!' i continued, 'is the drama but emotion presented in its most external forms as action? and what is music but emotion, in its most genuine essence, expressed by sound? where then can a more complete artistic harmony be found than in the opera?' 'the opera,' replied our host, 'is a hybrid. you will probably learn to dislike artistic hybrids, if you have the taste and sense i give you credit for. my own opinion has been already expressed. in the _nozze_, beaumarchais' _mariage de figaro_ is simply spoiled. my friend the professor declares mozart's music to be sufficient by itself, and the libretto to be a sort of machinery for its display. miranda, i think, agrees with him. you plead eloquently for the hybrid. you have a right to your own view. these things are matters, in the final resort, of individual taste rather than of demonstrable principles. but i repeat that you are very young.' the critic drained his lambrusco, and smiled at me. 'yes, he is young,' added miranda. 'he must learn to distinguish between music, his own imagination, and a pretty woman. at present he mixes them all up together. it is a sort of transcendental omelette. but i think the pretty woman has more to do with it than metaphysics!' all this while edoardo had bestowed devout attention on his supper. but it appeared that the drift of our discourse had not been lost by him. 'well,' he said, 'you finely fibred people dissect and analyse. i am content with the _spettacolo_. that pleases. what does a man want more? the _nozze_ is a comedy of life and manners. the music is adorable. to-night the women were not bad to look at--the lucca was divine; the scenes--ingenious. i thought but little. i came away delighted. you could have a better play, caro signore!' (with a bow to our host). 'that is granted. you might have better music, cara signora!' (with a bow to miranda). 'that too is granted. but when the play and the music come together--how shall i say?--the music helps the play, and the play helps the music; and we--well we, i suppose, must help both!' edoardo's little speech was so ingenuous, and, what is more, so true to his italian temperament, that it made us all laugh and leave the argument just where we found it. the bottles of lambrusco supplied us each with one more glass; and while we were drinking them, miranda, woman-like, taking the last word, but contradicting herself, softly hummed 'non so più cosa son,' and 'ah!' she said, 'i shall dream of love to-night!' we rose and said good-night. but when i had reached my bedroom in the hôtel de la ville, i sat down, obstinate and unconvinced, and penned this rhapsody, which i have lately found among papers of nearly twenty years ago. i give it as it stands. iii mozart has written the two melodramas of love--the one a melo-tragedy, the other a melo-comedy. but in really noble art, comedy and tragedy have faces of equal serenity and beauty. in the vatican there are marble busts of the two muses, differing chiefly in their head-dresses: that of tragedy is an elaborately built-up structure of fillets and flowing hair, piled high above the forehead and descending in long curls upon the shoulders; while comedy wears a similar adornment, with the addition of a wreath of vine-leaves and grape-bunches. the expression of the sister goddesses is no less finely discriminated. over the mouth of comedy plays a subtle smile, and her eyes are relaxed in a half-merriment. a shadow rests upon the slightly heavier brows of tragedy, and her lips, though not compressed, are graver. so delicately did the greek artist indicate the division between two branches of one dramatic art. and since all great art is classical, mozart's two melodramas, _don giovanni_ and the _nozze di figaro_, though the one is tragic and the other comic, are twin-sisters, similar in form and feature. the central figure of the melo-tragedy is don juan, the hero of unlimited desire, pursuing the unattainable through tortuous interminable labyrinths, eager in appetite yet never satisfied, 'for ever following and for ever foiled.' he is the incarnation of lust that has become a habit of the soul--rebellious, licentious, selfish, even cruel. his nature, originally noble and brave, has assumed the qualities peculiar to lust--rebellion, license, cruelty, defiant egotism. yet, such as he is, doomed to punishment and execration, don juan remains a fit subject for poetry and music, because he is complete, because he is impelled by some demonic influence, spurred on by yearnings after an unsearchable delight. in his death, the spirit of chivalry survives, metamorphosed, it is true, into the spirit of revolt, yet still tragic, such as might animate the desperate sinner of a haughty breed. the central figure of the melo-comedy is cherubino, the genius of love, no less insatiable, but undetermined to virtue or to vice. this is the point of cherubino, that the ethical capacities in him are still potential. his passion still hovers on the borderland of good and bad. and this undetermined passion is beautiful because of extreme freshness; of infinite, immeasurable expansibility. cherubino is the epitome of all that belongs to the amorous temperament in a state of still ascendant adolescence. he is about sixteen years of age--a boy yesterday, a man to-morrow--to-day both and neither--something beyond boyhood, but not yet limited by man's responsibility and man's absorbing passions. he partakes of both ages in the primal awakening to self-consciousness. desire, which in don juan has become a fiend, hovers before him like a fairy. his are the sixteen years, not of a northern climate, but of spain or italy, where manhood appears in a flash, and overtakes the child with sudden sunrise of new faculties. _nondum amabam, sed amare amabam, quaerebam quod amarem, amans amare_--'i loved not yet, but was in love with loving; i sought what i should love, being in love with loving.' that sentence, penned by s. augustine and consecrated by shelley, describes the mood of cherubino. he loves at every moment of his life, with every pulse of his being. his object is not a beloved being, but love itself--the satisfaction of an irresistible desire, the paradise of bliss which merely loving has become for him. what love means he hardly knows. he only knows that he must love. and women love him--half as a plaything to be trifled with, half as a young god to be wounded by. this rising of the star of love as it ascends into the heaven of youthful fancy, is revealed in the melodies mozart has written for him. how shall we describe their potency? who shall translate those curiously perfect words to which tone and rhythm have been indissolubly wedded? _e pur mi piace languir cosi.... e se non ho chi m' oda, parlo d'amor con me._ but if this be so, it may be asked, who shall be found worthy to act cherubino on the stage? you cannot have seen and heard pauline lucca, or you would not ask this question. cherubino is by no means the most important person in the plot of the _nozze_. but he strikes the keynote of the opera. his love is the standard by which we measure the sad, retrospective, stately love of the countess, who tries to win back an alienated husband. by cherubino we measure the libertine love of the count, who is a kind of don juan without cruelty, and the humorous love of figaro and his sprightly bride susanna. each of these characters typifies one of the many species of love. but cherubino anticipates and harmonises all. they are conscious, experienced, world-worn, disillusioned, trivial. he is all love, foreseen, foreshadowed in a dream of life to be; all love, diffused through brain and heart and nerves like electricity; all love, merging the moods of ecstasy, melancholy, triumph, regret, jealousy, joy, expectation, in a hazy sheen, as of some venetian sunrise. what will cherubino be after three years? a romeo, a lovelace, a lothario, a juan? a disillusioned rake, a sentimentalist, an effete fop, a romantic lover? he may become any one of these, for he contains the possibilities of all. as yet, he is the dear glad angel of the may of love, the nightingale of orient emotion. this moment in the unfolding of character mozart has arrested and eternalised for us in cherubino's melodies; for it is the privilege of art to render things most fugitive and evanescent fixed imperishably in immortal form. iv this is indeed a rhapsodical production. miranda was probably right. had it not been for pauline lucca, i might not have philosophised the _nozze_ thus. yet, in the main, i believe that my instinct was well grounded. music, especially when wedded to words, more especially when those words are dramatic, cannot separate itself from emotion. it will not do to tell us that a melody is a certain sequence of sounds; that the composer chose it for its beauty of rhythm, form, and tune, and only used the words to get it vocalised. we are forced to go farther back, and ask ourselves, what suggested it in the first place to the composer? why did he use it precisely in connection with this dramatic situation? how can we answer these questions except by supposing that music was for him the utterance through art of some emotion? the final fact of human nature is emotion, crystallising itself in thought and language, externalising itself in action and art. 'what,' said novalis, 'are thoughts but pale dead feelings?' admitting this even in part, we cannot deny to music an emotional content of some kind. i would go farther, and assert that, while a merely mechanical musician may set inappropriate melodies to words, and render music inexpressive of character, what constitutes a musical dramatist is the conscious intention of fitting to the words of his libretto such melody as shall interpret character, and the power to do this with effect. that the cherubino of mozart's _nozze_ is quite different from beaumarchais' cherubin does not affect this question. he is a new creation, just because mozart could not, or would not, conceive the character of the page in beaumarchais' sprightly superficial spirit. he used the part to utter something unutterable except by music about the soul of the still adolescent lover. the libretto-part and the melodies, taken together, constitute a new romantic ideal, consistent with experience, but realised with the intensity and universality whereby art is distinguished from life. don juan was a myth before mozart touched him with the magic wand of music. cherubino became a myth by the same prospero's spell. both characters have the universality, the symbolic potency, which belongs to legendary beings. that there remains a discrepancy between the boy-page and the music made for him, can be conceded without danger to my theory; for the music made for cherubino is meant to interpret his psychical condition, and is independent of his boyishness of conduct. this further explains why there may be so many renderings of cherubino's melodies. mozart idealised an infinite emotion. the singer is forced to define; the actor also is forced to define. each introduces his own limit on the feeling. when the actor and the singer meet together in one personality, this definition of emotion becomes of necessity doubly specific. the condition of all music is that it depends in a great measure on the temperament of the interpreter for its momentary shade of expression, and this dependence is of course exaggerated when the music is dramatic. furthermore, the subjectivity of the audience enters into the problem as still another element of definition. it may therefore be fairly said that, in estimating any impression produced by cherubino's music, the original character of the page, transplanted from french comedy to italian opera, mozart's conception of that character, mozart's specific quality of emotion and specific style of musical utterance, together with the contralto's interpretation of the character and rendering of the music, according to her intellectual capacity, artistic skill, and timbre of voice, have collaborated with the individuality of the hearer. some of the constituents of the ever-varying product--a product which is new each time the part is played--are fixed. da ponte's cherubino and mozart's melodies remain unalterable. all the rest is undecided; the singer and the listener change on each occasion. to assert that the musician mozart meant nothing by his music, to assert that he only cared about it _quâ_ music, is the same as to say that the painter tintoretto, when he put the crucifixion upon canvas, the sculptor michelangelo, when he carved christ upon the lap of mary, meant nothing, and only cared about the beauty of their forms and colours. those who take up this position prove, not that the artist has no meaning to convey, but that for them the artist's nature is unintelligible, and his meaning is conveyed in an unknown tongue. it seems superfluous to guard against misinterpretation by saying that to expect clear definition from music--the definition which belongs to poetry--would be absurd. the sphere of music is in sensuous perception; the sphere of poetry is in intelligence. music, dealing with pure sound, must always be vaguer in significance than poetry, dealing with words. nevertheless, its effect upon the sentient subject may be more intense and penetrating for this very reason. we cannot fail to understand what words are intended to convey; we may very easily interpret in a hundred different ways the message of sound. but this is not because words are wider in their reach and more alive; rather because they are more limited, more stereotyped, more dead. they symbolise something precise and unmistakable; but this precision is itself attenuation of the something symbolised. the exact value of the counter is better understood when it is a word than when it is a chord, because all that a word conveys has already become a thought, while all that musical sounds convey remains within the region of emotion which has not been intellectualised. poetry touches emotion through the thinking faculty. if music reaches the thinking faculty at all, it is through fibres of emotion. but emotion, when it has become thought, has already lost a portion of its force, and has taken to itself a something alien to its nature. therefore the message of music can never rightly be translated into words. it is the very largeness and vividness of the sphere of simple feeling which makes its symbolical counterpart in sound so seeming vague. but in spite of this incontestable defect of seeming vagueness, emotion expressed by music is nearer to our sentient self, if we have ears to take it in, than the same emotion limited by language. it is intenser, it is more immediate, as compensation for being less intelligible, less unmistakable in meaning. it is an infinite, an indistinct, where each consciousness defines and sets a limitary form. v a train of thought which begins with the concrete not unfrequently finds itself finishing, almost against its will, in abstractions. this is the point to which the performance of cherubino's part by pauline lucca at the scala twenty years ago has led me--that i have to settle with myself what i mean by art in general, and what i take to be the proper function of music as one of the fine arts. 'art,' said goethe, 'is but form-giving.' we might vary this definition, and say, 'art is a method of expression or presentation.' then comes the question: if art gives form, if it is a method of expression or presentation, to what does it give form, what does it express or present? the answer certainly must be: art gives form to human consciousness; expresses or presents the feeling or the thought of man. whatever else art may do by the way, in the communication of innocent pleasures, in the adornment of life and the softening of manners, in the creation of beautiful shapes and sounds, this, at all events, is its prime function. while investing thought, the spiritual subject-matter of all art, with form, or finding for it proper modes of presentation, each of the arts employs a special medium, obeying the laws of beauty proper to that medium. the vehicles of the arts, roughly speaking, are material substances (like stone, wood, metal), pigments, sounds, and words. the masterly handling of these vehicles and the realisation of their characteristic types of beauty have come to be regarded as the craftsman's paramount concern. and in a certain sense this is a right conclusion; for dexterity in the manipulation of the chosen vehicle and power to create a beautiful object, distinguish the successful artist from the man who may have had like thoughts and feelings. this dexterity, this power, are the properties of the artist _quâ_ artist. yet we must not forget that the form created by the artist for the expression of a thought or feeling is not the final end of art itself. that form, after all, is but the mode of presentation through which the spiritual content manifests itself. beauty, in like manner, is not the final end of art, but is the indispensable condition under which the artistic manifestation of the spiritual content must he made. it is the business of art to create an ideal world, in which perception, emotion, understanding, action, all elements of human life sublimed by thought, shall reappear in concrete forms as beauty. this being so, the logical criticism of art demands that we should not only estimate the technical skill of artists and their faculty for presenting beauty to the æsthetic sense, but that we should also ask ourselves what portion of the human spirit he has chosen to invest with form, and how he has conceived his subject. it is not necessary that the ideas embodied in a work of art should be the artist's own. they may be common to the race and age: as, for instance, the conception of sovereign deity expressed in the olympian zeus of pheidias, or the conception of divine maternity expressed in raphael's 'madonna di san sisto.' still the personality of the artist, his own intellectual and moral nature, his peculiar way of thinking and feeling, his individual attitude towards the material given to him in ideas of human consciousness, will modify his choice of subject and of form, and will determine his specific type of beauty. to take an example: supposing that an idea, common to his race and age, is given to the artist for treatment; this will be the final end of the work of art which he produces. but his personal qualities and technical performance determine the degree of success or failure to which he attains in presenting that idea and in expressing it with beauty. signorelli fails where perugino excels, in giving adequate and lovely form to the religious sentiment. michelangelo is sure of the sublime, and raphael of the beautiful. art is thus the presentation of the human spirit by the artist to his fellow-men. the subject-matter of the arts is commensurate with what man thinks and feels and does. it is as deep as religion, as wide as life. but what distinguishes art from religion or from life is, that this subject-matter must assume beautiful form, and must be presented directly or indirectly to the senses. art is not the school or the cathedral, but the playground, the paradise of humanity. it does not teach, it does not preach. nothing abstract enters into art's domain. truth and goodness are transmuted into beauty there, just as in science beauty and goodness assume the shape of truth, and in religion truth and beauty become goodness. the rigid definitions, the unmistakable laws of science, are not to be found in art. whatever art has touched acquires a concrete sensuous embodiment, and thus ideas presented to the mind in art have lost a portion of their pure thought-essence. it is on this account that the religious conceptions of the greeks were so admirably fitted for the art of sculpture, and certain portions of the mediæval christian mythology lent themselves so well to painting. for the same reason the metaphysics of ecclesiastical dogma defy the artist's plastic faculty. art, in a word, is a middle term between reason and the senses. its secondary aim, after the prime end of presenting the human spirit in beautiful form has been accomplished, is to give tranquil and innocent enjoyment. * * * * * from what has gone before it will be seen that no human being can make or mould a beautiful form without incorporating in that form some portion of the human mind, however crude, however elementary. in other words, there is no work of art without a theme, without a motive, without a subject. the presentation of that theme, that motive, that subject, is the final end of art. the art is good or bad according as the subject has been well or ill presented, consistently with the laws of beauty special to the art itself. thus we obtain two standards for æsthetic criticism. we judge a statue, for example, both by the sculptor's intellectual grasp upon his subject, and also by his technical skill and sense of beauty. in a picture of the last judgment by fra angelico we say that the bliss of the righteous has been more successfully treated than the torments of the wicked, because the former has been better understood, although the painter's skill in each is equal. in the perseus of cellini we admire the sculptor's spirit, finish of execution, and originality of design, while we deplore that want of sympathy with the heroic character which makes his type of physical beauty slightly vulgar and his facial expression vacuous. if the phrase 'art for art's sake' has any meaning, this meaning is simply that the artist, having chosen a theme, thinks exclusively in working at it of technical dexterity or the quality of beauty. there are many inducements for the artist thus to narrow his function, and for the critic to assist him by applying the canons of a soulless connoisseurship to his work; for the conception of the subject is but the starting-point in art-production, and the artist's difficulties and triumphs as a craftsman lie in the region of technicalities. he knows, moreover, that, however deep or noble his idea may be, his work of art will be worthless if it fail in skill or be devoid of beauty. what converts a thought into a statue or a picture, is the form found for it; and so the form itself seems all-important. the artist, therefore, too easily imagines that he may neglect his theme; that a fine piece of colouring, a well-balanced composition, or, as cellini put it, 'un bel corpo ignudo,' is enough. and this is especially easy in an age which reflects much upon the arts, and pursues them with enthusiasm, while its deeper thoughts and feelings are not of the kind which translate themselves readily into artistic form. but, after all, a fine piece of colouring, a well-balanced composition, a sonorous stanza, a learned essay in counterpoint, are not enough. they are all excellent good things, yielding delight to the artistic sense and instruction to the student. yet when we think of the really great statues, pictures, poems, music of the world, we find that these are really great because of something more--and that more is their theme, their presentation of a noble portion of the human soul. artists and art-students may be satisfied with perfect specimens of a craftsman's skill, independent of his theme; but the mass of men will not be satisfied; and it is as wrong to suppose that art exists for artists and art-students, as to talk of art for art's sake. art exists for humanity. art transmutes thought and feeling into terms of beautiful form. art is great and lasting in proportion as it appeals to the human consciousness at large, presenting to it portions of itself in adequate and lovely form. vi it was necessary in the first place firmly to apprehend the truth that the final end of all art is the presentation of a spiritual content; it is necessary in the next place to remove confusions by considering the special circumstances of the several arts. each art has its own vehicle of presentation. what it can present and how it must present it, depends upon the nature of this vehicle. thus, though architecture, sculpture, painting, music, poetry, meet upon the common ground of spiritualised experience--though the works of art produced by the architect, sculptor, painter, musician, poet, emanate from the spiritual nature of the race, are coloured by the spiritual nature of the men who make them, and express what is spiritual in humanity under concrete forms invented for them by the artist--yet it is certain that all of these arts do not deal exactly with the same portions of this common material in the same way or with the same results. each has its own department. each exhibits qualities of strength and weakness special to itself. to define these several departments, to explain the relation of these several vehicles of presentation to the common subject-matter, is the next step in criticism. * * * * * of the fine arts, architecture alone subserves utility. we build for use. but the geometrical proportions which the architect observes, contain the element of beauty and powerfully influence the soul. into the language of arch and aisle and colonnade, of cupola and façade and pediment, of spire and vault, the architect translates emotion, vague perhaps but deep, mute but unmistakable. when we say that a building is sublime or graceful, frivolous or stern, we mean that sublimity or grace, frivolity or sternness, is inherent in it. the emotions connected with these qualities are inspired in us when we contemplate it, and are presented to us by its form. whether the architect deliberately aimed at the sublime or graceful--whether the dignified serenity of the athenian genius sought to express itself in the parthenon, and the mysticism of mediæval christianity in the gloom of chartres cathedral--whether it was renaissance paganism which gave its mundane pomp and glory to s. peter's, and the refined selfishness of royalty its specious splendour to the palace of versailles--need not be curiously questioned. the fact that we are impelled to raise these points, that architecture more almost than any art connects itself indissolubly with the life, the character, the moral being of a nation and an epoch, proves that we are justified in bringing it beneath our general definition of the arts. in a great measure because it subserves utility, and is therefore dependent upon the necessities of life, does architecture present to us through form the human spirit. comparing the palace built by giulio romano for the dukes of mantua with the contemporary castle of a german prince, we cannot fail at once to comprehend the difference of spiritual conditions, as these displayed themselves in daily life, which then separated italy from the teutonic nations. but this is not all. spiritual quality in the architect himself finds clear expression in his work. coldness combined with violence marks brunelleschi's churches; a certain suavity and well-bred taste the work of bramante; while michelangelo exhibits wayward energy in his library of s. lorenzo, and amadeo self-abandonment to fancy in his lombard chapels. i have chosen examples from one nation and one epoch in order that the point i seek to make, the demonstration of a spiritual quality in buildings, may be fairly stated. * * * * * sculpture and painting distinguish themselves from the other fine arts by the imitation of concrete existences in nature. they copy the bodies of men and animals, the aspects of the world around us, and the handiwork of men. yet, in so far as they are rightly arts, they do not make imitation an object in itself. the grapes of zeuxis at which birds pecked, the painted dog at which a cat's hair bristles--if such grapes or such a dog were ever put on canvas--are but evidences of the artist's skill, not of his faculty as artist. these two plastic, or, as i prefer to call them, figurative arts, use their imitation of the external world for the expression, the presentation of internal, spiritual things. the human form is for them the outward symbol of the inner human spirit, and their power of presenting spirit is limited by the means at their disposal. sculpture employs stone, wood, clay, the precious metals, to model forms, detached and independent, or raised upon a flat surface in relief. its domain is the whole range of human character and consciousness, in so far as these can be indicated by fixed facial expression, by physical type, and by attitude. if we dwell for an instant on the greatest historical epoch of sculpture, we shall understand the domain of this art in its range and limitation. at a certain point of greek development the hellenic pantheon began to be translated by the sculptors into statues; and when the genius of the greeks expired in rome, the cycle of their psychological conceptions had been exhaustively presented through this medium. during that long period of time, the most delicate gradations of human personality, divinised, idealised, were presented to the contemplation of the consciousness which gave them being, in appropriate types. strength and swiftness, massive force and airy lightness, contemplative repose and active energy, voluptuous softness and refined grace, intellectual sublimity and lascivious seductiveness--the whole rhythm of qualities which can be typified by bodily form--were analysed, selected, combined in various degrees, to incarnate the religious conceptions of zeus, aphrodite, herakles, dionysus, pallas, fauns and satyrs, nymphs of woods and waves, tritons, the genius of death, heroes and hunters, lawgivers and poets, presiding deities of minor functions, man's lustful appetites and sensual needs. all that men think, or do, or are, or wish for, or imagine in this world, had found exact corporeal equivalents. not physiognomy alone, but all the portions of the body upon which the habits of the animating soul are wont to stamp themselves, were studied and employed as symbolism. uranian aphrodite was distinguished from her pandemic sister by chastened lust-repelling loveliness. the muscles of herakles were more ponderous than the tense sinews of achilles. the hermes of the palæstra bore a torso of majestic depth; the hermes, who carried messages from heaven, had limbs alert for movement. the brows of zeus inspired awe; the breasts of dionysus breathed delight. a race accustomed, as the greeks were, to read this symbolism, accustomed, as the greeks were, to note the individuality of naked form, had no difficulty in interpreting the language of sculpture. nor is there now much difficulty in the task. our surest guide to the subject of a basrelief or statue is study of the physical type considered as symbolical of spiritual quality. from the fragment of a torso the true critic can say whether it belongs to the athletic or the erotic species. a limb of bacchus differs from a limb of poseidon. the whole psychological conception of aphrodite pandemos enters into every muscle, every joint, no less than into her physiognomy, her hair, her attitude. there is, however, a limit to the domain of sculpture. this art deals most successfully with personified generalities. it is also strong in the presentation of incarnate character. but when it attempts to tell a story, we often seek in vain its meaning. battles of amazons or centaurs upon basreliefs, indeed, are unmistakable. the subject is indicated here by some external sign. the group of laocoon appeals at once to a reader of virgil, and the divine vengeance of leto's children upon niobe is manifest in the uffizzi marbles. but who are the several heroes of the Æginetan pediment, and what was the subject of the pheidian statues on the parthenon? do the three graceful figures of a basrelief which exists at naples and in the villa albani, represent orpheus, hermes, and eurydice, or antiope and her two sons? was the winged and sworded genius upon the ephesus column meant for a genius of death or a genius of love? this dimness of significance indicates the limitation of sculpture, and inclines some of those who feel its charm to assert that the sculptor seeks to convey no intellectual meaning, that he is satisfied with the creation of beautiful form. there is sense in this revolt against the faith which holds that art is nothing but a mode of spiritual presentation. truly the artist aims at producing beauty, is satisfied if he conveys delight. but it is impossible to escape from the certainty that, while he is creating forms of beauty, he means something; and that something, that theme for which he finds the form, is part of the world's spiritual heritage. only the crudest works of plastic art, capricci and arabesques, have no intellectual content; and even these are good in so far as they convey the playfulness of fancy. painting employs colours upon surfaces--walls, panels, canvas. what has been said about sculpture will apply in a great measure to this art. the human form, the world around us, the works of man's hands, are represented in painting, not for their own sake merely, but with a view to bringing thought, feeling, action, home to the consciousness of the spectator from the artist's consciousness on which they have been impressed. painting can tell a story better than sculpture, can represent more complicated feelings, can suggest thoughts of a subtler intricacy. through colour, it can play, like music, directly on powerful but vague emotion. it is deficient in fulness and roundness of concrete reality. a statue stands before us, the soul incarnate in ideal form, fixed and frozen for eternity. the picture is a reflection cast upon a magic glass; not less permanent, but reduced to a shadow of reality. to follow these distinctions farther would be alien from the present purpose. it is enough to repeat that, within their several spheres, according to their several strengths and weaknesses, both sculpture and painting present the spirit to us only as the spirit shows itself immersed in things of sense. the light of a lamp enclosed within an alabaster vase is still lamplight, though shorn of lustre and toned to coloured softness. even thus the spirit, immersed in things of sense presented to us by the figurative arts, is still spirit, though diminished in its intellectual clearness and invested with hues not its own. to fashion that alabaster form of art with utmost skill, to make it beautiful, to render it transparent, is the artist's function. but he will have failed of the highest if the light within burns dim, or if he gives the world a lamp in which no spiritual flame is lighted. * * * * * music transports us to a different region. it imitates nothing. it uses pure sound, and sound of the most wholly artificial kind--so artificial that the musical sounds of one race are unmusical, and therefore unintelligible, to another. like architecture, music relies upon mathematical proportions. unlike architecture, music serves no utility. it is the purest art of pleasure--the truest paradise and playground of the spirit. it has less power than painting, even less power than sculpture, to tell a story or to communicate an idea. for we must remember that when music is married to words, the words, and not the music, reach our thinking faculty. and yet, in spite of all, music presents man's spirit to itself through form. the domain of the spirit over which music reigns, is emotion--not defined emotion, not feeling even so defined as jealousy or anger--but those broad bases of man's being out of which emotions spring, defining themselves through action into this or that set type of feeling. architecture, we have noticed, is so connected with specific modes of human existence, that from its main examples we can reconstruct the life of men who used it. sculpture and painting, by limiting their presentation to the imitation of external things, have all the help which experience and, association render. the mere artificiality of music's vehicle separates it from life and makes its message untranslatable. yet, as i have already pointed out, this very disability under which it labours is the secret of its extraordinary potency. nothing intervenes between the musical work of art and the fibres of the sentient being it immediately thrills. we do not seek to say what music means. we feel the music. and if a man should pretend that the music has not passed beyond his ears, has communicated nothing but a musical delight, he simply tells us that he has not felt music. the ancients on this point were wiser than some moderns when, without pretending to assign an intellectual significance to music, they held it for an axiom that one type of music bred one type of character, another type another. a change in the music of a state, wrote plato, will be followed by changes in its constitution. it is of the utmost importance, said aristotle, to provide in education for the use of the ennobling and the fortifying moods. these philosophers knew that music creates a spiritual world, in which the spirit cannot live and move without contracting habits of emotion. in this vagueness of significance but intensity of feeling lies the magic of music. a melody occurs to the composer, which he certainly connects with no act of the reason, which he is probably unconscious of connecting with any movement of his feeling, but which nevertheless is the form in sound of an emotional mood. when he reflects upon the melody secreted thus impromptu, he is aware, as we learn from his own lips, that this work has correspondence with emotion. beethoven calls one symphony heroic, another pastoral; of the opening of another he says, 'fate knocks at the door.' mozart sets comic words to the mass-music of a friend, in order to mark his sense of its inaptitude for religious sentiment. all composers use phrases like maestoso, pomposo, allegro, lagrimoso, con fuoco, to express the general complexion of the mood their music ought to represent. * * * * * before passing to poetry, it may be well to turn aside and consider two subordinate arts, which deserve a place in any system of æsthetics. these are dancing and acting. dancing uses the living human form, and presents feeling or action, the passions and the deeds of men, in artificially educated movements of the body. the element of beauty it possesses, independently of the beauty of the dancer, is rhythm. acting or the art of mimicry presents the same subject-matter, no longer under the conditions of fixed rhythm but as an ideal reproduction of reality. the actor is what he represents, and the element of beauty in his art is perfection of realisation. it is his duty as an artist to show us orestes or othello, not perhaps exactly as othello and orestes were, but as the essence of their tragedies, ideally incorporate in action, ought to be. the actor can do this in dumb show. some of the greatest actors of the ancient world were mimes. but he usually interprets a poet's thought, and attempts to present an artistic conception in a secondary form of art, which has for its advantage his own personality in play. * * * * * the last of the fine arts is literature; or, in the narrower sphere of which it will be well to speak here only, is poetry. poetry employs words in fixed rhythms, which we call metres. only a small portion of its effect is derived from the beauty of its sound. it appeals to the sense of hearing far less immediately than music does. it makes no appeal to the eyesight, and takes no help from the beauty of colour. it produces no tangible object. but language being the storehouse of all human experience, language being the medium whereby spirit communicates with spirit in affairs of life, the vehicle which transmits to us the thoughts and feelings of the past, and on which we rely for continuing our present to the future, it follows that, of all the arts, poetry soars highest, flies widest, and is most at home in the region of the spirit. what poetry lacks of sensuous fulness, it more than balances by intellectual intensity. its significance is unmistakable, because it employs the very material men use in their exchange of thoughts and correspondence of emotions. to the bounds of its empire there is no end. it embraces in its own more abstract being all the arts. by words it does the work in turn of architecture, sculpture, painting, music. it is the metaphysic of the fine arts. philosophy finds place in poetry; and life itself, refined to its last utterance, hangs trembling on this thread which joins our earth to heaven, this bridge between experience and the realms where unattainable and imperceptible will have no meaning. if we are right in defining art as the manifestation of the human spirit to man by man in beautiful form, poetry, more incontestably than any other art, fulfils this definition and enables us to gauge its accuracy. for words are the spirit, manifested to itself in symbols with no sensual alloy. poetry is therefore the presentation, through words, of life and all that life implies. perception, emotion, thought, action, find in descriptive, lyrical, reflective, dramatic, and epical poetry their immediate apocalypse. in poetry we are no longer puzzled with problems as to whether art has or has not of necessity a spiritual content. there cannot be any poetry whatsoever without a spiritual meaning of some sort: good or bad, moral, immoral, or non-moral, obscure or lucid, noble or ignoble, slight or weighty--such distinctions do not signify. in poetry we are not met by questions whether the poet intended to convey a meaning when he made it. quite meaningless poetry (as some critics would fain find melody quite meaningless, or a statue meaningless, or a venetian picture meaningless) is a contradiction in terms. in poetry, life, or a portion of life, lives again, resuscitated and presented to our mental faculty through art. the best poetry is that which reproduces the most of life, or its intensest moments. therefore the extensive species of the drama and the epic, the intensive species of the lyric, have been ever held in highest esteem. only a half-crazy critic flaunts the paradox that poetry is excellent in so far as it assimilates the vagueness of music, or estimates a poet by his power of translating sense upon the borderland of nonsense into melodious words. where poetry falls short in the comparison with other arts, is in the quality of form-giving, in the quality of sensuous concreteness. poetry can only present forms to the mental eye and to the intellectual sense, stimulate the physical senses by indirect suggestion. therefore dramatic poetry, the most complicated kind of poetry, relies upon the actor; and lyrical poetry, the intensest kind of poetry, seeks the aid of music. but these comparative deficiencies are overbalanced, for all the highest purposes of art, by the width and depth, the intelligibility and power, the flexibility and multitudinous associations, of language. the other arts are limited in what they utter. there is nothing which has entered into the life of man which poetry cannot express. poetry says everything in man's own language to the mind. the other arts appeal imperatively, each in its own region, to man's senses; and the mind receives art's message by the help of symbols from the world of sense. poetry lacks this immediate appeal to sense. but the elixir which it offers to the mind, its quintessence extracted from all things of sense, reacts through intellectual perception upon all the faculties that make men what they are. vii i used a metaphor in one of the foregoing paragraphs to indicate the presence of the vital spirit, the essential element of thought or feeling, in the work of art. i said it radiated through the form, as lamplight through an alabaster vase. now the skill of the artist is displayed in modelling that vase, in giving it shape, rich and rare, and fashioning its curves with subtlest workmanship. in so far as he is a craftsman, the artist's pains must be bestowed upon this precious vessel of the animating theme. in so far as he has power over beauty, he must exert it in this plastic act. it is here that he displays dexterity; here that he creates; here that he separates himself from other men who think and feel. the poet, more perhaps than any other artist, needs to keep this steadily in view; for words being our daily vehicle of utterance, it may well chance that the alabaster vase of language should be hastily or trivially modelled. this is the true reason why 'neither gods nor men nor the columns either suffer mediocrity in singers.' upon the poet it is specially incumbent to see that he has something rare to say and some rich mode of saying it. the figurative arts need hardly be so cautioned. they run their risk in quite a different direction. for sculptor and for painter, the danger is lest he should think that alabaster vase his final task. he may too easily be satisfied with moulding a beautiful but empty form. * * * * * the last word on the topic of the arts is given in one sentence. let us remember that every work of art enshrines a spiritual subject, and that the artist's power is shown in finding for that subject a form of ideal loveliness. many kindred points remain to be discussed; as what we mean by beauty, which is a condition indispensable to noble art; and what are the relations of the arts to ethics. these questions cannot now be raised. it is enough in one essay to have tried to vindicate the spirituality of art in general. * * * * * _a venetian medley_ i.--first impressions and familiarity it is easy to feel and to say something obvious about venice. the influence of this sea-city is unique, immediate, and unmistakable. but to express the sober truth of those impressions which remain when the first astonishment of the venetian revelation has subsided, when the spirit of the place has been harmonised through familiarity with our habitual mood, is difficult. venice inspires at first an almost corybantic rapture. from our earliest visits, if these have been measured by days rather than weeks, we carry away with us the memory of sunsets emblazoned in gold and crimson upon cloud and water; of violet domes and bell-towers etched against the orange of a western sky; of moonlight silvering breeze-rippled breadths of liquid blue; of distant islands shimmering in sun-litten haze; of music and black gliding boats; of labyrinthine darkness made for mysteries of love and crime; of statue-fretted palace fronts; of brazen clangour and a moving crowd; of pictures by earth's proudest painters, cased in gold on walls of council chambers where venice sat enthroned a queen, where nobles swept the floors with robes of tyrian brocade. these reminiscences will be attended by an ever-present sense of loneliness and silence in the world around; the sadness of a limitless horizon, the solemnity of an unbroken arch of heaven, the calm and greyness of evening on the lagoons, the pathos of a marble city crumbling to its grave in mud and brine. these first impressions of venice are true. indeed they are inevitable. they abide, and form a glowing background for all subsequent pictures, toned more austerely, and painted in more lasting hues of truth upon the brain. those have never felt venice at all who have not known this primal rapture, or who perhaps expected more of colour, more of melodrama, from a scene which nature and the art of man have made the richest in these qualities. yet the mood engendered by this first experience is not destined to be permanent. it contains an element of unrest and unreality which vanishes upon familiarity. from the blare of that triumphal bourdon of brass instruments emerge the delicate voices of violin and clarinette. to the contrasted passions of our earliest love succeed a multitude of sweet and fanciful emotions. it is my present purpose to recapture some of the impressions made by venice in more tranquil moods. memory might be compared to a kaleidoscope. far away from venice i raise the wonder-working tube, allow the glittering fragments to settle as they please, and with words attempt to render something of the patterns i behold. ii.--a lodging in san vio i have escaped from the hotels with their bustle of tourists and crowded _tables-d'hôte_. my garden stretches down to the grand canal, closed at the end with a pavilion, where i lounge and smoke and watch the cornice of the prefettura fretted with gold in sunset light. my sitting-room and bed-room face the southern sun. there is a canal below, crowded with gondolas, and across its bridge the good folk of san vio come and go the whole day long--men in blue shirts with enormous hats, and jackets slung on their left shoulder; women in kerchiefs of orange and crimson. barelegged boys sit upon the parapet, dangling their feet above the rising tide. a hawker passes, balancing a basket full of live and crawling crabs. barges filled with brenta water or mirano wine take up their station at the neighbouring steps, and then ensues a mighty splashing and hurrying to and fro of men with tubs upon their heads. the brawny fellows in the wine-barge are red from brows to breast with drippings of the vat. and now there is a bustle in the quarter. a _barca_ has arrived from s. erasmo, the island of the market-gardens. it is piled with gourds and pumpkins, cabbages and tomatoes, pomegranates and pears--a pyramid of gold and green and scarlet. brown men lift the fruit aloft, and women bending from the pathway bargain for it. a clatter of chaffering tongues, a ring of coppers, a babel of hoarse sea-voices, proclaim the sharpness of the struggle. when the quarter has been served, the boat sheers off diminished in its burden. boys and girls are left seasoning their polenta with a slice of _zucca_, while the mothers of a score of families go pattering up yonder courtyard with the material for their husbands' supper in their handkerchiefs. across the canal, or more correctly the _rio_, opens a wide grass-grown court. it is lined on the right hand by a row of poor dwellings, swarming with gondoliers' children. a garden wall runs along the other side, over which i can see pomegranate-trees in fruit and pergolas of vines. far beyond are more low houses, and then the sky, swept with sea-breezes, and the masts of an ocean-going ship against the dome and turrets of palladio's redentore. this is my home. by day it is as lively as a scene in _masaniello_. by night, after nine o'clock, the whole stir of the quarter has subsided. far away i hear the bell of some church tell the hours. but no noise disturbs my rest, unless perhaps a belated gondolier moors his boat beneath the window. my one maid, catina, sings at her work the whole day through. my gondolier, francesco, acts as valet. he wakes me in the morning, opens the shutters, brings sea-water for my bath, and takes his orders for the day. 'will it do for chioggia, francesco?' 'sissignore! the signorino has set off in his _sandolo_ already with antonio. the signora is to go with us in the gondola.' 'then get three more men, francesco, and see that all of them can sing.' iii.--to chioggia with oar and sail the _sandolo_ is a boat shaped like the gondola, but smaller and lighter, without benches, and without the high steel prow or _ferro_ which distinguishes the gondola. the gunwale is only just raised above the water, over which the little craft skims with a rapid bounding motion, affording an agreeable variation from the stately swanlike movement of the gondola. in one of these boats--called by him the _fisolo_ or seamew--my friend eustace had started with antonio, intending to row the whole way to chioggia, or, if the breeze favoured, to hoist a sail and help himself along. after breakfast, when the crew for my gondola had been assembled, francesco and i followed with the signora. it was one of those perfect mornings which occur as a respite from broken weather, when the air is windless and the light falls soft through haze on the horizon. as we broke into the lagoon behind the redentore, the islands in front of us, s. spirito, poveglia, malamocco, seemed as though they were just lifted from the sea-line. the euganeans, far away to westward, were bathed in mist, and almost blent with the blue sky. our four rowers put their backs into their work; and soon we reached the port of malamocco, where a breeze from the adriatic caught us sideways for a while. this is the largest of the breaches in the lidi, or raised sand-reefs, which protect venice from the sea: it affords an entrance to vessels of draught like the steamers of the peninsular and oriental company. we crossed the dancing wavelets of the port; but when we passed under the lee of pelestrina, the breeze failed, and the lagoon was once again a sheet of undulating glass. at s. pietro on this island a halt was made to give the oarsmen wine, and here we saw the women at their cottage doorways making lace. the old lace industry of venice has recently been revived. from burano and pelestrina cargoes of hand-made imitations of the ancient fabrics are sent at intervals to jesurun's magazine at s. marco. he is the chief _impresario_ of the trade, employing hundreds of hands, and speculating for a handsome profit in the foreign market on the price he gives his workwomen. now we are well lost in the lagoons--venice no longer visible behind; the alps and euganeans shrouded in a noonday haze; the lowlands at the mouth of brenta marked by clumps of trees ephemerally faint in silver silhouette against the filmy, shimmering horizon. form and colour have disappeared in light-irradiated vapour of an opal hue. and yet instinctively we know that we are not at sea; the different quality of the water, the piles emerging here and there above the surface, the suggestion of coast-lines scarcely felt in this infinity of lustre, all remind us that our voyage is confined to the charmed limits of an inland lake. at length the jutting headland of pelestrina was reached. we broke across the porto di chioggia, and saw chioggia itself ahead--a huddled mass of houses low upon the water. one by one, as we rowed steadily, the fishing-boats passed by, emerging from their harbour for a twelve hours' cruise upon the open sea. in a long line they came, with variegated sails of orange, red, and saffron, curiously chequered at the corners, and cantled with devices in contrasted tints. a little land-breeze carried them forward. the lagoon reflected their deep colours till they reached the port. then, slightly swerving eastward on their course, but still in single file, they took the sea and scattered, like beautiful bright-plumaged birds, who from a streamlet float into a lake, and find their way at large according as each wills. the signorino and antonio, though want of wind obliged them to row the whole way from venice, had reached chioggia an hour before, and stood waiting to receive us on the quay. it is a quaint town this chioggia, which has always lived a separate life from that of venice. language and race and customs have held the two populations apart from those distant years when genoa and the republic of s. mark fought their duel to the death out in the chioggian harbours, down to these days, when your venetian gondolier will tell you that the chioggoto loves his pipe more than his _donna_ or his wife. the main canal is lined with substantial palaces, attesting to old wealth and comfort. but from chioggia, even more than from venice, the tide of modern luxury and traffic has retreated. the place is left to fishing folk and builders of the fishing craft, whose wharves still form the liveliest quarter. wandering about its wide deserted courts and _calli_, we feel the spirit of the decadent venetian nobility. passages from goldoni's and casanova's memoirs occur to our memory. it seems easy to realise what they wrote about the dishevelled gaiety and lawless license of chioggia in the days of powder, sword-knot, and _soprani_. baffo walks beside us in hypocritical composure of bag-wig and senatorial dignity, whispering unmentionable sonnets in his dialect of _xe_ and _ga_. somehow or another that last dotage of s. mark's decrepitude is more recoverable by our fancy than the heroism of pisani in the fourteenth century. from his prison in blockaded venice the great admiral was sent forth on a forlorn hope, and blocked victorious doria here with boats on which the nobles of the golden book had spent their fortunes. pietro doria boasted that with his own hands he would bridle the bronze horses of s. mark. but now he found himself between the navy of carlo zeno in the adriatic and the flotilla led by vittore pisani across the lagoon. it was in vain that the republic of s. george strained every nerve to send him succour from the ligurian sea; in vain that the lords of padua kept opening communications with him from the mainland. from the st of january till the st of june the venetians pressed the blockade ever closer, grappling their foemen in a grip that if relaxed one moment would have hurled him at their throats. the long and breathless struggle ended in the capitulation at chioggia of what remained of doria's forty-eight galleys and fourteen thousand men. these great deeds are far away and hazy. the brief sentences of mediæval annalists bring them less near to us than the _chroniques scandaleuses_ of good-for-nothing scoundrels, whose vulgar adventures might be revived at the present hour with scarce a change of setting. such is the force of _intimité_ in literature. and yet baffo and casanova are as much of the past as doria and pisani. it is only perhaps that the survival of decadence in all we see around us, forms a fitting framework for our recollections of their vividly described corruption. not far from the landing-place a balustraded bridge of ample breadth and large bravura manner spans the main canal. like everything at chioggia, it is dirty and has fallen from its first estate. yet neither time nor injury can obliterate style or wholly degrade marble. hard by the bridge there are two rival inns. at one of these we ordered a seadinner--crabs, cuttlefishes, soles, and turbots--which we ate at a table in the open air. nothing divided us from the street except a row of japanese privet-bushes in hooped tubs. our banquet soon assumed a somewhat unpleasant similitude to that of dives; for the chioggoti, in all stages of decrepitude and squalor, crowded round to beg for scraps--indescribable old women, enveloped in their own petticoats thrown over their heads; girls hooded with sombre black mantles; old men wrinkled beyond recognition by their nearest relatives; jabbering, half-naked boys; slow, slouching fishermen with clay pipes in their mouths and philosophical acceptance on their sober foreheads. that afternoon the gondola and sandolo were lashed together side by side. two sails were raised, and in this lazy fashion we stole homewards, faster or slower according as the breeze freshened or slackened, landing now and then on islands, sauntering along the sea-walls which bulwark venice from the adriatic, and singing--those at least of us who had the power to sing. four of our venetians had trained voices and memories of inexhaustible music. over the level water, with the ripple plashing at our keel, their songs went abroad, and mingled with the failing day. the barcaroles and serenades peculiar to venice were, of course, in harmony with the occasion. but some transcripts from classical operas were even more attractive, through the dignity with which these men invested them. by the peculiarity of their treatment the _recitativo_ of the stage assumed a solemn movement, marked in rhythm, which removed it from the commonplace into antiquity, and made me understand how cultivated music may pass back by natural, unconscious transition into the realm of popular melody. the sun sank, not splendidly, but quietly in banks of clouds above the alps. stars came out, uncertainly at first, and then in strength, reflected on the sea. the men of the dogana watch-boat challenged us and let us pass. madonna's lamp was twinkling from her shrine upon the harbour-pile. the city grew before us. stealing into venice in that calm--stealing silently and shadowlike, with scarce a ruffle of the water, the masses of the town emerging out of darkness into twilight, till san giorgio's gun boomed with a flash athwart our stern, and the gas-lamps of the piazzetta swam into sight; all this was like a long enchanted chapter of romance. and now the music of our men had sunk to one faint whistling from eustace of tunes in harmony with whispers at the prow. then came the steps of the palazzo venier and the deep-scented darkness of the garden. as we passed through to supper, i plucked a spray of yellow banksia rose, and put it in my buttonhole. the dew was on its burnished leaves, and evening had drawn forth its perfume. iv.--morning rambles a story is told of poussin, the french painter, that when he was asked why he would not stay in venice, he replied, 'if i stay here, i shall become a colourist!' a somewhat similar tale is reported of a fashionable english decorator. while on a visit to friends in venice, he avoided every building which contains a tintoretto, averring that the sight of tintoretto's pictures would injure his carefully trained taste. it is probable that neither anecdote is strictly true. yet there is a certain epigrammatic point in both; and i have often speculated whether even venice could have so warped the genius of poussin as to shed one ray of splendour on his canvases, or whether even tintoretto could have so sublimed the prophet of queen anne as to make him add dramatic passion to a london drawing-room. anyhow, it is exceedingly difficult to escape from colour in the air of venice, or from tintoretto in her buildings. long, delightful mornings may be spent in the enjoyment of the one and the pursuit of the other by folk who have no classical or pseudo-mediæval theories to oppress them. tintoretto's house, though changed, can still be visited. it formed part of the fondamenta dei mori, so called from having been the quarter assigned to moorish traders in venice. a spirited carving of a turbaned moor leading a camel charged with merchandise, remains above the waterline of a neighbouring building; and all about the crumbling walls sprout flowering weeds--samphire and snapdragon and the spiked campanula, which shoots a spire of sea-blue stars from chinks of istrian stone. the house stands opposite the church of santa maria dell' orto, where tintoretto was buried, and where four of his chief masterpieces are to be seen. this church, swept and garnished, is a triumph of modern italian restoration. they have contrived to make it as commonplace as human ingenuity could manage. yet no malice of ignorant industry can obscure the treasures it contains--the pictures of cima, gian bellini, palma, and the four tintorettos, which form its crowning glory. here the master may be studied in four of his chief moods: as the painter of tragic passion and movement, in the huge 'last judgment;' as the painter of impossibilities, in the 'vision of moses upon sinai;' as the painter of purity and tranquil pathos, in the 'miracle of s. agnes;' as the painter of biblical history brought home to daily life, in the 'presentation of the virgin.' without leaving the madonna dell' orto, a student can explore his genius in all its depth and breadth; comprehend the enthusiasm he excites in those who seek, as the essentials of art, imaginative boldness and sincerity; understand what is meant by adversaries who maintain that, after all, tintoretto was but an inspired gustave doré. between that quiet canvas of the 'presentation,' so modest in its cool greys and subdued gold, and the tumult of flying, running? doesn't make much sense, but can't figure out a plausible alternative, ascending figures in the 'judgment,' what an interval there is! how strangely the white lamb-like maiden, kneeling beside her lamb in the picture of s. agnes, contrasts with the dusky gorgeousness of the hebrew women despoiling themselves of jewels for the golden calf! comparing these several manifestations of creative power, we feel ourselves in the grasp of a painter who was essentially a poet, one for whom his art was the medium for expressing before all things thought and passion. each picture is executed in the manner suited to its tone of feeling, the key of its conception. elsewhere than in the madonna dell' orto there are more distinguished single examples of tintoretto's realising faculty. the 'last supper' in san giorgio, for instance, and the 'adoration of the shepherds' in the scuola di san rocco illustrate his unique power of presenting sacred history in a novel, romantic framework of familiar things. the commonplace circumstances of ordinary life have been employed to portray in the one case a lyric of mysterious splendour; in the other, an idyll of infinite sweetness. divinity shines through the rafters of that upper chamber, where round a low large table the apostles are assembled in a group translated from the social customs of the painter's days. divinity is shed upon the straw-spread manger, where christ lies sleeping in the loft, with shepherds crowding through the room beneath. a studied contrast between the simplicity and repose of the central figure and the tumult of passions in the multitude around, may be observed in the 'miracle of s. agnes.' it is this which gives dramatic vigour to the composition. but the same effect is carried to its highest fulfilment, with even a loftier beauty, in the episode of christ before the judgment-seat of pilate, at san rocco. of all tintoretto's religious pictures, that is the most profoundly felt, the most majestic. no other artist succeeded as he has here succeeded in presenting to us god incarnate. for this christ is not merely the just man, innocent, silent before his accusers. the stationary, white-draped figure, raised high above the agitated crowd, with tranquil forehead slightly bent, facing his perplexed and fussy judge, is more than man. we cannot say perhaps precisely why he is divine. but tintoretto has made us feel that he is. in other words, his treatment of the high theme chosen by him has been adequate. we must seek the scuola di san rocco for examples of tintoretto's liveliest imagination. without ceasing to be italian in his attention to harmony and grace, he far exceeded the masters of his nation in the power of suggesting what is weird, mysterious, upon the borderland of the grotesque. and of this quality there are three remarkable instances in the scuola. no one but tintoretto could have evoked the fiend in his 'temptation of christ.' it is an indescribable hermaphroditic genius, the genius of carnal fascination, with outspread downy rose-plumed wings, and flaming bracelets on the full but sinewy arms, who kneels and lifts aloft great stones, smiling entreatingly to the sad, grey christ seated beneath a rugged pent-house of the desert. no one again but tintoretto could have dashed the hot lights of that fiery sunset in such quivering flakes upon the golden flesh of eve, half hidden among laurels, as she stretches forth the fruit of the fall to shrinking adam. no one but tintoretto, till we come to blake, could have imagined yonder jonah, summoned by the beck of god from the whale's belly. the monstrous fish rolls over in the ocean, blowing portentous vapour from his trump-shaped nostril. the prophet's beard descends upon his naked breast in hoary ringlets to the girdle. he has forgotten the past peril of the deep, although the whale's jaws yawn around him. between him and the outstretched finger of jehovah calling him again to life, there runs a spark of unseen spiritual electricity. to comprehend tintoretto's touch upon the pastoral idyll we must turn our steps to san giorgio again, and pace those meadows by the running river in company with his manna-gatherers. or we may seek the accademia, and notice how he here has varied the 'temptation of adam by eve,' choosing a less tragic motive of seduction than the one so powerfully rendered at san rocco. or in the ducal palace we may take our station, hour by hour, before the 'marriage of bacchus and ariadne.' it is well to leave the very highest achievements of art untouched by criticism, undescribed. and in this picture we have the most perfect of all modern attempts to realise an antique myth--more perfect than raphael's 'galatea,' or titian's 'meeting of bacchus with ariadne,' or botticelli's 'birth of venus from the sea.' it may suffice to marvel at the slight effect which melodies so powerful and so direct as these produce upon the ordinary public. sitting, as is my wont, one sunday morning, opposite the 'bacchus,' four germans with a cicerone sauntered by. the subject was explained to them. they waited an appreciable space of time. then the youngest opened his lips and spake: 'bacchus war der wein-gott.' and they all moved heavily away. _bos locutus est_. 'bacchus was the wine-god!' this, apparently, is what a picture tells to one man. to another it presents divine harmonies, perceptible indeed in nature, but here by the painter-poet for the first time brought together and cadenced in a work of art. for another it is perhaps the hieroglyph of pent-up passions and desired impossibilities. for yet another it may only mean the unapproachable inimitable triumph of consummate craft. tintoretto, to be rightly understood, must be sought all over venice--in the church as well as the scuola di san rocco; in the 'temptation of s. anthony' at s. trovaso no less than in the temptations of eve and christ; in the decorative pomp of the sala del senato, and in the paradisal vision of the sala del gran consiglio. yet, after all, there is one of his most characteristic moods, to appreciate which fully we return to the madonna dell' orto. i have called him 'the painter of impossibilities.' at rare moments he rendered them possible by sheer imaginative force. if we wish to realise this phase of his creative power, and to measure our own subordination to his genius in its most hazardous enterprise, we must spend much time in the choir of this church. lovers of art who mistrust this play of the audacious fancy--aiming at sublimity in supersensual regions, sometimes attaining to it by stupendous effort or authentic revelation, not seldom sinking to the verge of bathos, and demanding the assistance of interpretative sympathy in the spectator--such men will not take the point of view required of them by tintoretto in his boldest flights, in the 'worship of the golden calf' and in the 'destruction of the world by water.' it is for them to ponder well the flying archangel with the scales of judgment in his hand, and the seraph-charioted jehovah enveloping moses upon sinai in lightnings. the gondola has had a long rest. were francesco but a little more impatient, he might be wondering what had become of the padrone. i bid him turn, and we are soon gliding into the sacca della misericordia. this is a protected float, where the wood which comes from cadore and the hills of the ampezzo is stored in spring. yonder square white house, standing out to sea, fronting murano and the alps, they call the oasa degli spiriti. no one cares to inhabit it; for here, in old days, it was the wont of the venetians to lay their dead for a night's rest before their final journey to the graveyard of s. michele. so many generations of dead folk had made that house their inn, that it is now no fitting home for living men. san michele is the island close before murano, where the lombardi built one of their most romantically graceful churches of pale istrian stone, and where the campo santo has for centuries received the dead into its oozy clay. the cemetery is at present undergoing restoration. its state of squalor and abandonment to cynical disorder makes one feel how fitting for italians would be the custom of cremation. an island in the lagoons devoted to funeral pyres is a solemn and ennobling conception. this graveyard, with its ruinous walls, its mangy riot of unwholesome weeds, its corpses festering in slime beneath neglected slabs in hollow chambers, and the mephitic wash of poisoned waters that surround it, inspires the horror of disgust. the morning has not lost its freshness. antelao and tofana, guarding the vale above cortina, show faint streaks of snow upon their amethyst. little clouds hang in the still autumn sky. there are men dredging for shrimps and crabs through shoals uncovered by the ebb. nothing can be lovelier, more resting to eyes tired with pictures than this tranquil, sunny expanse of the lagoon. as we round the point of the bersaglio, new landscapes of island and alp and low-lying mainland move into sight at every slow stroke of the oar. a luggage-train comes lumbering along the railway bridge, puffing white smoke into the placid blue. then we strike down cannaregio, and i muse upon processions of kings and generals and noble strangers, entering venice by this water-path from mestre, before the austrians built their causeway for the trains. some of the rare scraps of fresco upon house fronts, still to be seen in venice, are left in cannaregio. they are chiaroscuro allegories in a bold bravura manner of the sixteenth century. from these and from a few rosy fragments on the fondaco dei tedeschi, the fabbriche nuove, and precious fading figures in a certain courtyard near san stefano, we form some notion how venice looked when all her palaces were painted. pictures by gentile bellini, mansueti, and carpaccio help the fancy in this work of restoration. and here and there, in back canals, we come across coloured sections of old buildings, capped by true venetian chimneys, which for a moment seem to realise our dream. a morning with tintoretto might well be followed by a morning with carpaccio or bellini. but space is wanting in these pages. nor would it suit the manner of this medley to hunt the lombardi through palaces and churches, pointing out their singularities of violet and yellow panellings in marble, the dignity of their wide-opened arches, or the delicacy of their shallow chiselled traceries in cream-white istrian stone. it is enough to indicate the goal of many a pleasant pilgrimage: warrior angels of vivarini and basaiti hidden in a dark chapel of the frari; fra francesco's fantastic orchard of fruits and flowers in distant s. francesco della vigna; the golden gian bellini in s. zaccaria; palma's majestic s. barbara in s. maria formosa; san giobbe's wealth of sculptured frieze and floral scroll; the ponte di paradiso, with its gothic arch; the painted plates in the museo civico; and palace after palace, loved for some quaint piece of tracery, some moulding full of mediæval symbolism, some fierce impossible renaissance freak of fancy. bather than prolong this list, i will tell a story which drew me one day past the public gardens to the metropolitan church of venice, san pietro di castello. the novella is related by bandello. it has, as will be noticed, points of similarity to that of 'romeo and juliet.' v.--a venetian novella at the time when carpaccio and gentile bellini were painting those handsome youths in tight jackets, parti-coloured hose, and little round caps placed awry upon their shocks of well-combed hair, there lived in venice two noblemen, messer pietro and messer paolo, whose palaces fronted each other on the grand canal. messer paolo was a widower, with one married daughter, and an only son of twenty years or thereabouts, named gerardo. messer pietro's wife was still living; and this couple had but one child, a daughter, called elena, of exceeding beauty, aged fourteen. gerardo, as is the wont of gallants, was paying his addresses to a certain lady; and nearly every day he had to cross the grand canal in his gondola, and to pass beneath the house of elena on his way to visit his dulcinea; for this lady lived some distance up a little canal on which the western side of messer pietro's palace looked. now it so happened that at the very time when the story opens, messer pietro's wife fell ill and died, and elena was left alone at home with her father and her old nurse. across the little canal of which i spoke there dwelt another nobleman, with four daughters, between the years of seventeen and twenty-one. messer pietro, desiring to provide amusement for poor little elena, besought this gentleman that his daughters might come on feast-days to play with her. for you must know that, except on festivals of the church, the custom of venice required that gentlewomen should remain closely shut within the private apartments of their dwellings. his request was readily granted; and on the next feast-day the five girls began to play at ball together for forfeits in the great saloon, which opened with its row of gothic arches and balustraded balcony upon the grand canal. the four sisters, meanwhile, had other thoughts than for the game. one or other of them, and sometimes three together, would let the ball drop, and run to the balcony to gaze upon their gallants, passing up and down in gondolas below; and then they would drop flowers or ribands for tokens. which negligence of theirs annoyed elena much; for she thought only of the game. wherefore she scolded them in childish wise, and one of them made answer, 'elena, if you only knew how pleasant it is to play as we are playing on this balcony, you would not care so much for ball and forfeits!' on one of those feast-days the four sisters were prevented from keeping their little friend company. elena, with nothing to do, and feeling melancholy, leaned upon the window-sill which overlooked the narrow canal. and it chanced that just then gerardo, on his way to dulcinea, went by; and elena looked down at him, as she had seen those sisters look at passers-by. gerardo caught her eye, and glances passed between them, and gerardo's gondolier, bending from the poop, said to his master, 'o master! methinks that gentle maiden is better worth your wooing than dulcinea.' gerardo pretended to pay no heed to these words; but after rowing a little way, he bade the man turn, and they went slowly back beneath the window. this time elena, thinking to play the game which her four friends had played, took from her hair a clove carnation and let it fall close to gerardo on the cushion of the gondola. he raised the flower and put it to his lips, acknowledging the courtesy with a grave bow. but the perfume of the clove and the beauty of elena in that moment took possession of his heart together, and straightway he forgot dulcinea. as yet he knew not who elena was. nor is this wonderful; for the daughters of venetian nobles were but rarely seen or spoken of. but the thought of her haunted him awake and sleeping; and every feast-day, when there was the chance of seeing her, he rowed his gondola beneath her windows. and there she appeared to him in company with her four friends; the five girls clustering together like sister roses beneath the pointed windows of the gothic balcony. elena, on her side, had no thought of love; for of love she had heard no one speak. but she took pleasure in the game those friends had taught her, of leaning from the balcony to watch gerardo. he meanwhile grew love-sick and impatient, wondering how he might declare his passion. until one day it happened that, talking through a lane or _calle_ which skirted messer pietro'a palace, he caught sight of elena's nurse, who was knocking at the door, returning from some shopping she had made. this nurse had been his own nurse in childhood; therefore he remembered her, and cried aloud, 'nurse, nurse!' but the old woman did not hear him, and passed into the house and shut the door behind her. whereupon gerardo, greatly moved, still called to her, and when he reached the door, began to knock upon it violently. and whether it was the agitation of finding himself at last so near the wish of his heart, or whether the pains of waiting for his love had weakened him, i know not; but, while he knocked, his senses left him, and he fell fainting in the doorway. then the nurse recognised the youth to whom she had given suck, and brought him into the courtyard by the help of handmaidens, and elena came down and gazed upon him. the house was now full of bustle, and messer pietro heard the noise, and seeing the son of his neighbour in so piteous a plight, he caused gerardo to be laid upon a bed. but for all they could do with him, he recovered not from his swoon. and after a while force was that they should place him in a gondola and ferry him across to his father's house. the nurse went with him, and informed messer paolo of what had happened. doctors were sent for, and the whole family gathered round gerardo's bed. after a while he revived a little; and thinking himself still upon the doorstep of pietro's palace, called again, 'nurse, nurse!' she was near at hand, and would have spoken to him. but while he summoned his senses to his aid, he became gradually aware of his own kinsfolk and dissembled the secret of his grief. they beholding him in better cheer, departed on their several ways, and the nurse still sat alone beside him. then he explained to her what he had at heart, and how he was in love with a maiden whom he had seen on feast-days in the house of messer pietro. but still he knew not elena's name; and she, thinking it impossible that such a child had inspired this passion, began to marvel which of the four sisters it was gerardo loved. then they appointed the next sunday, when all the five girls should be together, for gerardo by some sign, as he passed beneath the window, to make known to the old nurse his lady. elena, meanwhile, who had watched gerardo lying still and pale in swoon beneath her on the pavement of the palace, felt the stirring of a new unknown emotion in her soul. when sunday came, she devised excuses for keeping her four friends away, bethinking her that she might see him once again alone, and not betray the agitation which she dreaded. this ill suited the schemes of the nurse, who nevertheless was forced to be content. but after dinner, seeing how restless was the girl, and how she came and went, and ran a thousand times to the balcony, the nurse began to wonder whether elena herself were not in love with some one. so she feigned to sleep, but placed herself within sight of the window. and soon gerardo came by in his gondola; and elena, who was prepared, threw to him her nosegay. the watchful nurse had risen, and peeping behind the girl's shoulder, saw at a glance how matters stood. thereupon she began to scold her charge, and say, 'is this a fair and comely thing, to stand all day at balconies and throw flowers at passers-by? woe to you if your father should come to know of this! he would make you wish yourself among the dead!' elena, sore troubled at her nurse's rebuke, turned and threw her arms about her neck, and called her 'nanna!' as the wont is of venetian children. then she told the old woman how she had learned that game from the four sisters, and how she thought it was not different, but far more pleasant, than the game of forfeits; whereupon her nurse spoke gravely, explaining what love is, and how that love should lead to marriage, and bidding her search her own heart if haply she could choose gerardo for her husband. there was no reason, as she knew, why messer paolo's son should not mate with messer pietro's daughter. but being a romantic creature, as many women are, she resolved to bring the match about in secret. elena took little time to reflect, but told her nurse that she was willing, if gerardo willed it too, to have him for her husband. then went the nurse and made the young man know how matters stood, and arranged with him a day, when messer pietro should be in the council of the pregadi, and the servants of the palace otherwise employed, for him to come and meet his elena. a glad man was gerardo, nor did he wait to think how better it would be to ask the hand of elena in marriage from her father. but when the day arrived, he sought the nurse, and she took him to a chamber in the palace, where there stood an image of the blessed virgin. elena was there, pale and timid; and when the lovers clasped hands, neither found many words to say. but the nurse bade them take heart, and leading them before our lady, joined their hands, and made gerardo place his ring on his bride's finger. after this fashion were gerardo and elena wedded. and for some while, by the assistance of the nurse, they dwelt together in much love and solace, meeting often as occasion offered. messer paolo, who knew nothing of these things, took thought meanwhile for his son's career. it was the season when the signiory of venice sends a fleet of galleys to beirut with merchandise; and the noblemen may bid for the hiring of a ship, and charge it with wares, and send whomsoever they list as factor in their interest. one of these galleys, then, messer paolo engaged, and told his son that he had appointed him to journey with it and increase their wealth. 'on thy return, my son,' he said, 'we will bethink us of a wife for thee.' gerardo, when he heard these words, was sore troubled, and first he told his father roundly that he would not go, and flew off in the twilight to pour out his perplexities to elena. but she, who was prudent and of gentle soul, besought him to obey his father in this thing, to the end, moreover, that, having done his will and increased his wealth, he might afterwards unfold the story of their secret marriage. to these good counsels, though loth, gerardo consented. his father was overjoyed at his son's repentance. the galley was straightway laden with merchandise, and gerardo set forth on his voyage. the trip to beirut and back lasted usually six months or at the most seven. now when gerardo had been some six months away, messer pietro, noticing how fair his daughter was, and how she had grown into womanhood, looked about him for a husband for her. when he had found a youth suitable in birth and wealth and years, he called for elena, and told her that the day had been appointed for her marriage. she, alas! knew not what to answer. she feared to tell her father that she was already married, for she knew not whether this would please gerardo. for the same reason she dreaded to throw herself upon the kindness of messer paolo. nor was her nurse of any help in counsel; for the old woman repented her of what she had done, and had good cause to believe that, even if the marriage with gerardo were accepted by the two fathers, they would punish her for her own part in the affair. therefore she bade elena wait on fortune, and hinted to her that, if the worst came to the worst, no one need know she had been wedded with the ring to gerardo. such weddings, you must know, were binding; but till they had been blessed by the church, they had not taken the force of a religious sacrament. and this is still the case in italy among the common folk, who will say of a man, 'si, è ammogliato; ma il matrimonio non è stato benedetto.' 'yes, he has taken a wife, but the marriage has not yet been blessed.' so the days flew by in doubt and sore distress for elena. then on the night before her wedding, she felt that she could bear this life no longer. but having no poison, and being afraid to pierce her bosom with a knife, she lay down on her bed alone, and tried to die by holding in her breath. a mortal swoon came over her; her senses fled; the life in her remained suspended. and when her nurse came next morning to call her, she found poor elena cold as a corpse. messer pietro and all the household rushed, at the nurse's cries, into the room, and they all saw elena stretched dead upon her bed undressed. physicians were called, who made theories to explain the cause of death. but all believed that she was really dead, beyond all help of art or medicine. nothing remained but to carry her to church for burial instead of marriage. therefore, that very evening, a funeral procession was formed, which moved by torchlight up the grand canal, along the riva, past the blank walls of the arsenal, to the campo before san pietro in castello. elena lay beneath the black felze in one gondola, with a priest beside her praying, and other boats followed bearing mourners. then they laid her in a marble chest outside the church, and all departed, still with torches burning, to their homes. now it so fell out that upon that very evening gerardo's galley had returned from syria, and was anchoring within the port of lido, which looks across to the island of castello. it was the gentle custom of venice at that time that, when a ship arrived from sea, the friends of those on board at once came out to welcome them, and take and give the news. therefore many noble youths and other citizens were on the deck of gerardo's galley, making merry with him over the safe conduct of his voyage. of one of these he asked, 'whose is yonder funeral procession returning from san pietro?' the young man made answer, 'alas, for poor elena, messer pietro's daughter! she should have been married this day. but death took her, and to-night they buried her in the marble monument outside the church.' a woeful man was gerardo, hearing suddenly this news, and knowing what his dear wife must have suffered ere she died. yet he restrained himself, daring not to disclose his anguish, and waited till his friends had left the galley. then he called to him the captain of the oarsmen, who was his friend, and unfolded to him all the story of his love and sorrow, and said that he must go that night and see his wife once more, if even he should have to break her tomb. the captain tried to dissuade him, but in vain. seeing him so obstinate, he resolved not to desert gerardo. the two men took one of the galley's boats, and rowed together toward san pietro. it was past midnight when they reached the campo and broke the marble sepulchre asunder. pushing back its lid, gerardo descended into the grave and abandoned himself upon the body of his elena. one who had seen them at that moment could not well have said which of the two was dead and which was living--elena or her husband. meantime the captain of the oarsmen, fearing lest the watch (set by the masters of the night to keep the peace of venice) might arrive, was calling on gerardo to come back. gerardo heeded him no whit. but at the last, compelled by his entreaties, and as it were astonied, he arose, bearing his wife's corpse in his arms, and carried her clasped against his bosom to the boat, and laid her therein, and sat down by her side and kissed her frequently, and suffered not his friend's remonstrances. force was for the captain, having brought himself into this scrape, that he should now seek refuge by the nearest way from justice. therefore he hoved gently from the bank, and plied his oar, and brought the gondola apace into the open waters. gerardo still clasped elena, dying husband by dead wife. but the sea-breeze freshened towards daybreak; and the captain, looking down upon that pair, and bringing to their faces the light of his boat's lantern, judged their case not desperate at all. on elena's cheek there was a flush of life less deadly even than the pallor of gerardo's forehead. thereupon the good man called aloud, and gerardo started from his grief; and both together they chafed the hands and feet of elena; and, the sea-breeze aiding with its saltness, they awoke in her the spark of life. dimly burned the spark. but gerardo, being aware of it, became a man again. then, having taken counsel with the captain, both resolved to bear her to that brave man's mother's house. a bed was soon made ready, and food was brought; and after due time, she lifted up her face and knew gerardo. the peril of the grave was past, but thought had now to be taken for the future. therefore gerardo, leaving his wife to the captain's mother, rowed back to the galley and prepared to meet his father. with good store of merchandise and with great gains from his traffic, he arrived in that old palace on the grand canal. then having opened to messer paolo the matters of his journey, and shown him how he had fared, and set before him tables of disbursements and receipts, he seized the moment of his father's gladness. 'father,' he said, and as he spoke he knelt upon his knees, 'father, i bring you not good store of merchandise and bags of gold alone; i bring you also a wedded wife, whom i have saved this night from death.' and when the old man's surprise was quieted, he told him the whole story. now messer paolo, desiring no better than that his son should wed the heiress of his neighbour, and knowing well that messer pietro would make great joy receiving back his daughter from the grave, bade gerardo in haste take rich apparel and clothe elena therewith, and fetch her home. these things were swiftly done; and after evenfall messer pietro was bidden to grave business in his neighbour's palace. with heavy heart he came, from a house of mourning to a house of gladness. but there, at the banquet-table's head he saw his dead child elena alive, and at her side a husband. and when the whole truth had been declared, he not only kissed and embraced the pair who knelt before him, but of his goodness forgave the nurse, who in her turn came trembling to his feet. then fell there joy and bliss in overmeasure that night upon both palaces of the canal grande. and with the morrow the church blessed the spousals which long since had been on both sides vowed and consummated. vi.--on the lagoons the mornings are spent in study, sometimes among pictures, sometimes in the marcian library, or again in those vast convent chambers of the frari, where the archives of venice load innumerable shelves. the afternoons invite us to a further flight upon the water. both sandolo and gondola await our choice, and we may sail or row, according as the wind and inclination tempt us. yonder lies san lazzaro, with the neat red buildings of the armenian convent. the last oleander blossoms shine rosy pink above its walls against the pure blue sky as we glide into the little harbour. boats piled with coal-black grapes block the landing-place, for the padri are gathering their vintage from the lido, and their presses run with new wine. eustace and i have not come to revive memories of byron--that curious patron saint of the armenian colony--or to inspect the printing-press, which issues books of little value for our studies. it is enough to pace the terrace, and linger half an hour beneath the low broad arches of the alleys pleached with vines, through which the domes and towers of venice rise more beautiful by distance. malamocco lies considerably farther, and needs a full hour of stout rowing to reach it. alighting there, we cross the narrow strip of land, and find ourselves upon the huge sea-wall--block piled on block--of istrian stone in tiers and ranks, with cunning breathing-places for the waves to wreak their fury on and foam their force away in fretful waste. the very existence of venice may be said to depend sometimes on these _murazzi_, which were finished at an immense cost by the republic in the days of its decadence. the enormous monoliths which compose them had to be brought across the adriatic in sailing vessels. of all the lidi, that of malamocco is the weakest; and here, if anywhere, the sea might effect an entrance into the lagoon. our gondoliers told us of some places where the _murazzi_ were broken in a gale, or _sciroccale_, not very long ago. lying awake in venice, when the wind blows hard, one hears the sea thundering upon its sandy barrier, and blesses god for the _murazzi_. on such a night it happened once to me to dream a dream of venice overwhelmed by water. i saw the billows roll across the smooth lagoon like a gigantic eager. the ducal palace crumbled, and san marco's domes went down. the campanile rocked and shivered like a reed. and all along the grand canal the palaces swayed helpless, tottering to their fall, while boats piled high with men and women strove to stem the tide, and save themselves from those impending ruins. it was a mad dream, born of the sea's roar and tintoretto's painting. but this afternoon no such visions are suggested. the sea sleeps, and in the moist autumn air we break tall branches of the seeded yellowing samphire from hollows of the rocks, and bear them homeward in a wayward bouquet mixed with cobs of indian-corn. fusina is another point for these excursions. it lies at the mouth of the canal di brenta, where the mainland ends in marsh and meadows, intersected by broad renes. in spring the ditches bloom with fleurs-de-lys; in autumn they take sober colouring from lilac daisies and the delicate sea-lavender. scores of tiny plants are turning scarlet on the brown moist earth; and when the sun goes down behind the euganean hills, his crimson canopy of cloud, reflected on these shallows, muddy shoals, and wilderness of matted weeds, converts the common earth into a fairyland of fabulous dyes. purple, violet, and rose are spread around us. in front stretches the lagoon, tinted with a pale light from the east, and beyond this pallid mirror shines venice--a long low broken line, touched with the softest roseate flush. ere we reach the giudecca on our homeward way, sunset has faded. the western skies have clad themselves in green, barred with dark fire-rimmed clouds. the euganean hills stand like stupendous pyramids, egyptian, solemn, against a lemon space on the horizon. the far reaches of the lagoons, the alps, and islands assume those tones of glowing lilac which are the supreme beauty of venetian evening. then, at last, we see the first lamps glitter on the zattere. the quiet of the night has come. words cannot be formed to express the endless varieties of venetian sunset. the most magnificent follow after wet stormy days, when the west breaks suddenly into a labyrinth of fire, when chasms of clear turquoise heavens emerge, and horns of flame are flashed to the zenith, and unexpected splendours scale the fretted clouds, step over step, stealing along the purple caverns till the whole dome throbs. or, again, after a fair day, a change of weather approaches, and high, infinitely high, the skies are woven over with a web of half-transparent cirrus-clouds. these in the afterglow blush crimson, and through their rifts the depth of heaven is of a hard and gemlike blue, and all the water turns to rose beneath them. i remember one such evening on the way back from torcello. we were well out at sea between mazzorbo and murano. the ruddy arches overhead were reflected without interruption in the waveless ruddy lake below. our black boat was the only dark spot in this sphere of splendour. we seemed to hang suspended; and such as this, i fancied, must be the feeling of an insect caught in the heart of a fiery-petalled rose. yet not these melodramatic sunsets alone are beautiful. even more exquisite, perhaps, are the lagoons, painted in monochrome of greys, with just one touch of pink upon a western cloud, scattered in ripples here and there on the waves below, reminding us that day has passed and evening come. and beautiful again are the calm settings of fair weather, when sea and sky alike are cheerful, and the topmost blades of the lagoon grass, peeping from the shallows, glance like emeralds upon the surface. there is no deep stirring of the spirit in a symphony of light and colour; but purity, peace, and freshness make their way into our hearts. vii.--at the lido of all these afternoon excursions, that to the lido is most frequent. it has two points for approach. the more distant is the little station of san nicoletto, at the mouth of the porto. with an ebb-tide, the water of the lagoon runs past the mulberry gardens of this hamlet like a river. there is here a grove of acacia-trees, shadowy and dreamy, above deep grass, which even an italian summer does not wither. the riva is fairly broad, forming a promenade, where one may conjure up the personages of a century ago. for san nicoletto used to be a fashionable resort before the other points of lido had been occupied by pleasure-seekers. an artist even now will select its old-world quiet, leafy shade, and prospect through the islands of vignole and sant' erasmo to snow-touched peaks of antelao and tofana, rather than the glare and bustle and extended view of venice which its rival sant' elisabetta offers. but when we want a plunge into the adriatic, or a stroll along smooth sands, or a breath of genuine sea-breeze, or a handful of horned poppies from the dunes, or a lazy half-hour's contemplation of a limitless horizon flecked with russet sails, then we seek sant' elisabetta. our boat is left at the landing-place. we saunter across the island and back again. antonio and francesco wait and order wine, which we drink with them in the shade of the little _osteria's_ wall. a certain afternoon in may i well remember, for this visit to the lido was marked by one of those apparitions which are as rare as they are welcome to the artist's soul. i have always held that in our modern life the only real equivalent for the antique mythopoeic sense--that sense which enabled the hellenic race to figure for themselves the powers of earth and air, streams and forests, and the presiding genii of places, under the forms of living human beings, is supplied by the appearance at some felicitous moment of a man or woman who impersonates for our imagination the essence of the beauty that environs us. it seems, at such a fortunate moment, as though we had been waiting for this revelation, although perchance the want of it had not been previously felt. our sensations and perceptions test themselves at the touchstone of this living individuality. the keynote of the whole music dimly sounding in our ears is struck. a melody emerges, clear in form and excellent in rhythm. the landscapes we have painted on our brain, no longer lack their central figure. the life proper to the complex conditions we have studied is discovered, and every detail, judged by this standard of vitality, falls into its right relations. i had been musing long that day and earnestly upon the mystery of the lagoons, their opaline transparencies of air and water, their fretful risings and sudden subsidence into calm, the treacherousness of their shoals, the sparkle and the splendour of their sunlight. i had asked myself how would a greek sculptor have personified the elemental deity of these salt-water lakes, so different in quality from the Ægean or ionian sea? what would he find distinctive of their spirit? the tritons of these shallows must be of other form and lineage than the fierce-eyed youth who blows his conch upon the curled crest of a wave, crying aloud to his comrades, as he bears the nymph away to caverns where the billows plunge in tideless instability. we had picked up shells and looked for sea-horses on the adriatic shore. then we returned to give our boatmen wine beneath the vine-clad _pergola_. four other men were there, drinking, and eating from a dish of fried fish set upon the coarse white linen cloth. two of them soon rose and went away. of the two who stayed, one was a large, middle-aged man; the other was still young. he was tall and sinewy, but slender, for these venetians are rarely massive in their strength. each limb is equally developed by the exercise of rowing upright, bending all the muscles to their stroke. their bodies are elastically supple, with free sway from the hips and a mercurial poise upon the ankle. stefano showed these qualities almost in exaggeration. the type in him was refined to its artistic perfection. moreover, he was rarely in repose, but moved with a singular brusque grace. a black broad-brimmed hat was thrown back upon his matted _zazzera_ of dark hair tipped with dusky brown. this shock of hair, cut in flakes, and falling wilfully, reminded me of the lagoon grass when it darkens in autumn upon uncovered shoals, and sunset gilds its sombre edges. fiery grey eyes beneath it gazed intensely, with compulsive effluence of electricity. it was the wild glance of a triton. short blonde moustache, dazzling teeth, skin bronzed, but showing white and healthful through open front and sleeves of lilac shirt. the dashing sparkle of this animate splendour, who looked to me as though the sea-waves and the sun had made him in some hour of secret and unquiet rapture, was somehow emphasised by a curious dint dividing his square chin--a cleft that harmonised with smile on lip and steady flame in eyes. i hardly know what effect it would have upon a reader to compare eyes to opals. yet stefano's eyes, as they met mine, had the vitreous intensity of opals, as though the colour of venetian waters were vitalised in them. this noticeable being had a rough, hoarse voice, which, to develop the parallel with a sea-god, might have screamed in storm or whispered raucous messages from crests of tossing billows. i felt, as i looked, that here, for me at least, the mythopoem of the lagoons was humanised; the spirit of the saltwater lakes had appeared to me; the final touch of life emergent from nature had been given. i was satisfied; for i had seen a poem. then we rose, and wandered through the jews' cemetery. it is a quiet place, where the flat grave-stones, inscribed in hebrew and italian, lie deep in lido sand, waved over with wild grass and poppies. i would fain believe that no neglect, but rather the fashion of this folk, had left the monuments of generations to be thus resumed by nature. yet, knowing nothing of the history of this burial-ground, i dare not affirm so much. there is one outlying piece of the cemetery which seems to contradict my charitable interpretation. it is not far from san nicoletto. no enclosure marks it from the unconsecrated dunes. acacia-trees sprout amid the monuments, and break the tablets with their thorny shoots upthrusting from the soil. where patriarchs and rabbis sleep for centuries, the fishers of the sea now wander, and defile these habitations of the dead: corruption most abhorred mingling itself with their renownèd ashes. some of the grave-stones have been used to fence the towing-path; and one i saw, well carved with letters legible of hebrew on fair istrian marble, which roofed an open drain leading from the stable of a christian dog. viii.--a venetian restaurant at the end of a long glorious day, unhappy is that mortal whom the hermes of a cosmopolitan hotel, white-chokered and white-waistcoated, marshals to the hades of the _table-d'hôte_. the world has often been compared to an inn; but on my way down to this common meal i have, not unfrequently, felt fain to reverse the simile. from their separate stations, at the appointed hour, the guests like ghosts flit to a gloomy gas-lit chamber. they are of various speech and race, preoccupied with divers interests and cares. necessity and the waiter drive them all to a sepulchral syssition, whereof the cook too frequently deserves that old greek comic epithet--[greek: hadou mageiros]--cook of the inferno. and just as we are told that in charon's boat we shall not be allowed to pick our society, so here we must accept what fellowship the fates provide. an english spinster retailing paradoxes culled to-day from ruskin's handbooks; an american citizen describing his jaunt in a gondóla from the railway station; a german shopkeeper descanting in one breath on baur's bock and the beauties of the marcusplatz; an intelligent æsthete bent on working into clearness his own views of carpaccio's genius: all these in turn, or all together, must be suffered gladly through well-nigh two long hours. uncomforted in soul we rise from the expensive banquet; and how often rise from it unfed! far other be the doom of my own friends--of pious bards and genial companions, lovers of natural and lovely things! nor for these do i desire a seat at florian's marble tables, or a perch in quadri's window, though the former supply dainty food, and the latter command a bird's-eye view of the piazza. rather would i lead them to a certain humble tavern on the zattere. it is a quaint, low-built, unpretending little place, near a bridge, with a garden hard by which sends a cataract of honeysuckles sunward over a too-jealous wall. in front lies a mediterranean steamer, which all day long has been discharging cargo. gazing westward up giudecca, masts and funnels bar the sunset and the paduan hills; and from a little front room of the _trattoria_ the view is so marine that one keeps fancying oneself in some ship's cabin. sea-captains sit and smoke beside their glass of grog in the pavilion and the _caffé_. but we do not seek their company at dinner-time. our way lies under yonder arch, and up the narrow alley into a paved court. here are oleanders in pots, and plants of japanese spindle-wood in tubs; and from the walls beneath the window hang cages of all sorts of birds--a talking parrot, a whistling blackbird, goldfinches, canaries, linnets. athos, the fat dog, who goes to market daily in a _barchetta_ with his master, snuffs around. 'where are porthos and aramis, my friend?' athos does not take the joke; he only wags his stump of tail and pokes his nose into my hand. what a tartufe's nose it is! its bridge displays the full parade of leather-bound brass-nailed muzzle. but beneath, this muzzle is a patent sham. the frame does not even pretend to close on athos' jaw, and the wise dog wears it like a decoration. a little farther we meet that ancient grey cat, who has no discoverable name, but is famous for the sprightliness and grace with which she bears her eighteen years. not far from the cat one is sure to find carlo--the bird-like, bright-faced, close-cropped venetian urchin, whose duty it is to trot backwards and forwards between the cellar and the dining-tables. at the end of the court we walk into the kitchen, where the black-capped little _padrone_ and the gigantic white-capped chef are in close consultation. here we have the privilege of inspecting the larder--fish of various sorts, meat, vegetables, several kinds of birds, pigeons, tordi, beccafichi, geese, wild ducks, chickens, woodcock, &c., according to the season. we select our dinner, and retire to eat it either in the court among the birds beneath the vines, or in the low dark room which occupies one side of it. artists of many nationalities and divers ages frequent this house; and the talk arising from the several little tables, turns upon points of interest and beauty in the life and landscape of venice. there can be no difference of opinion about the excellence of the _cuisine_, or about the reasonable charges of this _trattoria_. a soup of lentils, followed by boiled turbot or fried soles, beefsteak or mutton cutlets, tordi or beccafichi, with a salad, the whole enlivened with good red wine or florio's sicilian marsala from the cask, costs about four francs. gas is unknown in the establishment. there is no noise, no bustle, no brutality of waiters, no _ahurissement_ of tourists. and when dinner is done, we can sit awhile over our cigarette and coffee, talking until the night invites us to a stroll along the zattere or a _giro_ in the gondola. ix.--night in venice night in venice! night is nowhere else so wonderful, unless it be in winter among the high alps. but the nights of venice and the nights of the mountains are too different in kind to be compared. there is the ever-recurring miracle of the full moon rising, before day is dead, behind san giorgio, spreading a path of gold on the lagoon which black boats traverse with the glow-worm lamp upon their prow; ascending the cloudless sky and silvering the domes of the salute; pouring vitreous sheen upon the red lights of the piazzetta; flooding the grand canal, and lifting the rialto higher in ethereal whiteness; piercing but penetrating not the murky labyrinth of _rio_ linked with _rio_, through which we wind in light and shadow, to reach once more the level glories and the luminous expanse of heaven beyond the misericordia. this is the melodrama of venetian moonlight; and if a single impression of the night has to be retained from one visit to venice, those are fortunate who chance upon a full moon of fair weather. yet i know not whether some quieter and soberer effects are not more thrilling. to-night, for example, the waning moon will rise late through veils of _scirocco_. over the bridges of san cristoforo and san gregorio, through the deserted calle di mezzo, my friend and i walk in darkness, pass the marble basements of the salute, and push our way along its riva to the point of the dogana. we are out at sea alone, between the canalozzo and the giudecca. a moist wind ruffles the water and cools our forehead. it is so dark that we can only see san giorgio by the light reflected on it from the piazzetta. the same light climbs the campanile of s. mark, and shows the golden angel in a mystery of gloom. the only noise that reaches us is a confused hum from the piazza. sitting and musing there, the blackness of the water whispers in our ears a tale of death. and now we hear a plash of oars, and gliding through the darkness comes a single boat. one man leaps upon the landing-place without a word and disappears. there is another wrapped in a military cloak asleep. i see his face beneath me, pale and quiet. the _barcaruolo_ turns the point in silence. from the darkness they came; into the darkness they have gone. it is only an ordinary incident of coastguard service. but the spirit of the night has made a poem of it. even tempestuous and rainy weather, though melancholy enough, is never sordid here. there is no noise from carriage traffic in venice, and the sea-wind preserves the purity and transparency of the atmosphere. it had been raining all day, but at evening came a partial clearing. i went down to the molo, where the large reach of the lagoon was all moon-silvered, and san giorgio maggiore dark against the bluish sky, and santa maria della salute domed with moon-irradiated pearl, and the wet slabs of the riva shimmering in moonlight, the whole misty sky, with its clouds and stellar spaces, drenched in moonlight, nothing but moonlight sensible except the tawny flare of gas-lamps and the orange lights of gondolas afloat upon the waters. on such a night the very spirit of venice is abroad. we feel why she is called bride of the sea. take yet another night. there had been a representation of verdi's 'forza del destino' at the teatro malibran. after midnight we walked homeward through the merceria, crossed the piazza, and dived into the narrow _calle_ which leads to the _traghetto_ of the salute. it was a warm moist starless night, and there seemed no air to breathe in those narrow alleys. the gondolier was half asleep. eustace called him as we jumped into his boat, and rang our _soldi_ on the gunwale. then he arose and turned the _ferro_ round, and stood across towards the salute. silently, insensibly, from the oppression of confinement in the airless streets to the liberty and immensity of the water and the night we passed. it was but two minutes ere we touched the shore and said good-night, and went our way and left the ferryman. but in that brief passage he had opened our souls to everlasting things--the freshness, and the darkness, and the kindness of the brooding, all-enfolding night above the sea. * * * * * _the gondolier's wedding_ the night before the wedding we had a supper-party in my rooms. we were twelve in all. my friend eustace brought his gondolier antonio with fair-haired, dark-eyed wife, and little attilio, their eldest child. my own gondolier, francesco, came with his wife and two children. then there was the handsome, languid luigi, who, in his best clothes, or out of them, is fit for any drawing-room. two gondoliers, in dark blue shirts, completed the list of guests, if we exclude the maid catina, who came and went about the table, laughing and joining in the songs, and sitting down at intervals to take her share of wine. the big room looking across the garden to the grand canal had been prepared for supper; and the company were to be received in the smaller, which has a fine open space in front of it to southwards. but as the guests arrived, they seemed to find the kitchen and the cooking that was going on quite irresistible. catina, it seems, had lost her head with so many cuttlefishes, _orai_, cakes, and fowls, and cutlets to reduce to order. there was, therefore, a great bustle below stairs; and i could hear plainly that all my guests were lending their making, or their marring, hands to the preparation of the supper. that the company should cook their own food on the way to the dining-room, seemed a quite novel arrangement, but one that promised well for their contentment with the banquet. nobody could be dissatisfied with what was everybody's affair. when seven o'clock struck, eustace and i, who had been entertaining the children in their mothers' absence, heard the sound of steps upon the stairs. the guests arrived, bringing their own _risotto_ with them. welcome was short, if hearty. we sat down in carefully appointed order, and fell into such conversation as the quarter of san vio and our several interests supplied. from time to time one of the matrons left the table and descended to the kitchen, when a finishing stroke was needed for roast pullet or stewed veal. the excuses they made their host for supposed failure in the dishes, lent a certain grace and comic charm to the commonplace of festivity. the entertainment was theirs as much as mine; and they all seemed to enjoy what took the form by degrees of curiously complicated hospitality. i do not think a well-ordered supper at any _trattoria_, such as at first suggested itself to my imagination, would have given any of us an equal pleasure or an equal sense of freedom. the three children had become the guests of the whole party. little attilio, propped upon an air-cushion, which puzzled him exceedingly, ate through his supper and drank his wine with solid satisfaction, opening the large brown eyes beneath those tufts of clustering fair hair which promise much beauty for him in his manhood. francesco's boy, who is older and begins to know the world, sat with a semi-suppressed grin upon his face, as though the humour of the situation was not wholly hidden from him. little teresa, too, was happy, except when her mother, a severe pomona, with enormous earrings and splendid _fazzoletto_ of crimson and orange dyes, pounced down upon her for some supposed infraction of good manners--_creanza_, as they vividly express it here. only luigi looked a trifle bored. but luigi has been a soldier, and has now attained the supercilious superiority of young-manhood, which smokes its cigar of an evening in the piazza and knows the merits of the different cafés. the great business of the evening began when the eating was over, and the decanters filled with new wine of mirano circulated freely. the four best singers of the party drew together; and the rest prepared themselves to make suggestions, hum tunes, and join with fitful effect in choruses. antonio, who is a powerful young fellow, with bronzed cheeks and a perfect tempest of coal-black hair in flakes upon his forehead, has a most extraordinary soprano--sound as a bell, strong as a trumpet, well trained, and true to the least shade in intonation. piero, whose rugged neptunian features, sea-wrinkled, tell of a rough water-life, boasts a bass of resonant, almost pathetic quality. francesco has a _mezzo voce_, which might, by a stretch of politeness, be called baritone. piero's comrade, whose name concerns us not, has another of these nondescript voices. they sat together with their glasses and cigars before them, sketching part-songs in outline, striking the keynote--now higher and now lower--till they saw their subject well in view. then they burst into full singing, antonio leading with a metal note that thrilled one's ears, but still was musical. complicated contrapuntal pieces, such as we should call madrigals, with ever-recurring refrains of 'venezia, gemma triatica, sposa del mar,' descending probably from ancient days, followed each other in quick succession. barcaroles, serenades, love-songs, and invitations to the water were interwoven for relief. one of these romantic pieces had a beautiful burden, 'dormi, o bella, o fingi di dormir,' of which the melody was fully worthy. but the most successful of all the tunes were two with a sad motive. the one repeated incessantly 'ohimé! mia madre morì;' the other was a girl's love lament: 'perchè tradirmi, perchè lasciarmi! prima d'amarmi non eri così!' even the children joined in these; and catina, who took the solo part in the second, was inspired to a great dramatic effort. all these were purely popular songs. the people of venice, however, are passionate for operas. therefore we had duets and solos from 'ernani,' the 'ballo in maschera,' and the 'forza del destino,' and one comic chorus from 'boccaccio,' which seemed to make them wild with pleasure. to my mind, the best of these more formal pieces was a duet between attila and italia from some opera unknown to me, which antonio and piero performed with incomparable spirit. it was noticeable how, descending to the people, sung by them for love at sea, or on excursions to the villages round mestre, these operatic reminiscences had lost something of their theatrical formality, and assumed instead the serious gravity, the quaint movement, and marked emphasis which belong to popular music in northern and central italy. an antique character was communicated even to the recitative of verdi by slight, almost indefinable, changes of rhythm and accent. there was no end to the singing. 'siamo appassionati per il canto,' frequently repeated, was proved true by the profusion and variety of songs produced from inexhaustible memories, lightly tried over, brilliantly performed, rapidly succeeding each other. nor were gestures wanting--lifted arms, hands stretched to hands, flashing eyes, hair tossed from the forehead--unconscious and appropriate action--which showed how the spirit of the music and words alike possessed the men. one by one the children fell asleep. little attilio and teresa were tucked up beneath my scotch shawl at two ends of a great sofa; and not even his father's clarion voice, in the character of italia defying attila to harm 'le mie superbe città,' could wake the little boy up. the night wore on. it was past one. eustace and i had promised to be in the church of the gesuati at six next morning. we therefore gave the guests a gentle hint, which they as gently took. with exquisite, because perfectly unaffected, breeding they sank for a few moments into common conversation, then wrapped the children up, and took their leave. it was an uncomfortable, warm, wet night of sullen _scirocco_. the next day, which was sunday, francesco called me at five. there was no visible sunrise that cheerless damp october morning. grey dawn stole somehow imperceptibly between the veil of clouds and leaden waters, as my friend and i, well sheltered by our _felze_, passed into the giudecca, and took our station before the church of the gesuati. a few women from the neighbouring streets and courts crossed the bridges in draggled petticoats on their way to first mass. a few men, shouldering their jackets, lounged along the zattere, opened the great green doors, and entered. then suddenly antonio cried out that the bridal party was on its way, not as we had expected, in boats, but on foot. we left our gondola, and fell into the ranks, after shaking hands with francesco, who is the elder brother of the bride. there was nothing very noticeable in her appearance, except her large dark eyes. otherwise both face and figure were of a common type; and her bridal dress of sprigged grey silk, large veil and orange blossoms, reduced her to the level of a _bourgeoise_. it was much the same with the bridegroom. his features, indeed, proved him a true venetian gondolier; for the skin was strained over the cheekbones, and the muscles of the throat beneath the jaws stood out like cords, and the bright blue eyes were deep-set beneath a spare brown forehead. but he had provided a complete suit of black for the occasion, and wore a shirt of worked cambric, which disguised what is really splendid in the physique of these oarsmen, at once slender and sinewy. both bride and bridegroom looked uncomfortable in their clothes. the light that fell upon them in the church was dull and leaden. the ceremony, which was very hurriedly performed by an unctuous priest, did not appear to impress either of them. nobody in the bridal party, crowding together on both sides of the altar, looked as though the service was of the slightest interest and moment. indeed, this was hardly to be wondered at; for the priest, so far as i could understand his gabble, took the larger portion for read, after muttering the first words of the rubric. a little carven image of an acolyte--a weird boy who seemed to move by springs, whose hair had all the semblance of painted wood, and whose complexion was white and red like a clown's--did not make matters more intelligible by spasmodically clattering responses. after the ceremony we heard mass and contributed to three distinct offertories. considering how much account even two _soldi_ are to these poor people, i was really angry when i heard the copper shower. every member of the party had his or her pennies ready, and dropped them into the boxes. whether it was the effect of the bad morning, or the ugliness of a very ill-designed _barocco_ building, or the fault of the fat oily priest, i know not. but the _sposalizio_ struck me as tame and cheerless, the mass as irreverent and vulgarly conducted. at the same time there is something too impressive in the mass for any perfunctory performance to divest its symbolism of sublimity. a protestant communion service lends itself more easily to degradation by unworthiness in the minister. we walked down the church in double file, led by the bride and bridegroom, who had knelt during the ceremony with the best man--_compare_, as he is called--at a narrow _prie-dieu_ before the altar. the _compare_ is a person of distinction at these weddings. he has to present the bride with a great pyramid of artificial flowers, which is placed before her at the marriage-feast, a packet of candles, and a box of bonbons. the comfits, when the box is opened, are found to include two magnificent sugar babies lying in their cradles. i was told that a _compare_, who does the thing handsomely, must be prepared to spend about a hundred francs upon these presents, in addition to the wine and cigars with which he treats his friends. on this occasion the women were agreed that he had done his duty well. he was a fat, wealthy little man, who lived by letting market-boats for hire on the rialto. from the church to the bride's house was a walk of some three minutes. on the way we were introduced to the father of the bride--a very magnificent personage, with points of strong resemblance to vittorio emmanuele. he wore an enormous broad-brimmed hat and emerald-green earrings, and looked considerably younger than his eldest son, francesco. throughout the _nozze_ he took the lead in a grand imperious fashion of his own. wherever he went, he seemed to fill the place, and was fully aware of his own importance. in florence i think he would have got the nickname of _tacchin_, or turkey-cock. here at venice the sons and daughters call their parent briefly _vecchio_. i heard him so addressed with a certain amount of awe, expecting an explosion of bubbly-jock displeasure. but he took it, as though it was natural, without disturbance. the other _vecchio_, father of the bridegroom, struck me as more sympathetic. he was a gentle old man, proud of his many prosperous, laborious sons. they, like the rest of the gentlemen, were gondoliers. both the _vecchi_, indeed, continue to ply their trade, day and night, at the _traghetto_. _traghetti_ are stations for gondolas at different points of the canals. as their name implies, it is the first duty of the gondoliers upon them to ferry people across. this they do for the fixed fee of five centimes. the _traghetti_ are in fact venetian cab-stands. and, of course, like london cabs, the gondolas may be taken off them for trips. the municipality, however, makes it a condition, under penalty of fine to the _traghetto_, that each station should always be provided with two boats for the service of the ferry. when vacancies occur on the _traghetti_, a gondolier who owns or hires a boat makes application to the municipality, receives a number, and is inscribed as plying at a certain station. he has now entered a sort of guild, which is presided over by a _capo-traghetto_, elected by the rest for the protection of their interests, the settlement of disputes, and the management of their common funds. in the old acts of venice this functionary is styled _gastaldo di traghetto_. the members have to contribute something yearly to the guild. this payment varies upon different stations, according to the greater or less amount of the tax levied by the municipality on the _traghetto_. the highest subscription i have heard of is twenty-five francs; the lowest, seven. there is one _traghetto_, known by the name of madonna del giglio or zobenigo, which possesses near its _pergola_ of vines a nice old brown venetian picture. some stranger offered a considerable sum for this. but the guild refused to part with it. as may be imagined, the _traghetti_ vary greatly in the amount and quality of their custom. by far the best are those in the neighbourhood of the hotels upon the grand canal. at any one of these a gondolier during the season is sure of picking up some foreigner or other who will pay him handsomely for comparatively light service. a _traghetto_ on the giudecca, on the contrary, depends upon venetian traffic. the work is more monotonous, and the pay is reduced to its tariffed minimum. so far as i can gather, an industrious gondolier, with a good boat, belonging to a good _traghetto_, may make as much as ten or fifteen francs in a single day. but this cannot be relied on. they therefore prefer a fixed appointment with a private family, for which they receive by tariff five francs a day, or by arrangement for long periods perhaps four francs a day, with certain perquisites and small advantages. it is great luck to get such an engagement for the winter. the heaviest anxieties which beset a gondolier are then disposed of. having entered private service, they are not allowed to ply their trade on the _traghetto_, except by stipulation with their masters. then they may take their place one night out of every six in the rank and file. the gondoliers have two proverbs, which show how desirable it is, while taking a fixed engagement, to keep their hold on the _traghetto_. one is to this effect: _il traghetto è un buon padrone_. the other satirises the meanness of the poverty-stricken venetian nobility: _pompa di servitù, misera insegna_. when they combine the _traghetto_ with private service, the municipality insists on their retaining the number painted on their gondola; and against this their employers frequently object. it is therefore a great point for a gondolier to make such an arrangement with his master as will leave him free to show his number. the reason for this regulation is obvious. gondoliers are known more by their numbers and their _traghetti_ than their names. they tell me that though there are upwards of a thousand registered in venice, each man of the trade knows the whole confraternity by face and number. taking all things into consideration, i think four francs a day the whole year round are very good earnings for a gondolier. on this he will marry and rear a family, and put a little money by. a young unmarried man, working at two and a half or three francs a day, is proportionately well-to-do. if he is economical, he ought upon these wages to save enough in two or three years to buy himself a gondola. a boy from fifteen to nineteen is called a _mezz' uomo_, and gets about one franc a day. a new gondola with all its fittings is worth about a thousand francs. it does not last in good condition more than six or seven years. at the end of that time the hull will fetch eighty francs. a new hull can be had for three hundred francs. the old fittings--brass sea-horses or _cavalli_, steel prow or _ferro_, covered cabin or _felze_, cushions and leather-covered back-board or _stramazetto_, maybe transferred to it. when a man wants to start a gondola, he will begin by buying one already half past service--a _gondola da traghetto_ or _di mezza età_. this should cost him something over two hundred francs. little by little, he accumulates the needful fittings; and when his first purchase is worn out, he hopes to set up with a well-appointed equipage. he thus gradually works his way from the rough trade which involves hard work and poor earnings to that more profitable industry which cannot be carried on without a smart boat. the gondola is a source of continual expense for repairs. its oars have to be replaced. it has to be washed with sponges, blacked, and varnished. its bottom needs frequent cleaning. weeds adhere to it in the warm brackish water, growing rapidly through the summer months, and demanding to be scrubbed off once in every four weeks. the gondolier has no place where he can do this for himself. he therefore takes his boat to a wharf, or _squero_, as the place is called. at these _squeri_ gondolas are built as well as cleaned. the fee for a thorough setting to rights of the boat is five francs. it must be done upon a fine day. thus in addition to the cost, the owner loses a good day's work. these details will serve to give some notion of the sort of people with whom eustace and i spent our day. the bride's house is in an excellent position on an open canal leading from the canalozzo to the giudecca. she had arrived before us, and received her friends in the middle of the room. each of us in turn kissed her cheek and murmured our congratulations. we found the large living-room of the house arranged with chairs all round the walls, and the company were marshalled in some order of precedence, my friend and i taking place near the bride. on either hand airy bedrooms opened out, and two large doors, wide open, gave a view from where we sat of a good-sized kitchen. this arrangement of the house was not only comfortable, but pretty; for the bright copper pans and pipkins ranged on shelves along the kitchen walls had a very cheerful effect. the walls were whitewashed, but literally covered with all sorts of pictures. a great plaster cast from some antique, an atys, adonis, or paris, looked down from a bracket placed between the windows. there was enough furniture, solid and well kept, in all the rooms. among the pictures were full-length portraits in oils of two celebrated gondoliers--one in antique costume, the other painted a few years since. the original of the latter soon came and stood before it. he had won regatta prizes; and the flags of four discordant colours were painted round him by the artist, who had evidently cared more to commemorate the triumphs of his sitter and to strike a likeness than to secure the tone of his own picture. this champion turned out a fine fellow--corradini--with one of the brightest little gondoliers of thirteen for his son. after the company were seated, lemonade and cakes were handed round amid a hubbub of chattering women. then followed cups of black coffee and more cakes. then a glass of cyprus and more cakes. then a glass of curaçoa and more cakes. finally, a glass of noyau and still more cakes. it was only a little after seven in the morning. yet politeness compelled us to consume these delicacies. i tried to shirk my duty; but this discretion was taken by my hosts for well-bred modesty; and instead of being let off, i had the richest piece of pastry and the largest maccaroon available pressed so kindly on me, that, had they been poisoned, i would not have refused to eat them. the conversation grew more, and more animated, the women gathering together in their dresses of bright blue and scarlet, the men lighting cigars and puffing out a few quiet words. it struck me as a drawback that these picturesque people had put on sunday-clothes to look as much like shopkeepers as possible. but they did not all of them succeed. two handsome women, who handed the cups round--one a brunette, the other a blonde--wore skirts of brilliant blue, with a sort of white jacket, and white kerchief folded heavily about their shoulders. the brunette had a great string of coral, the blonde of amber, round her throat. gold earrings and the long gold chains venetian women wear, of all patterns and degrees of value, abounded. nobody appeared without them; but i could not see any of an antique make. the men seemed to be contented with rings--huge, heavy rings of solid gold, worked with a rough flower pattern. one young fellow had three upon his fingers. this circumstance led me to speculate whether a certain portion at least of this display of jewellery around me had not been borrowed for the occasion. eustace and i were treated quite like friends. they called us _i signori_. but this was only, i think, because our english names are quite unmanageable. the women fluttered about us and kept asking whether we really liked it all? whether we should come to the _pranzo_? whether it was true we danced? it seemed to give them unaffected pleasure to be kind to us; and when we rose to go away, the whole company crowded round, shaking hands and saying: 'si divertirà bene stasera!' nobody resented our presence; what was better, no one put himself out for us. 'vogliono veder il nostro costume,' i heard one woman say. we got home soon after eight, and, as our ancestors would have said, settled our stomachs with a dish of tea. it makes me shudder now to think of the mixed liquids and miscellaneous cakes we had consumed at that unwonted hour. at half-past three, eustace and i again prepared ourselves for action. his gondola was in attendance, covered with the _felze_, to take us to the house of the _sposa_. we found the canal crowded with poor people of the quarter--men, women, and children lining the walls along its side, and clustering like bees upon the bridges. the water itself was almost choked with gondolas. evidently the folk of san vio thought our wedding procession would be a most exciting pageant. we entered the house, and were again greeted by the bride and bridegroom, who consigned each of us to the control of a fair tyrant. this is the most fitting way of describing our introduction to our partners of the evening; for we were no sooner presented, than the ladies swooped upon us like their prey, placing their shawls upon our left arms, while they seized and clung to what was left available of us for locomotion. there was considerable giggling and tittering throughout the company when signora fenzo, the young and comely wife of a gondolier, thus took possession of eustace, and signora dell' acqua, the widow of another gondolier, appropriated me. the affair had been arranged beforehand, and their friends had probably chaffed them with the difficulty of managing two mad englishmen. however, they proved equal to the occasion, and the difficulties were entirely on our side. signora fenzo was a handsome brunette, quiet in her manners, who meant business. i envied eustace his subjection to such a reasonable being. signora dell' acqua, though a widow, was by no means disconsolate; and i soon perceived that it would require all the address and diplomacy i possessed, to make anything out of her society. she laughed incessantly; darted in the most diverse directions, dragging me along with her; exhibited me in triumph to her cronies; made eyes at me over a fan, repeated my clumsiest remarks, as though they gave her indescribable amusement; and all the while jabbered venetian at express rate, without the slightest regard for my incapacity to follow her vagaries. the _vecchio_ marshalled us in order. first went the _sposa_ and _comare_ with the mothers of bride and bridegroom. then followed the _sposo_ and the bridesmaid. after them i was made to lead my fair tormentor. as we descended the staircase there arose a hubbub of excitement from the crowd on the canals. the gondolas moved turbidly upon the face of the waters. the bridegroom kept muttering to himself, 'how we shall be criticised! they will tell each other who was decently dressed, and who stepped awkwardly into the boats, and what the price of my boots was!' such exclamations, murmured at intervals, and followed by chest-drawn sighs, expressed a deep preoccupation. with regard to his boots, he need have had no anxiety. they were of the shiniest patent leather, much too tight, and without a speck of dust upon them. but his nervousness infected me with a cruel dread. all those eyes were going to watch how we comported ourselves in jumping from the landing-steps into the boat! if this operation, upon a ceremonious occasion, has terrors even for a gondolier, how formidable it ought to be to me! and here is the signora dell' acqua's white cachemire shawl dangling on one arm, and the signora herself languishingly clinging to the other; and the gondolas are fretting in a fury of excitement, like corks, upon the churned green water! the moment was terrible. the _sposa_ and her three companions had been safely stowed away beneath their _felze_. the _sposo_ had successfully handed the bridesmaid into the second gondola. i had to perform the same office for my partner. off she went, like a bird, from the bank. i seized a happy moment, followed, bowed, and found myself to my contentment gracefully ensconced in a corner opposite the widow. seven more gondolas were packed. the procession moved. we glided down the little channel, broke away into the grand canal, crossed it, and dived into a labyrinth from which we finally emerged before our destination, the trattoria di san gallo. the perils of the landing were soon over; and, with the rest of the guests, my mercurial companion and i slowly ascended a long flight of stairs leading to a vast upper chamber. here we were to dine. it had been the gallery of some palazzo in old days, was above one hundred feet in length, fairly broad, with a roof of wooden rafters and large windows opening on a courtyard garden. i could see the tops of three cypress-trees cutting the grey sky upon a level with us. a long table occupied the centre of this room. it had been laid for upwards of forty persons, and we filled it. there was plenty of light from great glass lustres blazing with gas. when the ladies had arranged their dresses, and the gentlemen had exchanged a few polite remarks, we all sat down to dinner--i next my inexorable widow, eustace beside his calm and comely partner. the first impression was one of disappointment. it looked so like a public dinner of middle-class people. there was no local character in costume or customs. men and women sat politely bored, expectant, trifling with their napkins, yawning, muttering nothings about the weather or their neighbours. the frozen commonplaceness of the scene was made for me still more oppressive by signora dell' acqua. she was evidently satirical, and could not be happy unless continually laughing at or with somebody. 'what a stick the woman will think me!' i kept saying to myself. 'how shall i ever invent jokes in this strange land? i cannot even flirt with her in venetian! and here i have condemned myself--and her too, poor thing--to sit through at least three hours of mortal dulness!' yet the widow was by no means unattractive. dressed in black, she had contrived by an artful arrangement of lace and jewellery to give an air of lightness to her costume. she had a pretty little pale face, a _minois chiffonné_, with slightly turned-up nose, large laughing brown eyes, a dazzling set of teeth, and a tempestuously frizzled mop of powdered hair. when i managed to get a side-look at her quietly, without being giggled at or driven half mad by unintelligible incitements to a jocularity i could not feel, it struck me that, if we once found a common term of communication we should become good friends. but for the moment that _modus vivendi_ seemed unattainable. she had not recovered from the first excitement of her capture of me. she was still showing me off and trying to stir me up. the arrival of the soup gave me a momentary relief; and soon the serious business of the afternoon began. i may add that before dinner was over, the signora dell' acqua and i were fast friends. i had discovered the way of making jokes, and she had become intelligible. i found her a very nice, though flighty, little woman; and i believe she thought me gifted with the faculty of uttering eccentric epigrams in a grotesque tongue. some of my remarks were flung about the table, and had the same success as uncouth lombard carvings have with connoisseurs in _naïvetés_ of art. by that time we had come to be _compare_ and _comare_ to each other--the sequel of some clumsy piece of jocularity. it was a heavy entertainment, copious in quantity, excellent in quality, plainly but well cooked. i remarked there was no fish. the widow replied that everybody present ate fish to satiety at home. they did not join a marriage feast at the san gallo, and pay their nine francs, for that! it should be observed that each guest paid for his own entertainment. this appears to be the custom. therefore attendance is complimentary, and the married couple are not at ruinous charges for the banquet. a curious feature in the whole proceeding had its origin in this custom. i noticed that before each cover lay an empty plate, and that my partner began with the first course to heap upon it what she had not eaten. she also took large helpings, and kept advising me to do the same. i said: 'no; i only take what i want to eat; if i fill that plate in front of me as you are doing, it will be great waste.' this remark elicited shrieks of laughter from all who heard it; and when the hubbub had subsided, i perceived an apparently official personage bearing down upon eustace, who was in the same perplexity. it was then circumstantially explained to us that the empty plates were put there in order that we might lay aside what we could not conveniently eat, and take it home with us. at the end of the dinner the widow (whom i must now call my _comare_) had accumulated two whole chickens, half a turkey, and a large assortment of mixed eatables. i performed my duty and won her regard by placing delicacies at her disposition. crudely stated, this proceeding moves disgust. but that is only because one has not thought the matter out. in the performance there was nothing coarse or nasty. these good folk had made a contract at so much a head--so many fowls, so many pounds of beef, &c, to be supplied; and what they had fairly bought, they clearly had a right to. no one, so far as i could notice, tried to take more than his proper share; except, indeed, eustace and myself. in our first eagerness to conform to custom, we both overshot the mark, and grabbed at disproportionate helpings. the waiters politely observed that we were taking what was meant for two; and as the courses followed in interminable sequence, we soon acquired the tact of what was due to us. meanwhile the room grew warm. the gentlemen threw off their coats--a pleasant liberty of which i availed myself, and was immediately more at ease. the ladies divested themselves of their shoes (strange to relate!) and sat in comfort with their stockinged feet upon the _scagliola_ pavement. i observed that some cavaliers by special permission were allowed to remove their partners' slippers. this was not my lucky fate. my _comare_ had not advanced to that point of intimacy. healths began to be drunk. the conversation took a lively turn; and women went fluttering round the table, visiting their friends, to sip out of their glass, and ask each other how they were getting on. it was not long before the stiff veneer of _bourgeoisie_ which bored me had worn off. the people emerged in their true selves: natural, gentle, sparkling with enjoyment, playful. playful is, i think, the best word to describe them. they played with infinite grace and innocence, like kittens, from the old men of sixty to the little boys of thirteen. very little wine was drunk. each guest had a litre placed before him. many did not finish theirs; and for very few was it replenished. when at last the dessert arrived, and the bride's comfits had been handed round, they began to sing. it was very pretty to see a party of three or four friends gathering round some popular beauty, and paying her compliments in verse--they grouped behind her chair, she sitting back in it and laughing up to them, and joining in the chorus. the words, 'brunetta mia simpatica, ti amo sempre più,' sung after this fashion to eustace's handsome partner, who puffed delicate whiffs from a russian cigarette, and smiled her thanks, had a peculiar appropriateness. all the ladies, it may be observed in passing, had by this time lit their cigarettes. the men were smoking toscani, sellas, or cavours, and the little boys were dancing round the table breathing smoke from their pert nostrils. the dinner, in fact, was over. other relatives of the guests arrived, and then we saw how some of the reserved dishes were to be bestowed. a side-table was spread at the end of the gallery, and these late-comers were regaled with plenty by their friends. meanwhile, the big table at which we had dined was taken to pieces and removed. the _scagliola_ floor was swept by the waiters. musicians came streaming in and took their places. the ladies resumed their shoes. every one prepared to dance. my friend and i were now at liberty to chat with the men. he knew some of them by sight, and claimed acquaintance with others. there was plenty of talk about different boats, gondolas, and sandolos and topos, remarks upon the past season, and inquiries as to chances of engagements in the future. one young fellow told us how he had been drawn for the army, and should be obliged to give up his trade just when he had begun to make it answer. he had got a new gondola, and this would have to be hung up during the years of his service. the warehousing of a boat in these circumstances costs nearly one hundred francs a year, which is a serious tax upon the pockets of a private in the line. many questions were put in turn to us, but all of the same tenor. 'had we really enjoyed the _pranzo_? now, really, were we amusing ourselves? and did we think the custom of the wedding _un bel costume_?' we could give an unequivocally hearty response to all these interrogations. the men seemed pleased. their interest in our enjoyment was unaffected. it is noticeable how often the word _divertimento_ is heard upon the lips of the italians. they have a notion that it is the function in life of the _signori_ to amuse themselves. the ball opened, and now we were much besought by the ladies. i had to deny myself with a whole series of comical excuses. eustace performed his duty after a stiff english fashion--once with his pretty partner of the _pranzo_, and once again with a fat gondolier. the band played waltzes and polkas, chiefly upon patriotic airs--the marcia reale, garibaldi's hymn, &c. men danced with men, women with women, little boys and girls together. the gallery whirled with a laughing crowd. there was plenty of excitement and enjoyment--not an unseemly or extravagant word or gesture. my _comare_ careered about with a light mænadic impetuosity, which made me regret my inability to accept her pressing invitations. she pursued me into every corner of the room, but when at last i dropped excuses and told her that my real reason for not dancing was that it would hurt my health, she waived her claims at once with an _ah, poverino!_ some time after midnight we felt that we had had enough of _divertimento_. francesco helped us to slip out unobserved. with many silent good wishes we left the innocent playful people who had been so kind to us. the stars were shining from a watery sky as we passed into the piazza beneath the campanile and the pinnacles of s. mark. the riva was almost empty, and the little waves fretted the boats moored to the piazzetta, as a warm moist breeze went fluttering by. we smoked a last cigar, crossed our _traghetto_, and were soon sound asleep at the end of a long pleasant day. the ball, we heard next morning, finished about four. since that evening i have had plenty of opportunities for seeing my friends the gondoliers, both in their own homes and in my apartment. several have entertained me at their mid-day meal of fried fish and amber-coloured polenta. these repasts were always cooked with scrupulous cleanliness, and served upon a table covered with coarse linen. the polenta is turned out upon a wooden platter, and cut with a string called _lassa_. you take a large slice of it on the palm of the left hand, and break it with the fingers of the right. wholesome red wine of the paduan district and good white bread were never wanting. the rooms in which we met to eat looked out on narrow lanes or over pergolas of yellowing vines. their whitewashed walls were hung with photographs of friends and foreigners, many of them souvenirs from english or american employers. the men, in broad black hats and lilac shirts, sat round the table, girt with the red waist-wrapper, or _fascia_, which marks the ancient faction of the castellani. the other faction, called nicolotti, are distinguished by a black _assisa_. the quarters of the town are divided unequally and irregularly into these two parties. what was once a formidable rivalry between two sections of the venetian populace, still survives in challenges to trials of strength and skill upon the water. the women, in their many-coloured kerchiefs, stirred polenta at the smoke-blackened chimney, whose huge pent-house roof projects two feet or more across the hearth. when they had served the table they took their seat on low stools, knitted stockings, or drank out of glasses handed across the shoulder to them by their lords. some of these women were clearly notable housewives, and i have no reason to suppose that they do not take their full share of the housework. boys and girls came in and out, and got a portion of the dinner to consume where they thought best. children went tottering about upon the red-brick floor, the playthings of those hulking fellows, who handled them very gently and spoke kindly in a sort of confidential whisper to their ears. these little ears were mostly pierced for earrings, and the light blue eyes of the urchins peeped maliciously beneath shocks of yellow hair. a dog was often of the party. he ate fish like his masters, and was made to beg for it by sitting up and rowing with his paws. _voga, azzò, voga!_ the anzolo who talked thus to his little brown spitz-dog has the hoarse voice of a triton and the movement of an animated sea-wave. azzo performed his trick, swallowed his fish-bones, and the fiery anzolo looked round approvingly. on all these occasions i have found these gondoliers the same sympathetic, industrious, cheery affectionate folk. they live in many respects a hard and precarious life. the winter in particular is a time of anxiety, and sometimes of privation, even to the well-to-do among them. work then is scarce, and what there is, is rendered disagreeable to them by the cold. yet they take their chance with facile temper, and are not soured by hardships. the amenities of the venetian sea and air, the healthiness of the lagoons, the cheerful bustle of the poorer quarters, the brilliancy of this southern sunlight, and the beauty which is everywhere apparent, must be reckoned as important factors in the formation of their character. and of that character, as i have said, the final note is playfulness. in spite of difficulties, their life has never been stern enough to sadden them. bare necessities are marvellously cheap, and the pinch of real bad weather--such frost as locked the lagoons in ice two years ago, or such south-western gales as flooded the basement floors of all the houses on the zattere--is rare and does not last long. on the other hand, their life has never been so lazy as to reduce them to the savagery of the traditional neapolitan lazzaroni. they have had to work daily for small earnings, but under favourable conditions, and their labour has been lightened by much good-fellowship among themselves, by the amusements of their _feste_ and their singing clubs. of course it is not easy for a stranger in a very different social position to feel that he has been admitted to their confidence. italians have an ineradicable habit of making themselves externally agreeable, of bending in all indifferent matters to the whims and wishes of superiors, and of saying what they think _signori_ like. this habit, while it smoothes the surface of existence, raises up a barrier of compliment and partial insincerity, against which the more downright natures of us northern folk break in vain efforts. our advances are met with an imperceptible but impermeable resistance by the very people who are bent on making the world pleasant to us. it is the very reverse of that dour opposition which a lowland scot or a north english peasant offers to familiarity; but it is hardly less insurmountable. the treatment, again, which venetians of the lower class have received through centuries from their own nobility, makes attempts at fraternisation on the part of gentlemen unintelligible to them. the best way, here and elsewhere, of overcoming these obstacles is to have some bond of work or interest in common--of service on the one side rendered, and goodwill on the other honestly displayed. the men of whom i have been speaking will, i am convinced, not shirk their share of duty or make unreasonable claims upon the generosity of their employers. * * * * * _a cinque cento brutus_ i.--the sestiere di san polo there is a quarter of venice not much visited by tourists, lying as it does outside their beat, away from the rialto, at a considerable distance from the frari and san rocco, in what might almost pass for a city separated by a hundred miles from the piazza. this is the quarter of san polo, one corner of which, somewhere between the back of the palazzo foscari and the campo di san polo, was the scene of a memorable act of vengeance in the year . here lorenzino de' medici, the murderer of his cousin alessandro, was at last tracked down and put to death by paid cut-throats. how they succeeded in their purpose, we know in every detail from the narrative dictated by the chief assassin. his story so curiously illustrates the conditions of life in italy three centuries ago, that i have thought it worthy of abridgment. but, in order to make it intelligible, and to paint the manners of the times more fully, i must first relate the series of events which led to lorenzino's murder of his cousin alessandro, and from that to his own subsequent assassination. lorenzino de' medici, the florentine brutus of the sixteenth century, is the hero of the tragedy. some of his relatives, however, must first appear upon the scene before he enters with a patriot's knife concealed beneath a court-fool's bauble. ii.--the murder of ippolito de' medici after the final extinction of the florentine republic, the hopes of the medici, who now aspired to the dukedom of tuscany, rested on three bastards--alessandro, the reputed child of lorenzo, duke of urbino; ippolito, the natural son of giuliano, duke of nemours; and giulio, the offspring of an elder giuliano, who was at this time pope, with the title of clement vii. clement had seen rome sacked in by a horde of freebooters fighting under the imperial standard, and had used the remnant of these troops, commanded by the prince of orange, to crush his native city in the memorable siege of - . he now determined to rule florence from the papal chair by the help of the two bastard cousins i have named. alessandro was created duke of cività di penna, and sent to take the first place in the city. ippolito was made a cardinal; since the medici had learned that rome was the real basis of their power, and it was undoubtedly in clement's policy to advance this scion of his house to the papacy. the sole surviving representative of the great lorenzo de' medici's legitimate blood was catherine, daughter of the duke of urbino by madeleine de la tour d'auvergne. she was pledged in marriage to the duke of orleans, who was afterwards henry ii. of france. a natural daughter of the emperor charles v. was provided for her putative half-brother alessandro. by means of these alliances the succession of ippolito to the papal chair would have been secured, and the strength of the medici would have been confirmed in tuscany, but for the disasters which have now to be related. between the cousins alessandro and ippolito there was no love lost. as boys, they had both played the part of princes in florence under the guardianship of the cardinal passerini da cortona. the higher rank had then been given to ippolito, who bore the title of magnifico, and seemed thus designated for the lordship of the city. ippolito, though only half a medici, was of more authentic lineage than alessandro; for no proof positive could be adduced that the latter was even a spurious child of the duke of urbino. he bore obvious witness to his mother's blood upon his mulatto's face; but this mother was the wife of a groom, and it was certain that in the court of urbino she had not been chary of her favours. the old magnificence of taste, the patronage of art and letters, and the preference for liberal studies which distinguished casa medici, survived in ippolito; whereas alessandro manifested only the brutal lusts of a debauched tyrant. it was therefore with great reluctance that, moved by reasons of state and domestic policy, ippolito saw himself compelled to accept the scarlet hat. alessandro having been recognised as a son of the duke of urbino, had become half-brother to the future queen of france. to treat him as the head of the family was a necessity thrust, in the extremity of the medicean fortunes, upon clement. ippolito, who more entirely represented the spirit of the house, was driven to assume the position of a cadet, with all the uncertainties of an ecclesiastical career. in these circumstances ippolito had not strength of character to sacrifice himself for the consolidation of the medicean power, which could only have been effected by maintaining a close bond of union between its members. the death of clement in obscured his prospects in the church. he was still too young to intrigue for the tiara. the new pope, alessandro farnese, soon after his election, displayed a vigour which was unexpected from his age, together with a nepotism which his previous character had scarcely warranted. the cardinal de' medici felt himself excluded and oppressed. he joined the party of those numerous florentine exiles, headed by filippo strozzi, and the cardinals salviati and ridolfi, all of whom were connected by marriage with the legitimate medici, and who unanimously hated and were jealous of the duke of cività di penna. on the score of policy it is difficult to condemn this step. alessandro's hold upon florence was still precarious, nor had he yet married margaret of austria. perhaps ippolito was right in thinking he had less to gain from his cousin than from the anti-medicean faction and the princes of the church who favoured it. but he did not play his cards well. he quarrelled with the new pope, paul iii., and by his vacillations led the florentine exiles to suspect he might betray them. in the summer of ippolito was at itri, a little town not far from gaeta and terracina, within easy reach of fondi, where dwelt the beautiful giulia gonzaga. to this lady the cardinal paid assiduous court, passing his time with her in the romantic scenery of that world-famous capuan coast. on the th of august his seneschal, giovann' andrea, of borgo san sepolcro, brought him a bowl of chicken-broth, after drinking which he exclaimed to one of his attendants, 'i have been poisoned, and the man who did it is giovann' andrea.' the seneschal was taken and tortured, and confessed that he had mixed a poison with the broth. four days afterwards the cardinal died, and a post-mortem examination showed that the omentum had been eaten by some corrosive substance. giovann' andrea was sent in chains to rome; but in spite of his confession, more than once repeated, the court released him. he immediately took refuge with alessandro de' medici in florence, whence he repaired to borgo san sepolcro, and was, at the close of a few months, there murdered by the people of the place. from these circumstances it was conjectured, not without good reason, that alessandro had procured his cousin's death; and a certain captain pignatta, of low birth in florence, a bravo and a coward, was believed to have brought the poison to itri from the duke. the medicean courtiers at florence did not disguise their satisfaction; and one of them exclaimed, with reference to the event, 'we know how to brush flies from our noses!' iii.--the murder of alessandro de' medici having removed his cousin and rival from the scene, alessandro de' medici plunged with even greater effrontery into the cruelties and debaucheries which made him odious in florence. it seemed as though fortune meant to smile on him; for in this same year ( ) charles v. decided at naples in his favour against the florentine exiles, who were pleading their own cause and that of the city injured by his tyrannies; and in february of the following year he married margaret of austria, the emperor's natural daughter. francesco guicciardini, the first statesman and historian of his age, had undertaken his defence, and was ready to support him by advice and countenance in the conduct of his government. within the lute of this prosperity, however, there was one little rift. for some months past he had closely attached to his person a certain kinsman, lorenzo de' medici, who was descended in the fourth generation from lorenzo, the brother of cosimo pater patriæ. this lorenzo, or lorenzino, or lorenzaccio, as his most intimate acquaintances called him, was destined to murder alessandro; and it is worthy of notice that the duke had received frequent warnings of his fate. a perugian page, for instance, who suffered from some infirmity, saw in a dream that lorenzino would kill his master. astrologers predicted that the duke must die by having his throat cut. one of them is said to have named lorenzo de' medici as the assassin; and another described him so accurately that there was no mistaking the man. moreover, madonna lucrezia salviati wrote to the duke from rome that he should beware of a certain person, indicating lorenzino; and her daughter, madonna maria, told him to his face she hated the young man, 'because i know he means to murder you, and murder you he will.' nor was this all. the duke's favourite body-servants mistrusted lorenzino. on one occasion, when alessandro and lorenzino, attended by a certain giomo, were escalading a wall at night, as was their wont upon illicit love-adventures, giomo whispered to his master: 'ah, my lord, do let me cut the rope, and rid ourselves of him!' to which the duke replied: 'no, i do not want this; but if he could, i know he'd twist it round my neck.' in spite, then, of these warnings and the want of confidence he felt, the duke continually lived with lorenzino, employing him as pander in his intrigues, and preferring his society to that of simpler men. when he rode abroad, he took this evil friend upon his crupper; although he knew for certain that lorenzino had stolen a tight-fitting vest of mail he used to wear, and, while his arms were round his waist, was always meditating how to stick a poignard in his body. he trusted, so it seems, to his own great strength and to the other's physical weakness. at this point, since lorenzino is the principal actor in the two-act drama which follows, it will be well to introduce him to the reader in the words of varchi, who was personally acquainted with him. born at florence in , he was left early by his father's death to the sole care of his mother, maria soderini, 'a lady of rare prudence and goodness, who attended with the utmost pains and diligence to his education. no sooner, however, had he acquired the rudiments of humane learning, which, being of very quick parts, he imbibed with incredible facility, than he began to display a restless mind, insatiable and appetitive of vice. soon afterwards, under the rule and discipline of filippo strozzi, he made open sport of all things human and divine; and preferring the society of low persons, who not only flattered him but were congenial to his tastes, he gave free rein to his desires, especially in affairs of love, without regard for sex or age or quality, and in his secret soul, while he lavished feigned caresses upon every one he saw, felt no esteem for any living being. he thirsted strangely for glory, and omitted no point of deed or word that might, he thought, procure him the reputation of a man of spirit or of wit. he was lean of person, somewhat slightly built, and on this account people called him lorenzino. he never laughed, but had a sneering smile; and although he was rather distinguished by grace than beauty, his countenance being dark and melancholy, still in the flower of his age he was beloved beyond all measure by pope clement; in spite of which he had it in his mind (according to what he said himself after killing the duke alessandro) to have murdered him. he brought francesco di raffaello de' medici, the pope's rival, who was a young man of excellent attainments and the highest hope, to such extremity that he lost his wits, and became the sport of the whole court at rome, and was sent back, as a lesser evil, as a confirmed madman to florence.' varchi proceeds to relate how lorenzino fell into disfavour with the pope and the romans by chopping the heads off statues from the arch of constantine and other monuments; for which act of vandalism molsa impeached him in the roman academy, and a price was set upon his head. having returned to florence, he proceeded to court duke alessandro, into whose confidence he wormed himself, pretending to play the spy upon the exiles, and affecting a personal timidity which put the prince off his guard. alessandro called him 'the philosopher,' because he conversed in solitude with his own thoughts and seemed indifferent to wealth and office. but all this while lorenzino was plotting how to murder him. giovio's account of this strange intimacy may be added, since it completes the picture i have drawn from varchi:--'lorenzo made himself the accomplice and instrument of those amorous amusements for which the duke had an insatiable appetite, with the object of deceiving him. he was singularly well furnished with all the scoundrelly arts and trained devices of the pander's trade; composed fine verses to incite to lust; wrote and represented comedies in italian; and pretended to take pleasure only in such tricks and studies. therefore he never carried arms like other courtiers, and feigned to be afraid of blood, a man who sought tranquillity at any price. besides, he bore a pallid countenance and melancholy brow, walking alone, talking very little and with few persons. he haunted solitary places apart from the city, and showed such plain signs of hypochondria that some began covertly to pass jokes on him. certain others, who were more acute, suspected that he was harbouring and devising in his mind some terrible enterprise.' the prologue to lorenzino's own comedy of 'aridosiso' brings the sardonic, sneering, ironical man vividly before us. he calls himself 'un certo omiciatto, che non è nessun di voi che veggendolo non l'avesse a noia, pensando che egli abbia fatto una commedia;' and begs the audience to damn his play to save him the tedium of writing another. criticised by the light of his subsequent actions, this prologue may even be understood to contain a covert promise of the murder he was meditating. 'in this way,' writes varchi, 'the duke had taken such familiarity with lorenzo, that, not content with making use of him as a ruffian in his dealings with women, whether religious or secular, maidens or wives or widows, noble or plebeian, young or elderly, as it might happen, he applied to him to procure for his pleasure a half-sister of lorenzo's own mother, a young lady of marvellous beauty, but not less chaste than beautiful, who was the wife of lionardo ginori, and lived not far from the back entrance to the palace of the medici.' lorenzino undertook this odious commission, seeing an opportunity to work his designs against the duke. but first he had to form an accomplice, since he could not hope to carry out the murder without help. a bravo, called michele del tavolaccino, but better known by the nickname of scoronconcolo, struck him as a fitting instrument. he had procured this man's pardon for a homicide, and it appears that the fellow retained a certain sense of gratitude. lorenzino began by telling the man there was a courtier who put insults upon him, and scoronconcolo professed his readiness to kill the knave. 'sia chi si voglia; io l'ammazzerò, se fosse cristo.' up to the last minute the name of alessandro was not mentioned. having thus secured his assistant, lorenzino chose a night when he knew that alessandro vitelli, captain of the duke's guard, would be from home. then, after supper, he whispered in alessandro's ear that at last he had seduced his aunt with an offer of money, and that she would come to his, lorenzo's chamber at the service of the duke that night. only the duke must appear at the rendezvous alone, and when he had arrived, the lady should be fetched. 'certain it is,' says varchi, 'that the duke, having donned a cloak of satin in the neapolitan style, lined with sable, when he went to take his gloves, and there were some of mail and some of perfumed leather, hesitated awhile and said: "which shall i choose, those of war, or those of love-making?"' he took the latter and went out with only four attendants, three of whom he dismissed upon the piazza di san marco, while one was stationed just opposite lorenzo's house, with strict orders not to stir if he should see folk enter or issue thence. but this fellow, called the hungarian, after waiting a great while, returned to the duke's chamber, and there went to sleep. meanwhile lorenzino received alessandro in his bedroom, where there was a good fire. the duke unbuckled his sword, which lorenzino took, and having entangled the belt with the hilt, so that it should not readily be drawn, laid it on the pillow. the duke had flung himself already on the bed, and hid himself among the curtains--doing this, it is supposed, to save himself from the trouble of paying compliments to the lady when she should arrive. for caterina ginori had the fame of a fair speaker, and alessandro was aware of his own incapacity to play the part of a respectful lover. nothing could more strongly point the man's brutality than this act, which contributed in no small measure to his ruin. lorenzino left the duke upon the bed, and went at once for scoronconcolo. he told him that the enemy was caught, and bade him only mind the work he had to do. 'that will i do,' the bravo answered, 'even though it were the duke himself.' 'you've hit the mark,' said lorenzino with a face of joy; 'he cannot slip through our fingers. come!' so they mounted to the bedroom, and lorenzino, knowing where the duke was laid, cried: 'sir, are you asleep?' and therewith ran him through the back. alessandro was sleeping, or pretending to sleep, face downwards, and the sword passed through his kidneys and diaphragm. but it did not kill him. he slipped from the bed, and seized a stool to parry the next blow. scoronconcolo now stabbed him in the face, while lorenzino forced him back upon the bed; and then began a hideous struggle. in order to prevent his cries, lorenzino doubled his fist into the duke's mouth. alessandro seized the thumb between his teeth, and held it in a vice until he died. this disabled lorenzino, who still lay upon his victim's body, and scoronconcolo could not strike for fear of wounding his master. between the writhing couple he made, however, several passes with his sword, which only pierced the mattress. then he drew a knife and drove it into the duke's throat, and bored about till he had severed veins and windpipe. iv.--the flight of lorenzino de' medici alessandro was dead. his body fell to earth. the two murderers, drenched with blood, lifted it up, and placed it on the bed, wrapped in the curtains, as they had found him first. then lorenzino went to the window, which looked out upon the via larga, and opened it to rest and breathe a little air. after this he called for scoronconcolo's boy, il freccia, and bade him look upon the dead man. il freccia recognised the duke. but why lorenzino did this, no one knew. it seemed, as varchi says, that, having planned the murder with great ability, and executed it with daring, his good sense and good luck forsook him. he made no use of the crime he had committed; and from that day forward till his own assassination, nothing prospered with him. indeed, the murder of alessandro appears to have been almost motiveless, considered from the point of view of practical politics. varchi assumes that lorenzino's burning desire of glory prompted the deed; and when he had acquired the notoriety he sought, there was an end to his ambition. this view is confirmed by the apology he wrote and published for his act. it remains one of the most pregnant, bold, and brilliant pieces of writing which we possess in favour of tyrannicide from that epoch of insolent crime and audacious rhetoric. so energetic is the style, and so biting the invective of this masterpiece, in which the author stabs a second time his victim, that both giordani and leopardi affirmed it to be the only true monument of eloquence in the italian language. if thirst for glory was lorenzino's principal incentive, immediate glory was his guerdon. he escaped that same night with scoronconcolo and freccia to bologna, where he stayed to dress his thumb, and then passed forward to venice. filippo strozzi there welcomed him as the new brutus, gave him money, and promised to marry his two sons to the two sisters of the tyrant-killer. poems were written and published by the most famous men of letters, including benedetto varchi and francesco maria molsa, in praise of the tuscan brutus, the liberator of his country from a tyrant. a bronze medal was struck bearing his name, with a profile copied from michelangelo's bust of brutus. on the obverse are two daggers and a cup, and the date viii. id. jan. the immediate consequence of alessandro's murder was the elevation of cosimo, son of giovanni delle bande nere, and second cousin of lorenzino, to the duchy. at the ceremony of his investiture with the ducal honours, cosimo solemnly undertook to revenge alessandro's murder. in the following march he buried his predecessor with pomp in san lorenzo. the body was placed beside the bones of the duke of urbino in the marble chest of michelangelo, and here not many years ago it was discovered. soon afterwards lorenzino was declared a rebel. his portrait was painted according to old tuscan precedent, head downwards, and suspended by one foot, upon the wall of the fort built by alessandro. his house was cut in twain from roof to pavement, and a narrow lane was driven through it, which received the title of traitor's alley, _chiasso del traditore_. the price of four thousand golden florins was put upon his head, together with the further sum of one hundred florins per annum in perpetuity to be paid to the murderer and his direct heirs in succession, by the otto di balia. moreover, the man who killed lorenzino was to enjoy all civic privileges; exemption from all taxes, ordinary and extraordinary; the right of carrying arms, together with two attendants, in the city and the whole domain of florence; and the further prerogative of restoring ten outlaws at his choice. if lorenzino could be captured and brought alive to florence, the whole of this reward would be doubled. this decree was promulgated in april , and thenceforward lorenzino de' medici lived a doomed man. the assassin, who had been proclaimed a brutus by tuscan exiles and humanistic enthusiasts, was regarded as a judas by the common people. ballads were written on him with the title of the 'piteous and sore lament made unto himself by lorenzino de' medici, who murdered the most illustrious duke alessandro.' he had become a wild beast, whom it was honourable to hunt down, a pest which it was righteous to extirpate. yet fate delayed nine years to overtake him. what remains to be told about his story must be extracted from the narrative of the bravo who succeeded, with the aid of an accomplice, in despatching him at venice.[ ] so far as possible, i shall use the man's own words, translating them literally, and omitting only unimportant details. the narrative throws brilliant light upon the manners and movements of professional cut-throats at that period in italy. it seems to have been taken down from the hero francesco, or cecco, bibboni's lips; and there is no doubt that we possess in it a valuable historical document for the illustration of contemporary customs. it offers in all points a curious parallel to cellini's account of his own homicides and hair-breadth escapes. moreover, it is confirmed in its minutest circumstances by the records of the criminal courts of venice in the sixteenth century. this i can attest from recent examination of mss. relating to the _signori di notte_ and the _esecutori contro la bestemmia_, which are preserved among the archives at the frari. v.--the murder of lorenzino de' medici 'when i returned from germany,' begins bibboni, 'where i had been in the pay of the emperor, i found at vicenza bebo da volterra, who was staying in the house of m. antonio da roma, a nobleman of that city. this gentleman employed him because of a great feud he had; and he was mighty pleased, moreover, at my coming, and desired that i too should take up my quarters in his palace.' this paragraph strikes the keynote of the whole narrative, and introduces us to the company we are about to keep. the noblemen of that epoch, if they had private enemies, took into their service soldiers of adventure, partly to protect their persons, but also to make war, when occasion offered, on their foes. the _bravi_, as they were styled, had quarters assigned them in the basement of the palace, where they might be seen swaggering about the door or flaunting their gay clothes behind the massive iron bars of the windows which opened on the streets. when their master went abroad at night they followed him, and were always at hand to perform secret services in love affairs, assassination, and espial. for the rest, they haunted taverns, and kept up correspondence with prostitutes. an italian city had a whole population of such fellows, the offscourings of armies, drawn from all nations, divided by their allegiance of the time being into hostile camps, but united by community of interest and occupation, and ready to combine against the upper class, upon whose vices, enmities, and cowardice they throve. bibboni proceeds to say how another gentleman of vicenza, m. francesco manente, had at this time a feud with certain of the guazzi and the laschi, which had lasted several years, and cost the lives of many members of both parties and their following. m. francesco being a friend of m. antonio, besought that gentleman to lend him bibboni and bebo for a season; and the two _bravi_ went together with their new master to celsano, a village in the neighbourhood. 'there both parties had estates, and all of them kept armed men in their houses, so that not a day passed without feats of arms, and always there was some one killed or wounded. one day, soon afterwards, the leaders of our party resolved to attack the foe in their house, where we killed two, and the rest, numbering five men, entrenched themselves in a ground-floor apartment; whereupon we took possession of their harquebuses and other arms, which forced them to abandon the villa and retire to vicenza; and within a short space of time this great feud was terminated by an ample peace.' after this bebo took service with the rector of the university in padua, and was transferred by his new patron to milan. bibboni remained at vicenza with m. galeazzo della seta, who stood in great fear of his life, notwithstanding the peace which had been concluded between the two factions. at the end of ten months he returned to m. antonio da roma and his six brothers, 'all of whom being very much attached to me, they proposed that i should live my life with them, for good or ill, and be treated as one of the family; upon the understanding that if war broke out and i wanted to take part in it, i should always have twenty-five crowns and arms and horse, with welcome home, so long as i lived; and in case i did not care to join the troops, the same provision for my maintenance.' from these details we comprehend the sort of calling which a bravo of bibboni's species followed. meanwhile bebo was at milan. 'there it happened that m. francesco vinta, of volterra, was on embassy from the duke of florence. he saw bebo, and asked him what he was doing in milan, and bebo answered that he was a knight errant.' this phrase, derived no doubt from the romantic epics then in vogue, was a pretty euphemism for a rogue of bebo's quality. the ambassador now began cautiously to sound his man, who seems to have been outlawed from the tuscan duchy, telling him he knew a way by which he might return with favour to his home, and at last disclosing the affair of lorenzo. bebo was puzzled at first, but when he understood the matter, he professed his willingness, took letters from the envoy to the duke of florence, and, in a private audience with cosimo, informed him that he was ready to attempt lorenzino's assassination. he added that 'he had a comrade fit for such a job, whose fellow for the business could not easily be found.' bebo now travelled to vicenza, and opened the whole matter to bibboni, who weighed it well, and at last, being convinced that the duke's commission to his comrade was _bona fide_, determined to take his share in the undertaking. the two agreed to have no accomplices. they went to venice, and 'i,' says bibboni, 'being most intimately acquainted with all that city, and provided there with many friends, soon quietly contrived to know where lorenzino lodged, and took a room in the neighbourhood, and spent some days in seeing how we best might rule our conduct.' bibboni soon discovered that lorenzino never left his palace; and he therefore remained in much perplexity, until, by good luck, ruberto strozzi arrived from france in venice, bringing in his train a navarrese servant, who had the nickname of spagnoletto. this fellow was a great friend of the bravo. they met, and bibboni told him that he should like to go and kiss the hands of messer ruberto, whom he had known in rome. strozzi inhabited the same palace as lorenzino. 'when we arrived there, both messer ruberto and lorenzo were leaving the house, and there were around them so many gentlemen and other persons, that i could not present myself, and both straightway stepped into the gondola. then i, not having seen lorenzo for a long while past, and because he was very quietly attired, could not recognise the man exactly, but only as it were between certainty and doubt. wherefore i said to spagnoletto, "i think i know that gentleman, but don't remember where i saw him." and messer ruberto was giving him his right hand. then spagnoletto answered, "you know him well enough; he is messer lorenzo. but see you tell this to nobody. he goes by the name of messer dario, because he lives in great fear for his safety, and people don't know that he is now in venice." i answered that i marvelled much, and if i could have helped him, would have done so willingly. then i asked where they were going, and he said, to dine with messer giovanni della casa, who was the pope's legate. i did not leave the man till i had drawn from him all i required.' thus spoke the italian judas. the appearance of la casa on the scene is interesting. he was the celebrated author of the scandalous 'capitolo del forno,' the author of many sublime and melancholy sonnets, who was now at venice, prosecuting a charge of heresy against pier paolo vergerio, and paying his addresses to a noble lady of the quirini family. it seems that on the territory of san marco he made common cause with the exiles from florence, for he was himself by birth a florentine, and he had no objection to take brutus-lorenzino by the hand. after the noblemen had rowed off in their gondola to dine with the legate, bibboni and his friend entered their palace, where he found another old acquaintance, the house-steward, or _spenditore_ of lorenzo. from him he gathered much useful information. pietro strozzi, it seems, had allowed the tyrannicide one thousand five hundred crowns a year, with the keep of three brave and daring companions (_tre compagni bravi e facinorosi_), and a palace worth fifty crowns on lease. but lorenzo had just taken another on the campo di san polo at three hundred crowns a year, for which swagger (_altura_) pietro strozzi had struck a thousand crowns off his allowance. bibboni also learned that he was keeping house with his uncle, alessandro soderini, another florentine outlaw, and that he was ardently in love with a certain beautiful barozza. this woman was apparently one of the grand courtesans of venice. he further ascertained the date when he was going to move into the palace at san polo, and, 'to put it briefly, knew everything he did, and, as it were, how many times a day he spit.' such were the intelligences of the servants' hall, and of such value were they to men of bibboni's calling. in the carnival of lorenzo meant to go masqued in the habit of a gipsy woman to the square of san spirito, where there was to be a joust. great crowds of people would assemble, and bibboni hoped to do his business there. the assassination, however, failed on this occasion, and lorenzo took up his abode in the palace he had hired upon the campo di san polo. this campo is one of the largest open places in venice, shaped irregularly, with a finely curving line upon the western side, where two of the noblest private houses in the city are still standing. nearly opposite these, in the south-western angle, stands, detached, the little old church of san polo. one of its side entrances opens upon the square; the other on a lane, which leads eventually to the frari. there is nothing in bibboni's narrative to make it clear where lorenzo hired his dwelling. but it would seem from certain things which he says later on, that in order to enter the church his victim had to cross the square. meanwhile bibboni took the precaution of making friends with a shoemaker, whose shop commanded the whole campo, including lorenzo's palace. in this shop he began to spend much of his time; 'and oftentimes i feigned to be asleep; but god knows whether i was sleeping, for my mind, at any rate, was wide-awake.' a second convenient occasion for murdering lorenzo soon seemed to offer. he was bidden to dine with monsignor della casa; and bibboni, putting a bold face on, entered the legate's palace, having left bebo below in the loggia, fully resolved to do the business. 'but we found,' he says, 'that, they had gone to dine at murano, so that we remained with our tabors in their bag.' the island of murano at that period was a favourite resort of the venetian nobles, especially of the more literary and artistic, who kept country-houses there, where they enjoyed the fresh air of the lagoons and the quiet of their gardens. the third occasion, after all these weeks of watching, brought success to bibboni's schemes. he had observed how lorenzo occasionally so far broke his rules of caution as to go on foot, past the church of san polo, to visit the beautiful barozza; and he resolved, if possible, to catch him on one of these journeys. 'it so chanced on the th of february, which was the second sunday of lent, that having gone, as was my wont, to pry out whether lorenzo would give orders for going abroad that day, i entered the shoemaker's shop, and stayed awhile, until lorenzo came to the window with a napkin round his neck for he was combing his hair--and at the same moment i saw a certain giovan battista martelli, who kept his sword for the defence of lorenzo's person, enter and come forth again. concluding that they would probably go abroad, i went home to get ready and procure the necessary weapons, and there i found bebo asleep in bed, and made him get up at once, and we came to our accustomed post of observation, by the church of san polo, where our men would have to pass.' bibboni now retired to his friend the shoemaker's, and bebo took up his station at one of the side-doors of san polo; 'and, as good luck would have it, giovan battista martelli came forth, and walked a piece in front, and then lorenzo came, and then alessandro soderini, going the one behind the other, like storks, and lorenzo, on entering the church, and lifting up the curtain of the door, was seen from the opposite door by bebo, who at the same time noticed how i had left the shop, and so we met upon the street as we had agreed, and he told me that lorenzo was inside the church.' to any one who knows the campo di san polo, it will be apparent that lorenzo had crossed from the western side of the piazza and entered the church by what is technically called its northern door. bebo, stationed at the southern door, could see him when he pushed the heavy _stoia_ or leather curtain aside, and at the same time could observe bibboni's movements in the cobbler's shop. meanwhile lorenzo walked across the church and came to the same door where bebo had been standing. 'i saw him issue from the church and take the main street; then came alessandro soderini, and i walked last of all; and when we reached the point we had determined on, i jumped in front of alessandro with the poignard in my hand, crying, "hold hard, alessandro, and get along with you in god's name, for we are not here for you!" he then threw himself around my waist, and grasped my arms, and kept on calling out. seeing how wrong i had been to try to spare his life, i wrenched myself as well as i could from his grip, and with my lifted poignard struck him, as god willed, above the eyebrow, and a little blood trickled from the wound. he, in high fury, gave me such a thrust that i fell backward, and the ground besides was slippery from having rained a little. then alessandro drew his sword, which he carried in its scabbard, and thrust at me in front, and struck me on the corslet, which for my good fortune was of double mail. before i could get ready i received three passes, which, had i worn a doublet instead of that mailed corslet, would certainly have run me through. at the fourth pass i had regained my strength and spirit, and closed with him, and stabbed him four times in the head, and being so close he could not use his sword, but tried to parry with his hand and hilt, and i, as god willed, struck him at the wrist below the sleeve of mail, and cut his hand off clean, and gave him then one last stroke on his head. thereupon he begged for god's sake spare his life, and i, in trouble about bebo, left him in the arms of a venetian nobleman, who held him back from jumping into the canal.' who this venetian nobleman, found unexpectedly upon the scene, was, does not appear. nor, what is still more curious, do we hear anything of that martelli, the bravo, 'who kept his sword for the defence of lorenzo's person.' the one had arrived accidentally, it seems. the other must have been a coward and escaped from the scuffle. 'when i turned,' proceeds bibboni, 'i found lorenzo on his knees. he raised himself, and i, in anger, gave him a great cut across the head, which split it in two pieces, and laid him at my feet, and he never rose again.' vi.--the escape of the bravi bebo, meanwhile, had made off from the scene of action. and bibboni, taking to his heels, came up with him in the little square of san marcello. they now ran for their lives till they reached the traghetto di san spirito, where they threw their poignards into the water, remembering that no man might carry these in venice under penalty of the galleys. bibboni's white hose were drenched with blood. he therefore agreed to separate from bebo, having named a rendezvous. left alone, his ill luck brought him face to face with twenty constables (_sbirri_). 'in a moment i conceived that they knew everything, and were come to capture me, and of a truth i saw that it was over with me. as swiftly as i could i quickened pace and got into a church, near to which was the house of a compagnia, and the one opened into the other, and knelt down and prayed, commending myself with fervour to god for my deliverance and safety. yet while i prayed, i kept my eyes well open and saw the whole band pass the church, except one man who entered, and i strained my sight so that i seemed to see behind as well as in front, and then it was i longed for my poignard, for i should not have heeded being in a church.' but the constable, it soon appeared, was not looking for bibboni. so he gathered up his courage, and ran for the church of san spirito, where the padre andrea volterrano was preaching to a great congregation. he hoped to go in by one door and out by the other, but the crowd prevented him, and he had to turn back and face the _sbirrí_. one of them followed him, having probably caught sight of the blood upon his hose. then bibboni resolved to have done with the fellow, and rushed at him, and flung him down with his head upon the pavement, and ran like mad and came at last, all out of breath, to san marco. it seems clear that before bibboni separated from bebo they had crossed the water, for the sestiere di san polo is separated from the sestiere di san marco by the grand canal. and this they must have done at the traghetto di san spirito. neither the church nor the traghetto are now in existence, and this part of the story is therefore obscure.[ ] having reached san marco, he took a gondola at the ponte della paglia, where tourists are now wont to stand and contemplate the ducal palace and the bridge of sighs. first, he sought the house of a woman of the town who was his friend; then changed purpose, and rowed to the palace of the count salici da collalto. 'he was a great friend and intimate of ours, because bebo and i had done him many and great services in times passed. there i knocked; and bebo opened the door, and when he saw me dabbled with blood, he marvelled that i had not come to grief and fallen into the hands of justice, and, indeed, had feared as much because i had remained so long away.' it appears, therefore, that the palazzo collalto was their rendezvous. 'the count was from home; but being known to all his people, i played the master and went into the kitchen to the fire, and with soap and water turned my hose, which had been white, to a grey colour.' this is a very delicate way of saying that he washed out the blood of alessandro and lorenzo! soon after the count returned, and 'lavished caresses' upon bebo and his precious comrade. they did not tell him what they had achieved that morning, but put him off with a story of having settled a _sbirro_ in a quarrel about a girl. then the count invited them to dinner; and being himself bound to entertain the first physician of venice, requested them to take it in an upper chamber. he and his secretary served them with their own hands at table. when the physician arrived, the count went downstairs; and at this moment a messenger came from lorenzo's mother, begging the doctor to go at once to san polo, for that her son had been murdered and soderini wounded to the death. it was now no longer possible to conceal their doings from the count, who told them to pluck up courage and abide in patience. he had himself to dine and take his siesta, and then to attend a meeting of the council. about the hour of vespers, bibboni determined to seek better refuge. followed at a discreet distance by bebo, he first called at their lodgings and ordered supper. two priests came in and fell into conversation with them. but something in the behaviour of one of these good men roused his suspicions. so they left the house, took a gondola, and told the man to row hard to s. maria zobenigo. on the way he bade him put them on shore, paid him well, and ordered him to wait for them. they landed near the palace of the spanish embassy; and here bibboni meant to seek sanctuary. for it must be remembered that the houses of ambassadors, no less than of princes of the church, were inviolable. they offered the most convenient harbouring-places to rascals. charles v., moreover, was deeply interested in the vengeance taken on alessandro de' medici's murderer, for his own natural daughter was alessandro's widow and duchess of florence. in the palace they were met with much courtesy by about forty spaniards, who showed considerable curiosity, and told them that lorenzo and alessandro soderini had been murdered that morning by two men whose description answered to their appearance. bibboni put their questions by and asked to see the ambassador. he was not at home. in that case, said bibboni, take us to the secretary. attended by some thirty spaniards, 'with great joy and gladness,' they were shown into the secretary's chamber. he sent the rest of the folk away, 'and locked the door well, and then embraced and kissed us before we had said a word, and afterwards bade us talk freely without any fear.' when bibboni had told the whole story, he was again embraced and kissed by the secretary, who thereupon left them and went to the private apartment of the ambassador. shortly after he returned and led them by a winding staircase into the presence of his master. the ambassador greeted them with great honour, told them he would strain all the power of the empire to hand them in safety over to duke cosimo, and that he had already sent a courier to the emperor with the good news. so they remained in hiding in the spanish embassy; and in ten days' time commands were received from charles himself that everything should be done to convey them safely to florence. the difficulty was how to smuggle them out of venice, where the police of the republic were on watch, and florentine outlaws were mounting guard on sea and shore to catch them. the ambassador began by spreading reports on the rialto every morning of their having been seen at padua, at verona, in friuli. he then hired a palace at malghera, near mestre, and went out daily with fifty spaniards, and took carriage or amused himself with horse exercise and shooting. the florentines, who were on watch, could only discover from his people that he did this for amusement. when he thought that he had put them sufficiently off their guard, the ambassador one day took bibboni and bebo out by canaregio and mestre to malghera, concealed in his own gondola, with the whole train of spaniards in attendance. and though, on landing, the florentines challenged them, they durst not interfere with an ambassador or come to battle with his men. so bebo and bibboni were hustled into a coach, and afterwards provided with two comrades and four horses. they rode for ninety miles without stopping to sleep, and on the day following this long journey reached trento, having probably threaded the mountain valleys above bassano, for bibboni speaks of a certain village where the people talked half german. the imperial ambassador at trento forwarded them next day to mantua; from mantua they came to piacenza; thence, passing through the valley of the taro, crossing the apennines at cisa, descending on pontremoli, and reaching pisa at night, the fourteenth day after their escape from venice. when they arrived at pisa, duke cosimo was supping. so they went to an inn, and next morning presented themselves to his grace. cosimo received them kindly, assured them of his gratitude, confirmed them in the enjoyment of their rewards and privileges, and swore that they might rest secure of his protection in all parts of his dominion. we may imagine how the men caroused together after this reception. as bibboni adds, 'we were now able for the whole time of life left us to live splendidly, without a thought or care.' the last words of his narrative are these: 'bebo from pisa, at what date i know not, went home to volterra, his native town, and there finished his days; while i abode in florence, where i have had no further wish to hear of wars, but to live my life in holy peace.' so ends the story of the two _bravi_. we have reason to believe, from some contemporary documents which cantù has brought to light, that bibboni exaggerated his own part in the affair. luca martelli, writing to varchi, says that it was bebo who clove lorenzo's skull with a cutlass. he adds this curious detail, that the weapons of both men were poisoned, and that the wound inflicted by bibboni on soderini's hand was a slight one. yet, the poignard being poisoned, soderini died of it. in other respects martelli's brief account agrees with that given by bibboni, who probably did no more, his comrade being dead, than claim for himself, at some expense of truth, the lion's share of their heroic action. vii.--lorenzino brutus it remains to ask ourselves, what opinion can be justly formed of lorenzino's character and motives? when he murdered his cousin, was he really actuated by the patriotic desire to rid his country of a monster? did he imitate the roman brutus in the noble spirit of his predecessors, olgiati and boscoli, martyrs to the creed of tyrannicide? or must this crowning action of a fretful life be explained, like his previous mutilation of the statues on the arch of constantine, by a wild thirst for notoriety? did he hope that the exiles would return to florence, and that he would enjoy an honourable life, an immortality of glorious renown? did envy for his cousin's greatness and resentment of his undisguised contempt--the passions of one who had been used for vile ends--conscious of self-degradation and the loss of honour, yet mindful of his intellectual superiority--did these emotions take fire in him and mingle with a scholar's reminiscences of antique heroism, prompting him to plan a deed which should at least assume the show of patriotic zeal, and prove indubitable courage in its perpetrator? did he, again, perhaps imagine, being next in blood to alessandro and direct heir to the ducal crown by the imperial settlement of , that the city would elect her liberator for her ruler? alfieri and niccolini, having taken, as it were, a brief in favour of tyrannicide, praised lorenzino as a hero. de musset, who wrote a considerable drama on his story, painted him as a _roué_ corrupted by society, enfeebled by circumstance, soured by commerce with an uncongenial world, who hides at the bottom of his mixed nature enough of real nobility to make him the leader of a forlorn hope for the liberties of florence. this is the most favourable construction we can put upon lorenzo's conduct. yet some facts of the case warn us to suspend our judgment. he seems to have formed no plan for the liberation of his fellow-citizens. he gave no pledge of self-devotion by avowing his deed and abiding by its issues. he showed none of the qualities of a leader, whether in the cause of freedom or of his own dynastic interests, after the murder. he escaped as soon as he was able, as secretly as he could manage, leaving the city in confusion, and exposing himself to the obvious charge of abominable treason. so far as the florentines knew, his assassination of their duke was but a piece of private spite, executed with infernal craft. it is true that when he seized the pen in exile, he did his best to claim the guerdon of a patriot, and to throw the blame of failure on the florentines. in his apology, and in a letter written to francesco de' medici, he taunts them with lacking the spirit to extinguish tyranny when he had slain the tyrant. he summons plausible excuses to his aid--the impossibility of taking persons of importance into his confidence, the loss of blood he suffered from his wound, the uselessness of rousing citizens whom events proved over-indolent for action. he declares that he has nothing to regret. having proved by deeds his will to serve his country, he has saved his life in order to spend it for her when occasion offered. but these arguments, invented after the catastrophe, these words, so bravely penned when action ought to have confirmed his resolution, do not meet the case. it was no deed of a true hero to assassinate a despot, knowing or half knowing that the despot's subjects would immediately elect another. their languor could not, except rhetorically, be advanced in defence of his own flight. the historian is driven to seek both the explanation and palliation of lorenzo's failure in the temper of his times. there was enough daring left in florence to carry through a plan of brilliant treason, modelled on an antique roman tragedy. but there was not moral force in the protagonist to render that act salutary, not public energy sufficient in his fellow-citizens to accomplish his drama of deliverance. lorenzo was corrupt. florence was flaccid. evil manners had emasculated the hero. in the state the last spark of independence had expired with ferrucci. still i have not without forethought dubbed this man a cinque cento brutus. like much of the art and literature of his century, his action may be regarded as a _bizarre_ imitation of the antique manner. without the force and purpose of a roman, lorenzo set himself to copy plutarch's men--just as sculptors carved neptunes and apollos without the dignity and serenity of the classic style. the antique faith was wanting to both murderer and craftsman in those days. even as renaissance work in art is too often aimless, decorative, vacant of intention, so lorenzino's brutus tragedy seems but the snapping of a pistol in void air. he had the audacity but not the ethical consistency of his crime. he played the part of brutus like a roscius, perfect in its histrionic details. and it doubtless gave to this skilful actor a supreme satisfaction--salving over many wounds of vanity, quenching the poignant thirst for things impossible and draughts of fame--that he could play it on no mimic stage, but on the theatre of europe. the weakness of his conduct was the central weakness of his age and country. italy herself lacked moral purpose, sense of righteous necessity, that consecration of self to a noble cause, which could alone have justified lorenzo's perfidy. confused memories of judith, jael, brutus, and other classical tyrannicides, exalted his imagination. longing for violent emotions, jaded with pleasure which had palled, discontented with his wasted life, jealous of his brutal cousin, appetitive to the last of glory, he conceived his scheme. having conceived, he executed it with that which never failed in cinque cento italy--the artistic spirit of perfection. when it was over, he shrugged his shoulders, wrote his magnificent apology with a style of adamant upon a plate of steel, and left it for the outlaws of filippo strozzi's faction to deal with the crisis he had brought about. for some years he dragged out an ignoble life in obscurity, and died at last, as varchi puts it, more by his own carelessness than by the watchful animosity of others. over the wild, turbid, clever, incomprehensible, inconstant hero-artist's grave we write our _requiescat_. clio, as she takes the pen in hand to record this prayer, smiles disdainfully and turns to graver business. * * * * * _two dramatists of the last century_ there are few contrasts more striking than that which is presented by the memoirs of goldoni and alfieri. both of these men bore names highly distinguished in the history of italian literature. both of them were framed by nature with strongly marked characters, and fitted to perform a special work in the world. both have left behind them records of their lives and literary labours, singularly illustrative of their peculiar differences. there is no instance in which we see more clearly the philosophical value of autobiographies, than in these vivid pictures which the great italian tragedian and comic author have delineated. some of the most interesting works of lionardo da vinci, giorgione, albert dürer, rembrandt, rubens, and andrea del sarto, are their portraits painted by themselves. these pictures exhibit not only the lineaments of the masters, but also their art. the hand which drew them was the hand which drew the 'last supper,' or the 'madonna of the tribune:' colour, method, chiaroscuro, all that makes up manner in painting, may be studied on the same canvas as that which faithfully represents the features of the man whose genius gave his style its special character. we seem to understand the clear calm majesty of lionardo's manner, the silver-grey harmonies and smooth facility of andrea's madonnas, the better for looking at their faces drawn by their own hands at florence. and if this be the case with a dumb picture, how far higher must be the interest and importance of the written life of a known author! not only do we recognise in its composition the style and temper and habits of thought which are familiar to us in his other writings; but we also hear from his own lips how these were formed, how his tastes took their peculiar direction, what circumstances acted on his character, what hopes he had, and where he failed. even should his autobiography not bear the marks of uniform candour, it probably reveals more of the actual truth, more of the man's real nature in its height and depth, than any memoir written by friend or foe. its unconscious admissions, its general spirit, and the inferences which we draw from its perusal, are far more valuable than any mere statement of facts or external analysis, however scientific. when we become acquainted with the series of events which led to the conception or attended the production of some masterpiece of literature, a new light is thrown upon its beauties, fresh life bursts forth from every chapter, and we seem to have a nearer and more personal interest in its success. what a powerful sensation, for instance, is that which we experience when, after studying the 'decline and fall of the roman empire,' gibbon tells us how the thought of writing it came to him upon the capitol, among the ruins of dead rome, and within hearing of the mutter of the monks of ara coeli, and how he finished it one night by lake geneva, and laid his pen down and walked forth and saw the stars above his terrace at lausanne! the memoirs of alfieri and goldoni are not deficient in any of the characteristics of good autobiography. they seem to bear upon their face the stamp of truthfulness, they illustrate their authors' lives with marvellous lucidity, and they are full of interest as stories. but it is to the contrast which they present that our attention should be chiefly drawn. other biographies may be as interesting and amusing. none show in a more marked manner two distinct natures endowed with genius for one art, and yet designed in every possible particular for different branches of that art. alfieri embodies tragedy; goldoni is the spirit of comedy. they are both italians: their tragedies and comedies are by no means cosmopolitan; but this national identity of character only renders more remarkable the individual divergences by which they were impelled into their different paths. thalia seems to have made the one, body, soul, and spirit; and melpomene the other; each goddess launched her favourite into circumstances suited to the evolution of his genius, and presided over his development, so that at his death she might exclaim,--behold the living model of my art! goldoni was born at venice in the year ; he had already reached celebrity when alfieri saw the light for the first time, in , at asti. goldoni's grandfather was a native of modena, who had settled in venice, and there lived with the prodigality of a rich and ostentatious 'bourgeois.' 'amid riot and luxury did i enter the world,' says the poet, after enumerating the banquets and theatrical displays with which the old goldoni entertained his guests in his venetian palace and country-house. venice at that date was certainly the proper birthplace for a comic poet. the splendour of the renaissance had thoroughly habituated her nobles to pleasures of the sense, and had enervated their proud, maritime character, while the great name of the republic robbed them of the caution for which they used to be conspicuous. yet the real strength of venice was almost spent, and nothing remained but outward insolence and prestige. everything was gay about goldoni in his earliest childhood. puppet-shows were built to amuse him by his grandfather. 'my mother,' he says, 'took charge of my education, and my father of my amusements.' let us turn to the opening scene in alfieri's life, and mark the difference. a father above sixty, 'noble, wealthy, and respectable,' who died before his son had reached the age of one year old. a mother devoted to religion, the widow of one marquis, and after the death of a second husband, alfieri's father, married for the third time to a nobleman of ancient birth. these were alfieri's parents. he was born in a solemn palazzo in the country town of asti, and at the age of five already longed for death as an escape from disease and other earthly troubles. so noble and so wealthy was the youthful poet that an abbé was engaged to carry out his education, but not to teach him more than a count should know. except this worthy man he had no companions whatever. strange ideas possessed the boy. he ruminated on his melancholy, and when eight years old attempted suicide. at this age he was sent to the academy at turin, attended, as befitted a lad of his rank, by a man-servant, who was to remain and wait on him at school. alfieri stayed here several years without revisiting his home, tyrannised over by the valet who added to his grandeur, constantly subject to sickness, and kept in almost total ignorance by his incompetent preceptors. the gloom and pride and stoicism of his temperament were augmented by this unnatural discipline. his spirit did not break, but took a haughtier and more disdainful tone. he became familiar with misfortunes. he learned to brood over and intensify his passions. every circumstance of his life seemed strung up to a tragic pitch. this at least is the impression which remains upon our mind after reading in his memoirs the narrative of what must in many of its details have been a common schoolboy's life at that time. meanwhile, what had become of young goldoni? his boyhood was as thoroughly plebeian, various, and comic as alfieri's had been patrician, monotonous, and tragical. instead of one place of residence, we read of twenty. scrape succeeds to scrape, adventure to adventure. knowledge of the world, and some book learning also, flow in upon the boy, and are eagerly caught up by him and heterogeneously amalgamated in his mind. alfieri learned nothing, wrote nothing, in his youth, and heard his parents say--'a nobleman need never strive to be a doctor of the faculties.' goldoni had a little medicine and much law thrust upon him. at eight he wrote a comedy, and ere long began to read the plays of plautus, terence, aristophanes, and machiavelli. between the nature of the two poets there was a marked and characteristic difference as to their mode of labour and of acquiring knowledge. both of them loved fame, and wrought for it; but alfieri did so from a sense of pride and a determination to excel; while goldoni loved the approbation of his fellows, sought their compliments, and basked in the sunshine of smiles. alfieri wrote with labour. each tragedy he composed went through a triple process of composition, and received frequent polishing when finished. goldoni dashed off his pieces with the greatest ease on every possible subject. he once produced sixteen comedies in one theatrical season. alfieri's were like lion's whelps--brought forth with difficulty, and at long intervals; goldoni's, like the brood of a hare--many, frequent, and as agile as their parent. alfieri amassed knowledge scrupulously, but with infinite toil. he mastered greek and hebrew when he was past forty. goldoni never gave himself the least trouble to learn anything, but trusted to the ready wit, good memory, and natural powers, which helped him in a hundred strange emergencies. power of will and pride sustained the one; facility and a good-humoured vanity the other. this contrast was apparent at a very early age. we have seen how alfieri passed his time at turin, in a kind of aristocratic prison of educational ignorance. goldoni's grandfather died when he was five years old, and left his family in great embarrassment. the poet's father went off to practise medicine at perugia. his son followed him, acquired the rudiments of knowledge in that town, and then proceeded to study philosophy alone at rimini. there was no man-servant or academy in his case. he was far too plebeian and too free. the boy lodged with a merchant, and got some smattering of thomas aquinas and the peripatetics into his small brain, while he contrived to form a friendship with an acting company. they were on the wing for venice in a coasting boat, which would touch at chiozza, where goldoni's mother then resided. the boy pleased them. would he like the voyage? this offer seemed too tempting, and away he rushed, concealed himself on board, and made one of a merry motley shipload. 'twelve persons, actors as well as actresses, a prompter, a machinist, a storekeeper, eight domestics, four chambermaids, two nurses, children of every age, cats, dogs, monkeys, parrots, birds, pigeons, and a lamb; it was another noah's ark.' the young poet felt at home; how could a comic poet feel otherwise? they laughed, they sang, they danced; they ate and drank, and played at cards. 'macaroni! every one fell on it, and three dishes were devoured. we had also alamode beef, cold fowl, a loin of veal, a dessert, and excellent wine. what a charming dinner! no cheer like a good appetite.' their harmony, however, was disturbed. the 'première amoureuse,' who, in spite of her rank and title, was ugly and cross, and required to be coaxed with cups of chocolate, lost her cat. she tried to kill the whole boat-load of beasts--cats, dogs, monkeys, parrots, pigeons, even the lamb stood in danger of her wrath. a regular quarrel ensued, was somehow set at peace, and all began to laugh again. this is a sample of goldoni's youth. comic pleasures, comic dangers; nothing deep or lasting, but light and shadow cheerfully distributed, clouds lowering with storm, a distant growl of thunder, then a gleam of light and sunshine breaking overhead. he gets articled to an attorney at venice, then goes to study law at pavia; studies society instead, and flirts, and finally is expelled for writing satires. then he takes a turn at medicine with his father in friuli, and acts as clerk to the criminal chancellor at chiozza. every employment seems easy to him, but he really cares for none but literature. he spends all his spare time in reading and in amusements, and begins to write a tragic opera. this proves, however, eminently unsuccessful, and he burns it in a comic fit of anger. one laughable love-affair in which he engaged at udine exhibits his adventures in their truly comic aspect. it reminds us of the scene in 'don giovanni,' where leporello personates the don and deceives donna elvira. goldoni had often noticed a beautiful young lady at church and on the public drives: she was attended by a waiting-maid, who soon perceived that her mistress had excited the young man's admiration, and who promised to befriend him in his suit. goldoni was told to repair at night to the palace of his mistress, and to pour his passion forth beneath her window. impatiently he waited for the trysting hour, conned his love-sentences, and gloried in the romance of the adventure. when night came, he found the window, and a veiled figure of a lady in the moonlight, whom he supposed at once to be his mistress. her he eloquently addressed in the true style of romeo's rapture, and she answered him. night after night this happened, but sometimes he was a little troubled by a sound of ill-suppressed laughter interrupting the _tête-à-tête_. meanwhile teresa, the waiting-maid, received from his hands costly presents for her mistress, and made him promises on her part in exchange. as she proved unable to fulfil them, goldoni grew suspicious, and at last discovered that the veiled figure to whom he had poured out his tale of love was none other than teresa, and that the laughter had proceeded from her mistress, whom the faithless waiting-maid regaled at her lover's expense. thus ended this ridiculous matter. goldoni was not, however, cured by his experience. one other love-affair rendered udine too hot to hold him, and in consequence of a third he had to fly from venice just when he was beginning to flourish there. at length he married comfortably and suitably, settling down into a quiet life with a woman whom, if he did not love her with passion, he at least respected and admired. goldoni, in fact, had no real passion in his nature. alfieri, on the other hand, was given over to volcanic ebullitions of the most ungovernable hate and affection, joy and sorrow. the chains of love which goldoni courted so willingly, alfieri regarded with the greatest shyness. but while goldoni healed his heart of all its bruises in a week or so, the tragic poet bore about him wounds that would not close. he enumerates three serious passions which possessed his whole nature, and at times deprived him almost of his reason. a dutch lady first won his heart, and when he had to leave her, alfieri suffered so intensely that he never opened his lips during the course of a long journey through germany, switzerland, and piedmont. fevers, and suicides attempted but interrupted, marked the termination of this tragic amour. his second passion had for its object an english lady, with whose injured husband he fought a duel, although his collarbone was broken at the time. the lady proved unworthy of alfieri as well as of her husband, and the poet left her in a most deplorable state of hopelessness and intellectual prostration. at last he formed a permanent affection for the wife of prince charles edward, the countess of albany, in close friendship with whom he lived after her husband's death. the society of this lady gave him perfect happiness; but it was founded on her lofty beauty, the pathos of her situation, and her intellectual qualities. melpomene presided at this union, while thalia blessed the nuptials of goldoni. how characteristic also were the adventures which these two pairs of lovers encountered! goldoni once carried his wife upon his back across two rivers in their flight from the spanish to the austrian camp at rimini, laughing and groaning, and perceiving the humour of his situation all the time. alfieri, on an occasion of even greater difficulty, was stopped with his illustrious friend at the gates of paris in . they were flying in post-chaises, with their servants and their baggage, from the devoted city, when a troop of _sansculottes_ rushed on them, surged around the carriage, called them aristocrats, and tried to drag them off to prison. alfieri, with his tall gaunt figure, pallid face, and red voluminous hair, stormed, raged, and raised his deep bass voice above the tumult. for half an hour he fought with them, then made his coachmen gallop through the gates, and scarcely halted till they got to gravelines. by this prompt movement they escaped arrest and death at paris. these two scenes would make agreeable companion pictures: goldoni staggering beneath his wife across the muddy bed of an italian stream--the smiling writer of agreeable plays, with his half-tearful helpmate ludicrous in her disasters; alfieri mad with rage among parisian mænads, his princess quaking in her carriage, the air hoarse with cries, and death and safety trembling in the balance. it is no wonder that the one man wrote 'la donna di garbo' and the 'cortese veneziano,' while the other was inditing essays on tyranny and dramas of 'antigone,' 'timoleon,' and 'brutus.' the difference between the men is seen no less remarkably in regard to courage. alfieri was a reckless rider, and astonished even english huntsmen by his desperate leaps. in one of them he fell and broke his collar-bone, but not the less he held his tryst with a fair lady, climbed her park gates, and fought a duel with her husband. goldoni was a pantaloon for cowardice. in the room of an inn at desenzano which he occupied together with a female fellow-traveller, an attempt was made to rob them by a thief at night. all goldoni was able to do consisted in crying out for help, and the lady called him 'm. l'abbé' ever after for his want of pluck. goldoni must have been by far the more agreeable of the two. in all his changes from town to town of italy he found amusement and brought gaiety. the sights, the theatres, the society aroused his curiosity. he trembled with excitement at the performance of his pieces, made friends with the actors, taught them, and wrote parts to suit their qualities. at pisa he attended as a stranger the meeting of the arcadian academy, and at its close attracted all attention to himself by his clever improvisation. he was in truth a ready-witted man, pliable, full of resource, bred half a valet, half a roman _græculus_. alfieri saw more of europe than goldoni. france, germany, holland, switzerland, england, spain, all parts of italy he visited with restless haste. from land to land he flew, seeking no society, enjoying nothing, dashing from one inn door to another with his servants and his carriages, and thinking chiefly of the splendid stud of horses which he took about with him upon his travels. he was a lonely, stiff, self-engrossed, indomitable man. he could not rest at home: he could not bear to be the vassal of a king and breathe the air of courts. so he lived always on the wing, and ended by exiling himself from sardinia in order to escape the trammels of paternal government. as for his tragedies, he wrote them to win laurels from posterity. he never cared to see them acted; he bullied even his printers and correctors; he cast a glove down in defiance of his critics. goldoni sought the smallest meed of approbation. it pleased him hugely in his old age to be italian master to a french princess. alfieri openly despised the public. goldoni wrote because he liked to write; alfieri, for the sake of proving his superior powers. against alfieri's hatred of turin and its trivial solemnities, we have to set goldoni's love of venice and its petty pleasures. he would willingly have drunk chocolate and played at dominoes or picquet all his life on the piazza di san marco, when alfieri was crossing the sierras on his andalusian horse, and devouring a frugal meal of rice in solitude. goldoni glided through life an easy man, with genial, venial thoughts; with a clear, gay, gentle temper; a true sense of what is good and just; and a heart that loved diffusively, if not too warmly. many were the checks and obstacles thrown on his path; but round them or above them he passed nimbly, without scar or scathe. poverty went close behind him, but he kept her off, and never felt the pinch of need. alfieri strained and strove against the barriers of fate; a sombre, rugged man, proud, candid, and self-confident, who broke or bent all opposition; now moving solemnly with tragic pomp, now dashing passionately forward by the might of will. goldoni drew his inspirations from the moment and surrounding circumstances. alfieri pursued an ideal, slowly formed, but strongly fashioned and resolutely followed. of wealth he had plenty and to spare, but he disregarded it, and was a stoic in his mode of life. he was an unworldly man, and hated worldliness. goldoni, but for his authorship, would certainly have grown a prosperous advocate, and died of gout in venice. goldoni liked smart clothes; alfieri went always in black. goldoni's fits of spleen--for he _was_ melancholy now and then--lasted a day or two, and disappeared before a change of place. alfieri dragged his discontent about with him all over europe, and let it interrupt his work and mar his intellect for many months together. alfieri was a patriot, and hated france. goldoni never speaks of politics, and praises paris as a heaven on earth. the genial moralising of the latter appears childish by the side of alfieri's terse philosophy and pregnant remarks on the development of character. what suits the page of plautus would look poor in 'oedipus' or 'agamemnon.' goldoni's memoirs are diffuse and flippant in their light french dress. they seem written to please. alfieri's italian style marches with dignity and latin terseness. he rarely condescends to smile. he writes to instruct the world and to satisfy himself. grim humour sometimes flashes out, as when he tells the story of the order of homer, which he founded. how different from goldoni's naïve account of his little ovation in the theatre at paris! but it would be idle to carry on this comparison, already tedious. the life of goldoni was one long scene of shifts and jests, of frequent triumphs and some failures, of lessons hard at times, but kindly. passions and _ennui_, flashes of heroic patriotism, constant suffering and stoical endurance, art and love idealised, fill up the life of alfieri. goldoni clung much to his fellow-men, and shared their pains and pleasures. alfieri spent many of his years in almost absolute solitude. on the whole character and deeds of the one man was stamped comedy: the other was own son of tragedy. if, after reading the autobiographies of alfieri and goldoni, we turn to the perusal of their plays, we shall perceive that there is no better commentary on the works of an artist than his life, and no better life than one written by himself. the old style of criticism, which strove to separate an author's productions from his life, and even from the age in which he lived, to set up an arbitrary canon of taste, and to select one or two great painters or poets as ideals because they seemed to illustrate that canon, has passed away. we are beginning to feel that art is a part of history and of physiology. that is to say, the artist's work can only be rightly understood by studying his age and temperament. goldoni's versatility and want of depth induced him to write sparkling comedies. the merry life men passed at venice in its years of decadence proved favourable to his genius. alfieri's melancholy and passionate qualities, fostered in solitude, and aggravated by a tyranny he could not bear, led him irresistibly to tragic composition. though a noble, his nobility only added to his pride, and insensibly his intellect had been imbued with the democratic sentiments which were destined to shake europe in his lifetime. this, in itself, was a tragic circumstance, bringing him into close sympathy with the brutus, the prometheus, the timoleon of ancient history. goldoni's _bourgeoisie_, in the atmosphere of which he was born and bred, was essentially comic. the true comedy of manners, which is quite distinct from shakspere's fancy or from aristophanic satire, is always laid in middle life. though goldoni tried to write tragedies, they were unimpassioned, dull, and tame. he lacked altogether the fire, high-wrought nobility of sentiment, and sense of form essential for tragic art. on the other hand, alfieri composed some comedies before his death which were devoid of humour, grace, and lightness. a strange elephantine eccentricity is their utmost claim to comic character. indeed, the temper of alfieri, ever in extremes, led him even to exaggerate the qualities of tragedy. he carried its severity to a pitch of dulness and monotony. his chiaroscuro was too strong; virtue and villany appearing in pure black and white upon his pages. his hatred of tyrants induced him to transgress the rules of probability, so that it has been well said that if his wicked kings had really had such words of scorn and hatred thrown at them by their victims, they were greatly to be pitied. on the other hand, his pithy laconisms have often a splendidly tragical effect. there is nothing in the modern drama more rhetorically impressive, though spasmodic, than the well-known dialogue between antigone and creon:-- '_cr_. scegliesti? '_ant_. ho scelto. '_cr_. emon? '_ant_. morte. '_cr_. l'avrai!' goldoni's comedies, again, have not enough of serious thought or of true creative imagination to be works of high art. they lean too much to the side of farce; they have none of the tragic salt which gives a dignity to tartuffe. they are, in a word, almost too enethistically comic. the contrast between these authors might lead us to raise the question long ago discussed by socrates at agathon's banquet--can the same man write both comedies and tragedies? we in england are accustomed to read the serious and comic plays of shakspere, fletcher, jonson, and to think that one poet could excel in either branch. the custom of the elizabethan theatre obliged this double authorship; yet it must be confessed that shakspere's comedies are not such comedies as greek or romnan or french critics would admit. they are works of the purest imagination, wholly free from the laws of this world; while the tragedies of fletcher have a melodramatic air equally at variance with the classical melpomene. it may very seriously be doubted whether the same mind could produce, with equal power, a comedy like the 'cortese veneziano' and a tragedy like alfieri's 'brutus.' at any rate, returning to our old position, we find in these two men the very opposite conditions of dramatic genius. they are, as it were, specimens prepared by nature for the instruction of those who analyse genius in its relations to temperament, to life, and to external circumstances. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : this essay was written in , and published in . reprinting it in , after eighteen months spent continuously in one high valley of the grisons, i feel how slight it is. for some amends, i take this opportunity of printing at the end of it a description of davos in winter.] [footnote : see, however, what is said about leo battista alberti in the sketch of rimini in the second series.] [footnote : the grisons surname campèll may derive from the romansch campo bello. the founder of the house was one kaspar campèll, who in the first half of the sixteenth century preached the reformed religion in the engadine.] [footnote : i have translated and printed at the end of the second volume some sonnets of petrarch as a kind of palinode for this impertinence.] [footnote : this begs the question whether [greek: leukoion] does not properly mean snowflake, or some such flower. violets in greece, however, were often used for crowns: [greek: iostephanos] is the epithet of homer for aphrodite, and of aristophanes for athens.] [footnote : olive-trees must be studied at mentone or san remo, in corfu, at tivoli, on the coast between syracuse and catania, or on the lowlands of apulia. the stunted but productive trees of the rhone valley, for example, are no real measure of the beauty they can exhibit.] [footnote : dante, par. xi. .] [footnote : it is but just to doctor pasta to remark that the above sentence was written more than ten years ago. since then he has enlarged and improved his house in many ways, furnished it more luxuriously, made paths through the beechwoods round it, and brought excellent water at a great cost from a spring near the summit of the mountain. a more charming residence from early spring to late autumn can scarcely be discovered.] [footnote : 'the down upon their cheeks and chin was yellower than helichrysus, and their breasts gleamed whiter far than thou, o moon.'] [footnote : 'thy tresses have i oftentimes compared to ceres' yellow autumn sheaves, wreathed in curled bands around thy head.'] [footnote : both these and the large frescoes in the choir have been chromolithographed by the arundel society.] [footnote : i cannot see clearly through these transactions, the muddy waters of decadent italian plot and counterplot being inscrutable to senses assisted by nothing more luminous than mere tradition.] [footnote : those who are interested in such matters may profitably compare this description of a planned murder in the sixteenth century with the account written by ambrogio tremazzi of the way in which he tracked and slew troilo orsini in paris in the year . it is given by gnoli in his _vittoria accoramboni_, pp. - .] [footnote : so far as i can discover, the only church of san spirito in venice was a building on the island of san spirito, erected by sansavino, which belonged to the sestiere di s. croce, and which was suppressed in . its plate and the fine pictures which titian painted there were transferred at that date to s.m. della salute. i cannot help inferring that either bibboni's memory failed him, or that his words were wrongly understood by printer or amanuensis. if for s. spirito we substitute s. stefano, the account would be intelligible.] * * * * * proofreading team sketches and studies in italy and greece by john addington symonds author of "renaissance in italy" "studies of the greek poets," etc second series london john murray, albemarle street, w. _all rights reserved_ first edition (_smith, elder & co._) _october, _ _reprinted_ _may, _ _reprinted_ _june, _ _reprinted_ _november, _ _reprinted_ _december, _ _reprinted_ _february, _ _taken over by john murray_ _january, _ _printed in great britain at_ the ballantyne press _by_ spottiswoode, ballantyne & co. ltd. _colchester, london & eton_ contents page ravenna rimini may in umbria the palace of urbino vittoria accoramboni autumn wanderings parma canossa fornovo florence and the medici the debt of english to italian literature popular songs of tuscany popular italian poetry of the renaissance the 'orfeo' of poliziano eight sonnets of petrarch sketches and studies in italy and greece _ravenna_ the emperor augustus chose ravenna for one of his two naval stations, and in course of time a new city arose by the sea-shore, which received the name of portus classis. between this harbour and the mother city a third town sprang up, and was called cæsarea. time and neglect, the ravages of war, and the encroaching powers of nature have destroyed these settlements, and nothing now remains of the three cities but ravenna. it would seem that in classical times ravenna stood, like modern venice, in the centre of a huge lagune, the fresh waters of the ronco and the po mixing with the salt waves of the adriatic round its very walls. the houses of the city were built on piles; canals instead of streets formed the means of communication, and these were always filled with water artificially conducted from the southern estuary of the po. round ravenna extended a vast morass, for the most part under shallow water, but rising at intervals into low islands like the lido or murano or torcello which surround venice. these islands were celebrated for their fertility: the vines and fig-trees and pomegranates, springing from a fat and fruitful soil, watered with constant moisture, and fostered by a mild sea-wind and liberal sunshine, yielded crops that for luxuriance and quality surpassed the harvests of any orchards on the mainland. all the conditions of life in old ravenna seem to have resembled those of modern venice; the people went about in gondolas, and in the early morning barges laden with fresh fruit or meat and vegetables flocked from all quarters to the city of the sea.[ ] water also had to be procured from the neighbouring shore, for, as martial says, a well at ravenna was more valuable than a vineyard. again, between the city and the mainland ran a long low causeway all across the lagune like that on which the trains now glide into venice. strange to say, the air of ravenna was remarkably salubrious: this fact, and the ease of life that prevailed there, and the security afforded by the situation of the town, rendered it a most desirable retreat for the monarchs of italy during those troublous times in which the empire nodded to its fall. honorius retired to its lagunes for safety; odoacer, who dethroned the last cæsar of the west, succeeded him; and was in turn, supplanted by theodoric the ostrogoth. ravenna, as we see it now, recalls the peaceful and half-roman rule of the great gothic king. his palace, his churches, and the mausoleums in which his daughter amalasuntha laid the hero's bones, have survived the sieges of belisarius and astolphus, the conquest of pepin, the bloody quarrels of iconoclasts with the children of the roman church, the mediæval wars of italy, the victory of gaston de foix, and still stand gorgeous with marbles and mosaics in spite of time and the decay of all around them. as early as the sixth century, the sea had already retreated to such a distance from ravenna that orchards and gardens were cultivated on the spot where once the galleys of the cæsars rode at anchor. groves of pines sprang up along the shore, and in their lofty tops the music of the wind moved like the ghost of waves and breakers plunging upon distant sands. this pinetum stretches along the shore of the adriatic for about forty miles, forming a belt of variable width between the great marsh and the tumbling sea. from a distance the bare stems and velvet crowns of the pine-trees stand up like palms that cover an oasis on arabian sands; but at a nearer view the trunks detach themselves from an inferior forest-growth of juniper and thorn and ash and oak, the tall roofs of the stately firs shooting their breadth of sheltering greenery above the lower and less sturdy brushwood. it is hardly possible to imagine a more beautiful and impressive scene than that presented by these long alleys of imperial pines. they grow so thickly one behind another, that we might compare them to the pipes of a great organ, or the pillars of a gothic church, or the basaltic columns of the giant's causeway. their tops are evergreen and laden with the heavy cones, from which ravenna draws considerable wealth. scores of peasants are quartered on the outskirts of the forest, whose business it is to scale the pines and rob them of their fruit at certain seasons of the year. afterwards they dry the fir-cones in the sun, until the nuts which they contain fall out. the empty husks are sold for firewood, and the kernels in their stony shells reserved for exportation. you may see the peasants, men, women, and boys, sorting them by millions, drying and sifting them upon the open spaces of the wood, and packing them in sacks to send abroad through italy. the _pinocchi_ or kernels of the stone-pine are largely used in cookery, and those of ravenna are prized for their good quality and aromatic flavour. when roasted or pounded, they taste like a softer and more mealy kind of almonds. the task of gathering this harvest is not a little dangerous. men have to cut notches in the straight shafts, and having climbed, often to the height of eighty feet, to lean upon the branches, and detach the fir-cones with a pole--and this for every tree. some lives, they say, are yearly lost in the business. as may be imagined, the spaces of this great forest form the haunt of innumerable living creatures. lizards run about by myriads in the grass. doves coo among the branches of the pines, and nightingales pour their full-throated music all day and night from thickets of white-thorn and acacia. the air is sweet with aromatic scents: the resin of the pine and juniper, the mayflowers and acacia-blossoms, the violets that spring by thousands in the moss, the wild roses and faint honeysuckles which throw fragrant arms from bough to bough of ash or maple, join to make one most delicious perfume. and though the air upon the neighbouring marsh is poisonous, here it is dry, and spreads a genial health. the sea-wind murmuring through these thickets at nightfall or misty sunrise, conveys no fever to the peasants stretched among their flowers. they watch the red rays of sunset flaming through the columns of the leafy hall, and flaring on its fretted rafters of entangled boughs; they see the stars come out, and hesper gleam, an eye of brightness, among dewy branches; the moon walks silver-footed on the velvet tree-tops, while they sleep beside the camp-fires; fresh morning wakes them to the sound of birds and scent of thyme and twinkling of dewdrops on the grass around. meanwhile ague, fever, and death have been stalking all night long about the plain, within a few yards of their couch, and not one pestilential breath has reached the charmed precincts of the forest. you may ride or drive for miles along green aisles between the pines in perfect solitude; and yet the creatures of the wood, the sunlight and the birds, the flowers and tall majestic columns at your side, prevent all sense of loneliness or fear. huge oxen haunt the wilderness--grey creatures, with mild eyes and spreading horns and stealthy tread. some are patriarchs of the forest, the fathers and the mothers of many generations who have been carried from their sides to serve in ploughs or waggons on the lombard plain. others are yearling calves, intractable and ignorant of labour. in order to subdue them to the yoke, it is requisite to take them very early from their native glades, or else they chafe and pine away with weariness. then there is a sullen canal, which flows through the forest from the marshes to the sea; it is alive with frogs and newts and snakes. you may see these serpents basking on the surface among thickets of the flowering rush, or coiled about the lily leaves and flowers--lithe monsters, slippery and speckled, the tyrants of the fen. it is said that when dante was living at ravenna he would spend whole days alone among the forest glades, thinking of florence and her civil wars, and meditating cantos of his poem. nor have the influences of the pine-wood failed to leave their trace upon his verse. the charm of its summer solitude seems to have sunk into his soul; for when he describes the whispering of winds and singing birds among the boughs of his terrestrial paradise, he says:-- non però dal lor esser dritto sparte tanto, che gli augelletti per le cime lasciasser d' operare ogni lor arte: ma con piena letizia l' aure prime, cantando, ricevano intra le foglie, che tenevan bordone alle sue rime tal, qual di ramo in ramo si raccoglie per la pineta in sul lito di chiassi quand' eolo scirocco fuor discioglie. with these verses in our minds, while wandering down the grassy aisles, beside the waters of the solitary place, we seem to meet that lady singing as she went, and plucking flower by flower, 'like proserpine when ceres lost a daughter, and she lost her spring.' there, too, the vision of the griffin and the car, of singing maidens, and of beatrice descending to the sound of benedictus and of falling flowers, her flaming robe and mantle green as grass, and veil of white, and olive crown, all flashed upon the poet's inner eye, and he remembered how he bowed before her when a boy. there is yet another passage in which it is difficult to believe that dante had not the pine-forest in his mind. when virgil and the poet were waiting in anxiety before the gates of dis, when the furies on the wall were tearing their breasts and crying, 'venga medusa, e si 'l farem di smalto,' suddenly across the hideous river came a sound like that which whirlwinds make among the shattered branches and bruised stems of forest-trees; and dante, looking out with fear upon the foam and spray and vapour of the flood, saw thousands of the damned flying before the face of one who forded styx with feet unwet. 'like frogs,' he says, 'they fled, who scurry through the water at the sight of their foe, the serpent, till each squats and hides himself close to the ground.' the picture of the storm among the trees might well have occurred to dante's mind beneath the roof of pine-boughs. nor is there any place in which the simile of the frogs and water-snake attains such dignity and grandeur. i must confess that till i saw the ponds and marshes of ravenna, i used to fancy that the comparison was somewhat below the greatness of the subject; but there so grave a note of solemnity and desolation is struck, the scale of nature is so large, and the serpents coiling in and out among the lily leaves and flowers are so much in their right place, that they suggest a scene by no means unworthy of dante's conception. nor is dante the only singer who has invested this wood with poetical associations. it is well known that boccaccio laid his story of 'honoria' in the pine-forest, and every student of english literature must be familiar with the noble tale in verse which dryden has founded on this part of the 'decameron.' we all of us have followed theodore, and watched with him the tempest swelling in the grove, and seen the hapless ghost pursued by demon hounds and hunter down the glades. this story should be read while storms are gathering upon the distant sea, or thunderclouds descending from the apennines, and when the pines begin to rock and surge beneath the stress of labouring winds. then runs the sudden flash of lightning like a rapier through the boughs, the rain streams hissing down, and the thunder 'breaks like a whole sea overhead.' with the pinetum the name of byron will be for ever associated. during his two years' residence in ravenna he used to haunt its wilderness, riding alone or in the company of friends. the inscription placed above the entrance to the house he occupied alludes to it as one of the objects which principally attracted the poet to the neighbourhood of ravenna: 'impaziente di visitare l' antica selva, che inspirò già il divino e giovanni boccaccio.' we know, however, that a more powerful attraction, in the person of the countess guiccioli, maintained his fidelity to 'that place of old renown, once in the adrian sea, ravenna.' between the bosco, as the people of ravenna call this pine-wood, and the city, the marsh stretches for a distance of about three miles. it is a plain intersected by dykes and ditches, and mapped out into innumerable rice-fields. for more than half a year it lies under water, and during the other months exhales a pestilential vapour, which renders it as uninhabitable as the roman campagna; yet in springtime this dreary flat is even beautiful. the young blades of the rice shoot up above the water, delicately green and tender. the ditches are lined with flowering rush and golden flags, while white and yellow lilies sleep in myriads upon the silent pools. tamarisks wave their pink and silver tresses by the road, and wherever a plot of mossy earth emerges from the marsh, it gleams with purple orchises and flaming marigolds; but the soil beneath is so treacherous and spongy, that these splendid blossoms grow like flowers in dreams or fairy stories. you try in vain to pick them; they elude your grasp, and flourish in security beyond the reach of arm or stick. such is the sight of the old town of classis. not a vestige of the roman city remains, not a dwelling or a ruined tower, nothing but the ancient church of s. apollinare in classe. of all desolate buildings this is the most desolate. not even the deserted grandeur of s. paolo beyond the walls of rome can equal it. its bare round campanile gazes at the sky, which here vaults only sea and plain--a perfect dome, star-spangled like the roof of galla placidia's tomb. ravenna lies low to west, the pine-wood stretches away in long monotony to east. there is nothing else to be seen except the spreading marsh, bounded by dim snowy alps and purple apennines, so very far away that the level rack of summer clouds seem more attainable and real. what sunsets and sunrises that tower must see; what glaring lurid afterglows in august, when the red light scowls upon the pestilential fen; what sheets of sullen vapour rolling over it in autumn; what breathless heats, and rainclouds big with thunder; what silences; what unimpeded blasts of winter winds! one old monk tends this deserted spot. he has the huge church, with its echoing aisles and marble columns and giddy bell-tower and cloistered corridors, all to himself. at rare intervals, priests from ravenna come to sing some special mass at these cold altars; pious folk make vows to pray upon their mouldy steps and kiss the relics which are shown on great occasions. but no one stays; they hurry, after muttering their prayers, from the fever-stricken spot, reserving their domestic pieties and customary devotions for the brighter and newer chapels of the fashionable churches in ravenna. so the old monk is left alone to sweep the marsh water from his church floor, and to keep the green moss from growing too thickly on its monuments. a clammy conferva covers everything except the mosaics upon tribune, roof, and clerestory, which defy the course of age. christ on his throne _sedet aternumque sedebit_: the saints around him glitter with their pitiless uncompromising eyes and wooden gestures, as if twelve centuries had not passed over them, and they were nightmares only dreamed last night, and rooted in a sick man's memory. for those gaunt and solemn forms there is no change of life or end of days. no fever touches them; no dampness of the wind and rain loosens their firm cement. they stare with senseless faces in bitter mockery of men who live and die and moulder away beneath. their poor old guardian told us it was a weary life. he has had the fever three times, and does not hope to survive many more septembers. the very water that he drinks is brought him from ravenna; for the vast fen, though it pours its overflow upon the church floor, and spreads like a lake around, is death to drink. the monk had a gentle woman's voice and mild brown eyes. what terrible crime had consigned him to this living tomb? for what past sorrow is he weary of his life? what anguish of remorse has driven him to such a solitude? yet he looked simple and placid; his melancholy was subdued and calm, as if life were over for him, and he were waiting for death to come with a friend's greeting upon noiseless wings some summer night across the fen-lands in a cloud of soft destructive fever-mist. another monument upon the plain is worthy of a visit. it is the so-called colonna dei francesi, a _cinquecento_ pillar of ionic design, erected on the spot where gaston de foix expired victorious after one of the bloodiest battles ever fought. the ronco, a straight sluggish stream, flows by the lonely spot; mason bees have covered with laborious stucco-work the scrolls and leafage of its ornaments, confounding epitaphs and trophies under their mud houses. a few cypress-trees stand round it, and the dogs and chickens of a neighbouring farmyard make it their rendezvous. those mason bees are like posterity, which settles down upon the ruins of a baalbec or a luxor, setting up its tents, and filling the fair spaces of hellenic or egyptian temples with clay hovels. nothing differs but the scale; and while the bees content themselves with filling up and covering, man destroys the silent places of the past which he appropriates. in ravenna itself, perhaps what strikes us most is the abrupt transition everywhere discernible from monuments of vast antiquity to buildings of quite modern date. there seems to be no interval between the marbles and mosaics of justinian or theodoric and the insignificant frippery of the last century. the churches of ravenna--s. vitale, s. apollinare, and the rest--are too well known, and have been too often described by enthusiastic antiquaries, to need a detailed notice in this place. every one is aware that the ecclesiastical customs and architecture of the early church can be studied in greater perfection here than elsewhere. not even the basilicas and mosaics of rome, nor those of palermo and monreale, are equal for historical interest to those of ravenna. yet there is not one single church which remains entirely unaltered and unspoiled. the imagination has to supply the atrium or outer portico from one building, the vaulted baptistery with its marble font from another, the pulpits and ambones from a third the tribune from a fourth, the round brick bell-tower from a fifth, and then to cover all the concave roofs and chapel walls with grave and glittering mosaics. there is nothing more beautiful in decorative art than the mosaics of such tiny buildings as the tomb of galla placidia or the chapel of the bishop's palace. they are like jewelled and enamelled cases; not an inch of wall can be seen which is not covered with elaborate patterns of the brightest colours. tall date-palms spring from the floor with fruit and birds among their branches, and between them stand the pillars and apostles of the church. in the spandrels and lunettes above the arches and the windows angels fly with white extended wings. on every vacant place are scrolls and arabesques of foliage,--birds and beasts, doves drinking from the vase, and peacocks spreading gorgeous plumes--a maze of green and gold and blue. overhead, the vault is powdered with stars gleaming upon the deepest azure, and in the midst is set an aureole embracing the majestic head of christ, or else the symbol of the sacred fish, or the hand of the creator pointing from a cloud. in galla placidia's tomb these storied vaults spring above the sarcophagi of empresses and emperors, each lying in the place where he was laid more than twelve centuries ago. the light which struggles through the narrow windows serves to harmonise the brilliant hues and make a gorgeous gloom. besides these more general and decorative subjects, many of the churches are adorned with historical mosaics, setting forth the bible narrative or incidents from the life of christian emperors and kings. in s. apollinare nuovo there is a most interesting treble series of such mosaics extending over both walls of the nave. on the left hand, as we enter, we see the town of classis; on the right the palace of theodoric, its doors and loggie rich with curtains, and its friezes blazing with coloured ornaments. from the city gate of classis virgins issue, and proceed in a long line until they reach madonna seated on a throne, with christ upon her knees, and the three kings in adoration at her feet. from theodoric's palace door a similar procession of saints and martyrs carry us to christ surrounded by archangels. above this double row of saints and virgins stand the fathers and prophets of the church, and highest underneath the roof are pictures from the life of our lord. it will be remembered in connection with these subjects that the women sat upon the left and the men upon the right side of the church. above the tribune, at the east end of the church, it was customary to represent the creative hand, or the monogram of the saviour, or the head of christ with the letters a and [greek Ô]. moses and elijah frequently stand on either side to symbolise the transfiguration, while the saints and bishops specially connected with the church appeared upon a lower row. then on the side walls were depicted such subjects as justinian and theodora among their courtiers, or the grant of the privileges of the church to its first founder from imperial patrons, with symbols of the old hebraic ritual--abel's lamb, the sacrifice of isaac, melchisedec's offering of bread and wine,--which were regarded as the types of christian ceremonies. the baptistery was adorned with appropriate mosaics representing christ's baptism in jordan. generally speaking, one is struck with the dignity of these designs, and especially with the combined majesty and sweetness of the face of christ. the sense for harmony of hue displayed in their composition is marvellous. it would be curious to trace in detail the remnants of classical treatment which may be discerned--jordan, for instance, pours his water from an urn like a river-god crowned with sedge--or to show what points of ecclesiastical tradition are established these ancient monuments. we find mariolatry already imminent, the names of the three kings, kaspar, melchior, and balthazar, the four evangelists as we now recognise them, and many of the rites and vestments which ritualists of all denominations regard with superstitious reverence. there are two sepulchral monuments in ravenna which cannot be passed over unnoticed. the one is that of theodoric the goth, crowned by its semisphere of solid stone, a mighty tomb, well worthy of the conqueror and king. it stands in a green field, surrounded by acacias, where the nightingales sing ceaselessly in may. the mason bees have covered it, and the water has invaded its sepulchral vaults. in spite of many trials, it seems that human art is unable to pump out the pond and clear the frogs and efts from the chamber where the great goth was laid by amalasuntha. the other is dante's temple, with its basrelief and withered garlands. the story of his burial, and of the discovery of his real tomb, is fresh in the memory of every one. but the 'little cupola, more neat than solemn,' of which lord byron speaks, will continue to be the goal of many a pilgrimage. for myself--though i remember chateaubriand's bareheaded genuflection on its threshold, alfieri's passionate prostration at the altar-tomb, and byron's offering of poems on the poet's shrine--i confess that a single canto of the 'inferno,' a single passage of the 'vita nuova,' seems more full of soul-stirring associations than the place where, centuries ago, the mighty dust was laid. it is the spirit that lives and makes alive. and dante's spirit seems more present with us under the pine-branches of the bosco than beside his real or fancied tomb. 'he is risen,'--'lo, i am with you alway'--these are the words that ought to haunt us in a burying-ground. there is something affected and self-conscious in overpowering grief or enthusiasm or humiliation at a tomb. * * * * * _rimini_ sigismondo pandolfo malatesta and leo battista alberti rimini is a city of about , souls, famous for its stabilmento de' bagni and its antiquities, seated upon the coast of the adriatic, a little to the south-east of the world-historical rubicon. it is our duty to mention the baths first among its claims to distinction, since the prosperity and cheerfulness of the little town depend on them in a great measure. but visitors from the north will fly from these, to marvel at the bridge which augustus built and tiberius completed, and which still spans the marecchia with five gigantic arches of white istrian limestone, as solidly as if it had not borne the tramplings of at least three conquests. the triumphal arch, too, erected in honour of augustus, is a notable monument of roman architecture. broad, ponderous, substantial, tufted here and there with flowering weeds, and surmounted with mediaeval machicolations, proving it to have sometimes stood for city gate or fortress, it contrasts most favourably with the slight and somewhat gimcrack arch of trajan in the sister city of ancona. yet these remains of the imperial pontifices, mighty and interesting as they are, sink into comparative insignificance beside the one great wonder of rimini, the cathedral remodelled for sigismondo pandolfo malatesta by leo battista alberti in . this strange church, one of the earliest extant buildings in which the neopaganism of the renaissance showed itself in full force, brings together before our memory two men who might be chosen as typical in their contrasted characters of the transitional age which gave them birth. no one with any tincture of literary knowledge is ignorant of the fame at least of the great malatesta family--the house of the wrongheads, as they were rightly called by some prevision of their future part in lombard history. the readers of the twenty-seventh and twenty-eighth cantos of the 'inferno' have all heard of e il mastin vecchio e il nuovo da verucchio che fecer di montagna il mal governo, while the story of francesca da polenta, who was wedded to the hunchback giovanni malatesta and murdered by him with her lover paolo, is known not merely to students of dante, but to readers of byron and leigh hunt, to admirers of flaxman, ary scheffer, doré--to all, in fact, who have of art and letters any love. the history of these malatesti, from their first establishment under otho iii. as lieutenants for the empire in the marches of ancona, down to their final subjugation by the papacy in the age of the renaissance, is made up of all the vicissitudes which could befall a mediaeval italian despotism. acquiring an unlawful right over the towns of rimini, cesena, sogliano, ghiacciuolo, they ruled their petty principalities like tyrants by the help of the guelf and ghibelline factions, inclining to the one or the other as it suited their humour or their interest, wrangling among themselves, transmitting the succession of their dynasty through bastards and by deeds of force, quarrelling with their neighbours the counts of urbino, alternately defying and submitting to the papal legates in romagna, serving as condottieri in the wars of the visconti and the state of venice, and by their restlessness and genius for military intrigues contributing in no slight measure to the general disturbance of italy. the malatesti were a race of strongly marked character: more, perhaps, than any other house of italian tyrants, they combined for generations those qualities of the fox and the lion, which machiavelli thought indispensable to a successful despot. son after son, brother with brother, they continued to be fierce and valiant soldiers, cruel in peace, hardy in war, but treasonable and suspicious in all transactions that could not be settled by the sword. want of union, with them as with the baglioni and many other of the minor noble families in italy, prevented their founding a substantial dynasty. their power, based on force, was maintained by craft and crime, and transmitted through tortuous channels by intrigue. while false in their dealings with the world at large, they were diabolical in the perfidy with which they treated one another. no feudal custom, no standard of hereditary right, ruled the succession in their family. therefore the ablest malatesta for the moment clutched what he could of the domains that owned his house for masters. partitions among sons or brothers, mutually hostile and suspicious, weakened the whole stock. yet they were great enough to hold their own for centuries among the many tyrants who infested lombardy. that the other princely families of romagna, emilia, and the march were in the same state of internal discord and dismemberment, was probably one reason why the malatesti stood their ground so firmly as they did. so far as rimini is concerned, the house of malatesta culminated in sigismondo pandolfo, son of gian galeazzo visconti's general, the perfidious pandolfo. it was he who built the rocca, or castle of the despots, which stands a little way outside the town, commanding a fair view of apennine tossed hill-tops and broad lombard plain, and who remodelled the cathedral of s. francis on a plan suggested by the greatest genius of the age. sigismondo pandolfo malatesta was one of the strangest products of the earlier renaissance. to enumerate the crimes which he committed within the sphere of his own family, mysterious and inhuman outrages which render the tale of the cenci credible, would violate the decencies of literature. a thoroughly bestial nature gains thus much with posterity that its worst qualities must be passed by in silence. it is enough to mention that he murdered three wives in succession,[ ] bussoni di carmagnuola, guinipera d'este, and polissena sforza, on various pretexts of infidelity, and carved horns upon his own tomb with this fantastic legend underneath:-- porto le corna ch' ognuno le vede, e tal le porta che non se lo crede. he died in wedlock with the beautiful and learned isotta degli atti, who had for some time been his mistress. but, like most of the malatesti, he left no legitimate offspring. throughout his life he was distinguished for bravery and cunning, for endurance of fatigue and rapidity of action, for an almost fretful rashness in the execution of his schemes, and for a character terrible in its violence. he was acknowledged as a great general; yet nothing succeeded with him. the long warfare which he carried on against the duke of montefeltro ended in his discomfiture. having begun by defying the holy see, he was impeached at rome for heresy, parricide, incest, adultery, rape, and sacrilege, burned in effigy by pope pius ii., and finally restored to the bosom of the church, after suffering the despoliation of almost all his territories, in . the occasion on which this fierce and turbulent despiser of laws human and divine was forced to kneel as a penitent before the papal legate in the gorgeous temple dedicated to his own pride, in order that the ban of excommunication might be removed from rimini, was one of those petty triumphs, interesting chiefly for their picturesqueness, by which the popes confirmed their questionable rights over the cities of romagna. sigismondo, shorn of his sovereignty, took the command of the venetian troops against the turks in the morea, and returned in , crowned with laurels, to die at rimini in the scene of his old splendour. a very characteristic incident belongs to this last act of his life. dissolute, treacherous, and inhuman as he was, the tyrant of rimini had always encouraged literature, and delighted in the society of artists. he who could brook no contradiction from a prince or soldier, allowed the pedantic scholars of the sixteenth century to dictate to him in matters of taste, and sat with exemplary humility at the feet of latinists like porcellio, basinio, and trebanio. valturio, the engineer, and alberti, the architect, were his familiar friends; and the best hours of his life were spent in conversation with these men. now that he found himself upon the sacred soil of greece, he was determined not to return to italy empty-handed. should he bring manuscripts or marbles, precious vases or inscriptions in half-legible greek character? these relics were greedily sought for by the potentates of italian cities; and no doubt sigismondo enriched his library with some such treasures. but he obtained a nobler prize--nothing less than the body of a saint of scholarship, the authentic bones of the great platonist, gemisthus pletho.[ ] these he exhumed from their greek grave and caused them to be deposited in a stone sarcophagus outside the cathedral of his building in rimini. the venetians, when they stole the body of s. mark from alexandria, were scarcely more pleased than was sigismondo with the acquisition of this father of the neopagan faith. upon the tomb we still may read this legend: 'jemisthii bizantii philosopher sua temp principis reliquum sig. pan. mal. pan. f. belli pelop adversus turcor regem imp ob ingentem eruditorum quo flagrat amorem huc afferendum introque mittendum curavit mcccclxvi.' of the latinity of the inscription much cannot be said; but it means that 'sigismondo pandolfo malatesta, having served as general against the turks in the morea, induced by the great love with which he burns for all learned men, brought and placed here the remains of gemisthus of byzantium, the prince of the philosophers of his day.' sigismondo's portrait, engraved on medals, and sculptured upon every frieze and point of vantage in the cathedral of rimini, well denotes the man. his face is seen in profile. the head, which is low and flat above the forehead, rising swiftly backward from the crown, carries a thick bushy shock of hair curling at the ends, such as the italians call a _zazzera_. the eye is deeply sunk, with long venomous flat eyelids, like those which leonardo gives to his most wicked faces. the nose is long and crooked, curved like a vulture's over a petulant mouth, with lips deliberately pressed together, as though it were necessary to control some nervous twitching. the cheek is broad, and its bone is strongly marked. looking at these features in repose, we cannot but picture to our fancy what expression they might assume under a sudden fit of fury, when the sinews of the face were contracted with quivering spasms, and the lips writhed in sympathy with knit forehead and wrinkled eyelids. allusion has been made to the cathedral of s. francis at rimini, as the great ornament of the town, and the chief monument of sigismondo's fame. it is here that all the malatesti lie. here too is the chapel consecrated to isotta, 'divæ isottæ sacrum;' and the tombs of the malatesta ladies, 'malatestorum domûs heroidum sepulchrum;' and sigismondo's own grave with the cuckold's horns and scornful epitaph. nothing but the fact that the church is duly dedicated to s. francis, and that its outer shell of classic marble encases an old gothic edifice, remains to remind us that it is a christian place of worship.[ ] it has no sanctity, no spirit of piety. the pride of the tyrant whose legend--'sigismundus pandulphus malatesta pan. f. fecit anno gratiæ mccccl'--occupies every arch and stringcourse of the architecture, and whose coat-of-arms and portrait in medallion, with his cipher and his emblems of an elephant and a rose, are wrought in every piece of sculptured work throughout the building, seems so to fill this house of prayer that there is no room left for god. yet the cathedral of rimini remains a monument of first-rate importance for all students who seek to penetrate the revived paganism of the fifteenth century. it serves also to bring a far more interesting italian of that period than the tyrant of rimini himself, before our notice. in the execution of his design, sigismondo received the assistance of one of the most remarkable men of this or any other age. leo battista alberti, a scion of the noble florentine house of that name, born during the exile of his parents, and educated in the venetian territory, was endowed by nature with aptitudes, faculties, and sensibilities so varied, as to deserve the name of universal genius. italy in the renaissance period was rich in natures of this sort, to whom nothing that is strange or beautiful seemed unfamiliar, and who, gifted with a kind of divination, penetrated the secrets of the world by sympathy. to pico della mirandola, lionardo da vinci, and michel agnolo buonarroti may be added leo battista alberti. that he achieved less than his great compeers, and that he now exists as the shadow of a mighty name, was the effect of circumstances. he came half a century too early into the world, and worked as a pioneer rather than a settler of the realm which lionardo ruled as his demesne. very early in his boyhood alberti showed the versatility of his talents. the use of arms, the management of horses, music, painting, modelling for sculpture, mathematics, classical and modern literature, physical science as then comprehended, and all the bodily exercises proper to the estate of a young nobleman, were at his command. his biographer asserts that he was never idle, never subject to ennui or fatigue. he used to say that books at times gave him the same pleasure as brilliant jewels or perfumed flowers: hunger and sleep could not keep him from them then. at other times the letters on the page appeared to him like twining and contorted scorpions, so that he preferred to gaze on anything but written scrolls. he would then turn to music or painting, or to the physical sports in which he excelled. the language in which this alternation of passion and disgust for study is expressed, bears on it the stamp of alberti's peculiar temperament, his fervid and imaginative genius, instinct with subtle sympathies and strange repugnances. flying from his study, he would then betake himself to the open air. no one surpassed him in running, in wrestling, in the force with which he cast his javelin or discharged his arrows. so sure was his aim and so skilful his cast, that he could fling a farthing from the pavement of the square, and make it ring against a church roof far above. when he chose to jump, he put his feet together and bounded over the shoulders of men standing erect upon the ground. on horseback he maintained perfect equilibrium, and seemed incapable of fatigue. the most restive and vicious animals trembled under him and became like lambs. there was a kind of magnetism in the man. we read, besides these feats of strength and skill, that he took pleasure in climbing mountains, for no other purpose apparently than for the joy of being close to nature. in this, as in many other of his instincts, alberti was before his age. to care for the beauties of landscape unadorned by art, and to sympathise with sublime or rugged scenery, was not in the spirit of the renaissance. humanity occupied the attention of poets and painters; and the age was yet far distant when the pantheistic feeling for the world should produce the art of wordsworth and of turner. yet a few great natures even then began to comprehend the charm and mystery which the greeks had imaged in their pan, the sense of an all-pervasive spirit in wild places, the feeling of a hidden want, the invisible tie which makes man a part of rocks and woods and streams around him. petrarch had already ascended the summit of mont ventoux, to meditate, with an exaltation of the soul he scarcely understood, upon the scene spread at his feet and above his head. Æneas sylvius piccolomini delighted in wild places for no mere pleasure of the chase, but for the joy he took in communing with nature. how s. francis found god in the sun and the air, the water and the stars, we know by his celebrated hymn; and of dante's acute observation, every canto of the 'divine comedy' is witness. leo alberti was touched in spirit by even a deeper and a stranger pathos than any of these men: 'in the early spring, when he beheld the meadows and hills covered with flowers, and saw the trees and plants of all kinds bearing promise of fruit, his heart became exceeding sorrowful; and when in autumn he looked on fields heavy with harvest and orchards apple-laden, he felt such grief that many even saw him weep for the sadness of his soul.' it would seem that he scarcely understood the source of this sweet trouble: for at such times he compared the sloth and inutility of men with the industry and fertility of nature; as though this were the secret of his melancholy. a poet of our century has noted the same stirring of the spirit, and has striven to account for it:-- tears from the depth of some divine despair rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, in looking on the happy autumn fields, and thinking of the days that are no more. both alberti and tennyson have connected the _mal du pays_ of the human soul for that ancient country of its birth, the mild saturnian earth from which we sprang, with a sense of loss. it is the waste of human energy that affects alberti; the waste of human life touches the modern poet. yet both perhaps have scarcely interpreted their own spirit; for is not the true source of tears deeper and more secret? man is a child of nature in the simplest sense; and the stirrings of the secular breasts that gave him suck, and on which he even now must hang, have potent influences over his emotions. of alberti's extraordinary sensitiveness to all such impressions many curious tales are told. the sight of refulgent jewels, of flowers, and of fair landscapes, had the same effect upon his nerves as the sound of the dorian mood upon the youths whom pythagoras cured of passion by music. he found in them an anodyne for pain, a restoration from sickness. like walt whitman, who adheres to nature by closer and more vital sympathy than any other poet of the modern world, alberti felt the charm of excellent old age no less than that of florid youth. 'on old men gifted with a noble presence and hale and vigorous, he gazed again and again, and said that he revered in them the delights of nature (_naturæ delitias_).' beasts and birds and all living creatures moved him to admiration for the grace with which they had been gifted, each in his own kind. it is even said that he composed a funeral oration for a dog which he had loved and which died. to this sensibility for all fair things in nature, alberti added the charm of a singularly sweet temper and graceful conversation. the activity of his mind, which was always being exercised on subjects of grave speculation, removed him from the noise and bustle of commonplace society. he was somewhat silent, inclined to solitude, and of a pensive countenance; yet no man found him difficult of access: his courtesy was exquisite, and among familiar friends he was noted for the flashes of a delicate and subtle wit. collections were made of his apophthegms by friends, and some are recorded by his anonymous biographer.[ ] their finer perfume, as almost always happens with good sayings which do not certain the full pith of a proverb, but owe their force, in part at least, to the personality of their author, and to the happy moment of their production, has evanesced. here, however, is one which seems still to bear the impress of alberti's genius: 'gold is the soul of labour, and labour the slave of pleasure.' of women he used to say that their inconstancy was an antidote to their falseness; for if a woman could but persevere in what she undertook, all the fair works of men would be ruined. one of his strongest moral sentences is aimed at envy, from which he suffered much in his own life, and against which he guarded with a curious amount of caution. his own family grudged the distinction which his talents gained for him, and a dark story is told of a secret attempt made by them to assassinate him through his servants. alberti met these ignoble jealousies with a stately calm and a sweet dignity of demeanour, never condescending to accuse his relatives, never seeking to retaliate, but acting always for the honour of his illustrious house. in the same spirit of generosity he refused to enter into wordy warfare with detractors and calumniators, sparing the reputation even of his worst enemy when chance had placed him in his power. this moderation both of speech and conduct was especially distinguished in an age which tolerated the fierce invectives of filelfo, and applauded the vindictive courage of cellini. to money alberti showed a calm indifference. he committed his property to his friends and shared with them in common. nor was he less careless about vulgar fame, spending far more pains in the invention of machinery and the discovery of laws, than in their publication to the world. his service was to knowledge, not to glory. self-control was another of his eminent qualities. with the natural impetuosity of a large heart, and the vivacity of a trained athlete, he yet never allowed himself to be subdued by anger or by sensual impulses, but took pains to preserve his character unstained and dignified before the eyes of men. a story is told of him which may remind us of goethe's determination to overcome his giddiness. in his youth his head was singularly sensitive to changes of temperature; but by gradual habituation he brought himself at last to endure the extremes of heat and cold bareheaded. in like manner he had a constitutional disgust for onions and honey; so powerful, that the very sight of these things made him sick. yet by constantly viewing and touching what was disagreeable, he conquered these dislikes; and proved that men have a complete mastery over what is merely instinctive in their nature. his courage corresponded to his splendid physical development. when a boy of fifteen, he severely wounded himself in the foot. the gash had to be probed and then sewn up. alberti not only bore the pain of this operation without a groan, but helped the surgeon with his own hands; and effected a cure of the fever which succeeded by the solace of singing to his cithern. for music he had a genius of the rarest order; and in painting he is said to have achieved success. nothing, however, remains of his work and from what vasari says of it, we may fairly conclude that he gave less care to the execution of finished pictures, than to drawings subsidiary to architectural and mechanical designs. his biographer relates that when he had completed a painting, he called children and asked them what it meant. if they did not know, he reckoned it a failure. he was also in the habit of painting from memory. while at venice, he put on canvas the faces of friends at florence whom he had not seen for months. that the art of painting was subservient in his estimation to mechanics, is indicated by what we hear about the camera, in which he showed landscapes by day and the revolutions of the stars by night, so lively drawn that the spectators were affected with amazement. the semi-scientific impulse to extend man's mastery over nature, the magician's desire to penetrate secrets, which so powerfully influenced the development of lionardo's genius, seems to have overcome the purely æsthetic instincts of alberti, so that he became in the end neither a great artist like raphael, nor a great discoverer like galileo, but rather a clairvoyant to whom the miracles of nature and of art lie open. after the first period of youth was over, leo battista alberti devoted his great faculties and all his wealth of genius to the study of the law--then, as now, the quicksand of the noblest natures. the industry with which he applied himself to the civil and ecclesiastical codes broke his health. for recreation he composed a latin comedy called 'philodoxeos,' which imposed upon the judgment of scholars, and was ascribed as a genuine antique to lepidus, the comic poet. feeling stronger, alberti returned at the age of twenty to his law studies, and pursued them in the teeth of disadvantages. his health was still uncertain, and the fortune of an exile reduced him to the utmost want. it was no wonder that under these untoward circumstances even his herculean strength gave way. emaciated and exhausted, he lost the clearness of his eyesight, and became subject to arterial disturbances, which filled his ears with painful sounds. this nervous illness is not dissimilar to that which rousseau describes in the confessions of his youth. in vain, however, his physicians warned alberti of impending peril. a man of so much stanchness, accustomed to control his nature with an iron will, is not ready to accept advice. alberti persevered in his studies, until at last the very seat of intellect was invaded. his memory began to fail him for names, while he still retained with wonderful accuracy whatever he had seen with his eyes. it was now impossible to think of law as a profession. yet since he could not live without severe mental exercise, he had recourse to studies which tax the verbal memory less than the intuitive faculties of the reason. physics and mathematics became his chief resource; and he devoted his energies to literature. his 'treatise on the family' may be numbered among the best of those compositions on social and speculative subjects in which the italians of the renaissance sought to rival cicero. his essays on the arts are mentioned by vasari with sincere approbation. comedies, interludes, orations, dialogues, and poems flowed with abundance from his facile pen. some were written in latin, which he commanded more than fairly; some in the tuscan tongue, of which owing to the long exile of his family in lombardy, he is said to have been less a master. it was owing to this youthful illness, from which apparently his constitution never wholly recovered, that alberti's genius was directed to architecture. through his friendship with flavio biondo, the famous roman antiquary, alberti received an introduction to nicholas v. at the time when this, the first great pope of the renaissance, was engaged in rebuilding the palaces and fortifications of rome. nicholas discerned the genius of the man, and employed him as his chief counsellor in all matters of architecture. when the pope died, he was able, while reciting his long latin will upon his deathbed, to boast that he had restored the holy see to its due dignity, and the eternal city to the splendour worthy of the seat of christendom. the accomplishment of the second part of his work he owed to the genius of alberti. after doing thus much for rome under thomas of sarzana, and before beginning to beautify florence at the instance of the rucellai family, alberti entered the service of the malatesta, and undertook to remodel the cathedral of s. francis at rimini. he found it a plain gothic structure with apse and side chapels. such churches are common enough in italy, where pointed architecture never developed its true character of complexity and richness, but was doomed to the vast vacuity exemplified in s. petronio of bologna. he left it a strange medley of mediæval and renaissance work, a symbol of that dissolving scene in the world's pantomime, when the spirit of classic art, as yet but little comprehended, was encroaching on the early christian taste. perhaps the mixture of styles so startling in s. francesco ought not to be laid to the charge of alberti, who had to execute the task of turning a gothic into a classic building. all that he could do was to alter the whole exterior of the church, by affixing a screen-work of roman arches and corinthian pilasters, so as to hide the old design and yet to leave the main features of the fabric, the windows and doors especially, _in statu quo_. with the interior he dealt upon the same general principle, by not disturbing its structure, while he covered every available square inch of surface with decorations alien to the gothic manner. externally, s. francesco is perhaps the most original and graceful of the many attempts made by italian builders to fuse the mediæval and the classic styles. for alberti attempted nothing less. a century elapsed before palladio, approaching the problem from a different point of view, restored the antique in its purity, and erected in the palazzo della ragione of vicenza an almost unique specimen of resuscitated roman art. internally, the beauty of the church is wholly due to its exquisite wall-ornaments. these consist for the most part of low reliefs in a soft white stone, many of them thrown out upon a blue ground in the style of della robbia. allegorical figures designed with the purity of outline we admire in botticelli, draperies that burne-jones might copy, troops of singing boys in the manner of donatello, great angels traced upon the stone so delicately that they seem to be rather drawn than sculptured, statuettes in niches, personifications of all arts and sciences alternating with half-bestial shapes of satyrs and sea-children:--such are the forms which fill the spaces of the chapel walls, and climb the pilasters, and fret the arches, in such abundance that had the whole church been finished as it was designed, it would have presented one splendid though bizarre effect of incrustation. heavy screens of verona marble, emblazoned in open arabesques with the ciphers of sigismondo and isotta, with coats-of-arms, emblems, and medallion portraits, shut the chapels from the nave. who produced all this sculpture it is difficult to say. some of it is very good: much is indifferent. we may hazard the opinion that, besides bernardo ciuffagni, of whom vasari speaks, some pupils of donatello and benedetto da majano worked at it. the influence of the sculptors of florence is everywhere perceptible. whatever be the merit of these reliefs, there is no doubt that they fairly represent one of the most interesting moments in the history of modern art. gothic inspiration had failed; the early tuscan style of the pisani had been worked out; michelangelo was yet far distant, and the abundance of classic models had not overwhelmed originality. the sculptors of the school of ghiberti and donatello, who are represented in this church, were essentially pictorial, preferring low to high relief, and relief in general to detached figures. their style, like the style of boiardo in poetry, of botticelli in painting, is specific to italy in the middle of the fifteenth century. mediæval standards of taste were giving way to classical, christian sentiment to pagan; yet the imitation of the antique had not been carried so far as to efface the spontaneity of the artist, and enough remained of christian feeling to tinge the fancy with a grave and sweet romance. the sculptor had the skill and mastery to express his slightest shade of thought with freedom, spirit, and precision. yet his work showed no sign of conventionality, no adherence to prescribed rules. every outline, every fold of drapery, every attitude was pregnant, to the artist's own mind at any rate, with meaning. in spite of its symbolism, what he wrought was never mechanically figurative, but gifted with the independence of its own beauty, vital with an inbreathed spirit of life. it was a happy moment, when art had reached consciousness, and the artist had not yet become self-conscious. the hand and the brain then really worked together for the procreation of new forms of grace, not for the repetition of old models, or for the invention of the strange and startling. 'delicate, sweet, and captivating,' are good adjectives to express the effect produced upon the mind by the contemplation even of the average work of this period. to study the flowing lines of the great angels traced upon the walls of the chapel of s. sigismund in the cathedral of rimini, to follow the undulations of their drapery that seems to float, to feel the dignified urbanity of all their gestures, is like listening to one of those clear early italian compositions for the voice, which surpasses in suavity of tone and grace of movement all that music in her full-grown vigour has produced. there is indeed something infinitely charming in the crepuscular moments of the human mind. whether it be the rathe loveliness of an art still immature, or the beauty of art upon the wane--whether, in fact, the twilight be of morning or of evening, we find in the masterpieces of such periods a placid calm and chastened pathos, as of a spirit self-withdrawn from vulgar cares, which in the full light of meridian splendour is lacking. in the church of s. francesco at rimini the tempered clearness of the dawn is just about to broaden into day. * * * * * _may in umbria_ from rome to terni we left rome in clear sunset light. the alban hills defined themselves like a cameo of amethyst upon a pale blue distance; and over the sabine mountains soared immeasurable moulded domes of alabaster thunderclouds, casting deep shadows, purple and violet, across the slopes of tivoli. to westward the whole sky was lucid, like some half-transparent topaz, flooded with slowly yellowing sunbeams. the campagna has often been called a garden of wild-flowers. just now poppy and aster, gladiolus and thistle, embroider it with patterns infinite and intricate beyond the power of art. they have already mown the hay in part; and the billowy tracts of greyish green, where no flowers are now in bloom, supply a restful groundwork to those brilliant patches of diapered _fioriture_. these are like praying-carpets spread for devotees upon the pavement of a mosque whose roof is heaven. in the level light the scythes of the mowers flash as we move past. from their bronzed foreheads the men toss masses of dark curls. their muscular flanks and shoulders sway sideways from firm yet pliant reins. on one hill, fronting the sunset, there stands a herd of some thirty huge grey oxen, feeding and raising their heads to look at us, with just a flush of crimson on their horns and dewlaps. this is the scale of mason's and of costa's colouring. this is the breadth and magnitude of rome. thus, through dells of ilex and oak, yielding now a glimpse of tiber and s. peter's, now opening on a purple section of the distant sabine hills, we came to monte rotondo. the sun sank; and from the flames where he had perished, hesper and the thin moon, very white and keen, grew slowly into sight. now we follow the tiber, a swollen, hurrying, turbid river, in which the mellowing western sky reflects itself. this changeful mirror of swift waters spreads a dazzling foreground to valley, hill, and lustrous heaven. there is orange on the far horizon, and a green ocean above, in which sea-monsters fashioned from the clouds are floating. yonder swims an elf with luminous hair astride upon a sea-horse, and followed by a dolphin plunging through the fiery waves. the orange deepens into dying red. the green divides into daffodil and beryl. the blue above grows fainter, and the moon and stars shine stronger. through these celestial changes we glide into a landscape fit for francia and the early umbrian painters. low hills to right and left; suavely modelled heights in the far distance; a very quiet width of plain, with slender trees ascending into the pellucid air; and down in the mystery of the middle distance a glimpse of heaven-reflecting water. the magic of the moon and stars lends enchantment to this scene. no painting could convey their influences. sometimes both luminaries tremble, all dispersed and broken, on the swirling river. sometimes they sleep above the calm cool reaches of a rush-grown mere. and here and there a ruined turret, with a broken window and a tuft of shrubs upon the rifted battlement, gives value to the fading pallor of the west. the last phase in the sunset is a change to blue-grey monochrome, faintly silvered with starlight; hills, tiber, fields and woods, all floating in aërial twilight. there is no definition of outline now. the daffodil of the horizon has faded into scarcely perceptible pale greenish yellow. we have passed stimigliano. through the mystery of darkness we hurry past the bridges of augustus and the lights of narni. the cascades of terni the velino is a river of considerable volume which rises in the highest region of the abruzzi, threads the upland valley of rieti, and precipitates itself by an artificial channel over cliffs about seven hundred feet in height into the nera. the water is densely charged with particles of lime. this calcareous matter not only tends continually to choke its bed, but clothes the precipices over which the torrent thunders with fantastic drapery of stalactite; and, carried on the wind in foam, incrusts the forests that surround the falls with fine white dust. these famous cascades are undoubtedly the most sublime and beautiful which europe boasts; and their situation is worthy of so great a natural wonder. we reach them through a noble mid-italian landscape, where the mountain forms are austere and boldly modelled, but the vegetation, both wild and cultivated, has something of the south-italian richness. the hillsides are a labyrinth of box and arbutus, with coronilla in golden bloom. the turf is starred with cyclamens and orchises. climbing the staircase paths beside the falls in morning sunlight, or stationed on the points of vantage that command their successive cataracts, we enjoyed a spectacle which might be compared in its effect upon the mind to the impression left by a symphony or a tumultuous lyric. the turbulence and splendour, the swiftness and resonance, the veiling of the scene in smoke of shattered water-masses, the withdrawal of these veils according as the volume of the river slightly shifted in its fall, the rainbows shimmering on the silver spray, the shivering of poplars hung above impendent precipices, the stationary grandeur of the mountains keeping watch around, the hurry and the incoherence of the cataracts, the immobility of force and changeful changelessness in nature, were all for me the elements of one stupendous poem. it was like an ode of shelley translated into symbolism, more vivid through inarticulate appeal to primitive emotion than any words could be. montefalco the rich land of the clitumnus is divided into meadows by transparent watercourses, gliding with a glassy current over swaying reeds. through this we pass, and leave bevagna to the right, and ascend one of those long gradual roads which climb the hills where all the cities of the umbrians perch. the view expands, revealing spello, assisi, perugia on its mountain buttress, and the far reaches northward of the tiber valley. then trevi and spoleto came into sight, and the severe hill-country above gubbio in part disclosed itself. over spoleto the fierce witch-haunted heights of norcia rose forbidding. this is the kind of panorama that dilates the soul. it is so large, so dignified, so beautiful in tranquil form. the opulent abundance of the plain contrasts with the severity of mountain ranges desolately grand; and the name of each of all those cities thrills the heart with memories. the main object of a visit to montefalco is to inspect its many excellent frescoes; painted histories of s. francis and s. jerome, by benozzo gozzoli; saints, angels, and scripture episodes by the gentle tiberio d'assisi. full justice had been done to these, when a little boy, seeing us lingering outside the church of s. chiara, asked whether we should not like to view the body of the saint. this privilege could be purchased at the price of a small fee. it was only necessary to call the guardian of her shrine at the high altar. indolent, and in compliant mood, with languid curiosity and half an hour to spare, we assented. a handsome young man appeared, who conducted us with decent gravity into a little darkened chamber behind the altar. there he lighted wax tapers, opened sliding doors in what looked like a long coffin, and drew curtains. before us in the dim light there lay a woman covered with a black nun's dress. only her hands, and the exquisitely beautiful pale contour of her face (forehead, nose, mouth, and chin, modelled in purest outline, as though the injury of death had never touched her) were visible. her closed eyes seemed to sleep. she had the perfect peace of luini's s. catherine borne by the angels to her grave on sinai. i have rarely seen anything which surprised and touched me more. the religious earnestness of the young custode, the hushed adoration of the country-folk who had silently assembled round us, intensified the sympathy-inspiring beauty of the slumbering girl. could julia, daughter of claudius, have been fairer than this maiden, when the lombard workmen found her in her latin tomb, and brought her to be worshipped on the capitol? s. chiara's shrine was hung round with her relics; and among these the heart extracted from her body was suspended. upon it, apparently wrought into the very substance of the mummied flesh, were impressed a figure of the crucified christ, the scourge, and the five stigmata. the guardian's faith in this miraculous witness to her sainthood, the gentle piety of the men and women who knelt before it, checked all expressions of incredulity. we abandoned ourselves to the genius of the place; forgot even to ask what santa chiara was sleeping here; and withdrew, toned to a not unpleasing melancholy. the world-famous s. clair, the spiritual sister of s. francis, lies in assisi. i have often asked myself, who, then, was this nun? what history had she? and i think now of this girl as of a damsel of romance, a sleeping beauty in the wood of time, secluded from intrusive elements of fact, and folded in the love and faith of her own simple worshippers. among the hollows of arcadia, how many rustic shrines in ancient days held saints of hellas, apocryphal, perhaps, like this, but hallowed by tradition and enduring homage![ ] foligno in the landscape of raphael's votive picture, known as the madonna di foligno, there is a town with a few towers, placed upon a broad plain at the edge of some blue hills. allowing for that license as to details which imaginative masters permitted themselves in matters of subordinate importance, raphael's sketch is still true to foligno. the place has not materially changed since the beginning of the sixteenth century. indeed, relatively to the state of italy at large, it is still the same as in the days of ancient rome. foligno forms a station of commanding interest between rome and the adriatic upon the great flaminian way. at foligno the passes of the apennines debouch into the umbrian plain, which slopes gradually toward the valley of the tiber, and from it the valley of the nera is reached by an easy ascent beneath the walls of spoleto. an army advancing from the north by the metaurus and the furlo pass must find itself at foligno; and the level champaign round the city is well adapted to the maintenance and exercises of a garrison. in the days of the republic and the empire, the value of this position was well understood; but foligno's importance, as the key to the flaminian way, was eclipsed by two flourishing cities in its immediate vicinity, hispellum and mevania, the modern spello and bevagna. we might hazard a conjecture that the lombards, when they ruled the duchy of spoleto, following their usual policy of opposing new military centres to the ancient roman municipia, encouraged fulginium at the expense of her two neighbours. but of this there is no certainty to build upon. all that can be affirmed with accuracy is that in the middle ages, while spello and bevagna declined into the inferiority of dependent burghs, foligno grew in power and became the chief commune of this part of umbria. it was famous during the last centuries of struggle between the italian burghers and their native despots, for peculiar ferocity in civil strife. some of the bloodiest pages in mediæval italian history are those which relate the vicissitudes of the trinci family, the exhaustion of foligno by internal discord, and its final submission to the papal power. since railways have been carried from rome through narni and spoleto to ancona and perugia, foligno has gained considerably in commercial and military status. it is the point of intersection for three lines; the italian government has made it a great cavalry depôt, and there are signs of reviving traffic in its decayed streets. whether the presence of a large garrison has already modified the population, or whether we may ascribe something to the absence of roman municipal institutions in the far past, and to the savagery of the mediæval period, it is difficult to say. yet the impression left by foligno upon the mind is different from that of assisi, spello, and montefalco, which are distinguished for a certain grace and gentleness in their inhabitants. my window in the city wall looks southward across the plain to spoleto, with montefalco perched aloft upon the right, and trevi on its mountain-bracket to the left. from the topmost peaks of the sabine apennines, gradual tender sloping lines descend to find their quiet in the valley of clitumnus. the space between me and that distance is infinitely rich with every sort of greenery, dotted here and there with towers and relics of baronial houses. the little town is in commotion; for the working men of foligno and its neighbourhood have resolved to spend their earnings on a splendid festa--horse-races, and two nights of fireworks. the acacias and paulownias on the ramparts are in full bloom of creamy white and lilac. in the glare of bengal lights these trees, with all their pendulous blossoms, surpassed the most fantastic of artificial decorations. the rockets sent aloft into the sky amid that solemn umbrian landscape were nowise out of harmony with nature. i never sympathised with critics who resent the intrusion of fireworks upon scenes of natural beauty. the giessbach, lighted up at so much per head on stated evenings, with a band playing and a crowd of cockneys staring, presents perhaps an incongruous spectacle. but where, as here at foligno, a whole city has made itself a festival, where there are multitudes of citizens and soldiers and country-people slowly moving and gravely admiring, with the decency and order characteristic of an italian crowd, i have nothing but a sense of satisfaction. it is sometimes the traveller's good fortune in some remote place to meet with an inhabitant who incarnates and interprets for him the _genius loci_ as he has conceived it. though his own subjectivity will assuredly play a considerable part in such an encounter, transferring to his chance acquaintance qualities he may not possess, and connecting this personality in some purely imaginative manner with thoughts derived from study, or impressions made by nature; yet the stranger will henceforth become the meeting-point of many memories, the central figure in a composition which derives from him its vividness. unconsciously and innocently he has lent himself to the creation of a picture, and round him, as around the hero of a myth, have gathered thoughts and sentiments of which he had himself no knowledge. on one of these nights i had been threading the aisles of acacia-trees, now glaring red, now azure, as the bengal lights kept changing. my mind instinctively went back to scenes of treachery and bloodshed in the olden time, when gorrado trinci paraded the mangled remnants of three hundred of his victims, heaped on mule-back, through foligno, for a warning to the citizens. as the procession moved along the ramparts, i found myself in contest with a young man, who readily fell into conversation. he was very tall, with enormous breadth of shoulders, and long sinewy arms, like michelangelo's favourite models. his head was small, curled over with crisp black hair. low forehead, and thick level eyebrows absolutely meeting over intensely bright fierce eyes. the nose descending straight from the brows, as in a statue of hadrian's age. the mouth full-lipped, petulant, and passionate above a firm round chin. he was dressed in the shirt, white trousers, and loose white jacket of a contadino; but he did not move with a peasant's slouch, rather with the elasticity and alertness of an untamed panther. he told me that he was just about to join a cavalry regiment; and i could well imagine, when military dignity was added to that gait, how grandly he would go. this young man, of whom i heard nothing more after our half-hour's conversation among the crackling fireworks and roaring cannon, left upon my mind an indescribable impression of dangerousness--of 'something fierce and terrible, eligible to burst forth.' of men like this, then, were formed the companies of adventure who flooded italy with villany, ambition, and lawlessness in the fifteenth century. gattamelata, who began life as a baker's boy at narni and ended it with a bronze statue by donatello on the public square in padua, was of this breed. like this were the trinci and their bands of murderers. like this were the bravi who hunted lorenzaccio to death at venice. like this was pietro paolo baglioni, whose fault, in the eyes of machiavelli, was that he could not succeed in being 'perfettamente tristo.' beautiful, but inhuman; passionate, but cold; powerful, but rendered impotent for firm and lofty deeds by immorality and treason; how many centuries of men like this once wasted italy and plunged her into servitude! yet what material is here, under sterner discipline, and with a nobler national ideal, for the formation of heroic armies. of such stuff, doubtless, were the roman legionaries. when will the italians learn to use these men as fabius or as cæsar, not as the vitelli and the trinci used them? in such meditations, deeply stirred by the meeting of my own reflections with one who seemed to represent for me in life and blood the spirit of the place which had provoked them, i said farewell to cavallucci, and returned to my bedroom on the city wall. the last rockets had whizzed and the last cannons had thundered ere i fell asleep. spello spello contains some not inconsiderable antiquities--the remains of a roman theatre, a roman gate with the heads of two men and a woman leaning over it, and some fragments of roman sculpture scattered through its buildings. the churches, especially those of s.m. maggiore and s. francesco, are worth a visit for the sake of pinturicchio. nowhere, except in the piccolomini library at siena, can that master's work in fresco be better studied than here. the satisfaction with which he executed the wall paintings in s. maria maggiore is testified by his own portrait introduced upon a panel in the decoration of the virgin's chamber. the scrupulously rendered details of books, chairs, window seats, &c., which he here has copied, remind one of carpaccio's study of s. benedict at venice. it is all sweet, tender, delicate, and carefully finished; but without depth, not even the depth of perugino's feeling. in s. francesco, pinturicchio, with the same meticulous refinement, painted a letter addressed to him by gentile baglioni. it lies on a stool before madonna and her court of saints. nicety of execution, technical mastery of fresco as a medium for dutch detail-painting, prettiness of composition, and cheerfulness of colouring, are noticeable throughout his work here rather than either thought or sentiment. s. maria maggiore can boast a fresco of madonna between a young episcopal saint and catherine of alexandria from the hand of perugino. the rich yellow harmony of its tones, and the graceful dignity of its emotion, conveyed no less by a certain raphaelesque pose and outline than by suavity of facial expression, enable us to measure the distance between this painter and his quasi-pupil pinturicchio. we did not, however, drive to spello to inspect either roman antiquities or frescoes, but to see an inscription on the city walls about orlando. it is a rude latin elegiac couplet, saying that, 'from the sign below, men may conjecture the mighty members of roland, nephew of charles; his deeds are written in history.' three agreeable old gentlemen of spello, who attended us with much politeness, and were greatly interested in my researches, pointed out a mark waist-high upon the wall, where orlando's knee is reported to have reached. but i could not learn anything about a phallic monolith, which is said by guerin or panizzi to have been identified with the roland myth at spello. such a column either never existed here, or had been removed before the memory of the present generation. easter morning at assisi we are in the lower church of s. francesco. high mass is being sung, with orchestra and organ and a choir of many voices. candles are lighted on the altar, over-canopied with giotto's allegories. from the low southern windows slants the sun, in narrow bands, upon the many-coloured gloom and embrowned glory of these painted aisles. women in bright kerchiefs kneel upon the stones, and shaggy men from the mountains stand or lean against the wooden benches. there is no moving from point to point. where we have taken our station, at the north-western angle of the transept, there we stay till mass be over. the whole low-vaulted building glows duskily; the frescoed roof, the stained windows, the figure-crowded pavements blending their rich but subdued colours, like hues upon some marvellous moth's wings, or like a deep-toned rainbow mist discerned in twilight dreams, or like such tapestry as eastern queens, in ancient days, wrought for the pavilion of an empress. forth from this maze of mingling tints, indefinite in shade and sunbeams, lean earnest, saintly faces--ineffably pure--adoring, pitying, pleading; raising their eyes in ecstasy to heaven, or turning them in ruth toward earth. men and women of whom the world was not worthy--at the hands of those old painters they have received the divine grace, the dovelike simplicity, whereof italians in the fourteenth century possessed the irrecoverable secret. each face is a poem; the counterpart in painting to a chapter from the fioretti di san francesco. over the whole scene--in the architecture, in the frescoes, in the coloured windows, in the gloom, on the people, in the incense, from the chiming bells, through the music--broods one spirit: the spirit of him who was 'the co-espoused, co-transforate with christ;' the ardent, the radiant, the beautiful in soul; the suffering, the strong, the simple, the victorious over self and sin; the celestial who trampled upon earth and rose on wings of ecstasy to heaven; the christ-inebriated saint of visions supersensual and life beyond the grave. far down below the feet of those who worship god through him, s. francis sleeps; but his soul, the incorruptible part of him, the message he gave the world, is in the spaces round us. this is his temple. he fills it like an unseen god. not as phoebus or athene, from their marble pedestals; but as an abiding spirit, felt everywhere, nowhere seized, absorbing in itself all mysteries, all myths, all burning exaltations, all abasements, all love, self-sacrifice, pain, yearning, which the thought of christ, sweeping the centuries, hath wrought for men. let, therefore, choir and congregation raise their voices on the tide of prayers and praises; for this is easter morning--christ is risen! our sister, death of the body, for whom s. francis thanked god in his hymn, is reconciled to us this day, and takes us by the hand, and leads us to the gate whence floods of heavenly glory issue from the faces of a multitude of saints. pray, ye poor people; chant and pray. if all be but a dream, to wake from this were loss for you indeed! perusia augusta the piazza in front of the prefettura is my favourite resort on these nights of full moon. the evening twilight is made up partly of sunset fading over thrasymene and tuscany; partly of moonrise from the mountains of gubbio and the passes toward ancona. the hills are capped with snow, although the season is so forward. below our parapets the bulk of s. domenico, with its gaunt perforated tower, and the finer group of s. pietro, flaunting the arrowy 'pennacchio di perugia,' jut out upon the spine of hill which dominates the valley of the tiber. as the night gloom deepens, and the moon ascends the sky, these buildings seem to form the sombre foreground to some french etching. beyond them spreads the misty moon-irradiated plain of umbria. over all rise shadowy apennines, with dim suggestions of assisi, spello, foligno, montefalco, and spoleto on their basements. little thin whiffs of breezes, very slight and searching, flit across, and shiver as they pass from apennine to plain. the slowly moving population--women in veils, men winter-mantled--pass to and fro between the buildings and the grey immensity of sky. bells ring. the bugles of the soldiers blow retreat in convents turned to barracks. young men roam the streets beneath, singing may songs. far, far away upon the plain, red through the vitreous moonlight ringed with thundery gauze, fires of unnamed castelli smoulder. as we lean from ledges eighty feet in height, gas vies with moon in chequering illuminations on the ancient walls; etruscan mouldings, roman letters, high-piled hovels, suburban world-old dwellings plastered like martins' nests against the masonry. sunlight adds more of detail to this scene. to the right of subasio, where the passes go from foligno towards urbino and ancona, heavy masses of thundercloud hang every day; but the plain and hill-buttresses are clear in transparent blueness. first comes assisi, with s.m. degli angeli below; then spello; then foligno; then trevi; and, far away, spoleto; with, reared against those misty battlements, the village height of montefalco--the 'ringhiera dell' umbria,' as they call it in this country. by daylight, the snow on yonder peaks is clearly visible, where the monti della sibilla tower up above the sources of the nera and velino from frigid wastes of norcia. the lower ranges seem as though painted, in films of airiest and palest azure, upon china; and then comes the broad green champaign, flecked with villages and farms. just at the basement of perugia winds tiber, through sallows and grey poplar-trees, spanned by ancient arches of red brick, and guarded here and there by castellated towers. the mills beneath their dams and weirs are just as raphael drew them; and the feeling of air and space reminds one, on each coign of vantage, of some umbrian picture. every hedgerow is hoary with may-bloom and honeysuckle. the oaks hang out their golden-dusted tassels. wayside shrines are decked with laburnum boughs and iris blossoms plucked from the copse-woods, where spires of purple and pink orchis variegate the thin, fine grass. the land waves far and wide with young corn, emerald green beneath the olive-trees, which take upon their under-foliage tints reflected from this verdure or red tones from the naked earth. a fine race of _contadini_, with large, heroically graceful forms, and beautiful dark eyes and noble faces, move about this garden, intent on ancient, easy tillage of the kind saturnian soil. la magione on the road from perugia to cortona, the first stage ends at la magione, a high hill-village commanding the passage from the umbrian champaign to the lake of thrasymene. it has a grim square fortalice above it, now in ruins, and a stately castle to the south-east, built about the time of braccio. here took place that famous diet of cesare borgia's enemies, when the son of alexander vi. was threatening bologna with his arms, and bidding fair to make himself supreme tyrant of italy in . it was the policy of cesare to fortify himself by reducing the fiefs of the church to submission, and by rooting out the dynasties which had acquired a sort of tyranny in papal cities. the varani of camerino and the manfredi of faenza had been already extirpated. there was only too good reason to believe that the turn of the vitelli at città di castello, of the baglioni at perugia, and of the bentivogli at bologna would come next. pandolfo petrucci at siena, surrounded on all sides by cesare's conquests, and specially menaced by the fortification of piombino, felt himself in danger. the great house of the orsini, who swayed a large part of the patrimony of s. peter's, and were closely allied to the vitelli, had even graver cause for anxiety. but such was the system of italian warfare, that nearly all these noble families lived by the profession of arms, and most of them were in the pay of cesare. when, therefore, the conspirators met at la magione, they were plotting against a man whose money they had taken, and whom they had hitherto aided in his career of fraud and spoliation. the diet consisted of the cardinal orsini, an avowed antagonist of alexander vi.; his brother paolo, the chieftain of the clan; vitellozzo vitelli, lord of città di castello; gian-paolo baglioni, made undisputed master of perugia by the recent failure of his cousin grifonetto's treason; oliverotto, who had just acquired the march of fermo by the murder of his uncle giovanni da fogliani; ermes bentivoglio, the heir of bologna; and antonio da venafro, the secretary of pandolfo petrueci. these men vowed hostility on the basis of common injuries and common fear against the borgia. but they were for the most part stained themselves with crime, and dared not trust each other, and could not gain the confidence of any respectable power in italy except the exiled duke of urbino. procrastination was the first weapon used by the wily cesare, who trusted that time would sow among his rebel captains suspicion and dissension. he next made overtures to the leaders separately, and so far succeeded in his perfidious policy as to draw vitellozzo vitelli, oliverotto da fermo, paolo orsini, and francesco orsini, duke of gravina, into his nets at sinigaglia. under pretext of fair conference and equitable settlement of disputed claims, he possessed himself of their persons, and had them strangled--two upon december , and two upon january , . of all cesare's actions, this was the most splendid for its successful combination of sagacity and policy in the hour of peril, of persuasive diplomacy, and of ruthless decision when the time to strike his blow arrived. cortona after leaving la magione, the road descends upon the lake of thrasymene through oak-woods full of nightingales. the lake lay basking, leaden-coloured, smooth and waveless, under a misty, rain-charged, sun-irradiated sky. at passignano, close beside its shore, we stopped for mid-day. this is a little fishing village of very poor people, who live entirely by labour on the waters. they showed us huge eels coiled in tanks, and some fine specimens of the silver carp--reina del lago. it was off one of the eels that we made our lunch; and taken, as he was, alive from his cool lodging, he furnished a series of dishes fit for a king. climbing the hill of cortona seemed a quite interminable business. it poured a deluge. our horses were tired, and one lean donkey, who, after much trouble, was produced from a farmhouse and yoked in front of them, rendered but little assistance. next day we duly saw the muse and lamp in the museo, the fra angelicos, and all the signorellis. one cannot help thinking that too much fuss is made nowadays about works of art--running after them for their own sakes, exaggerating their importance, and detaching them as objects of study, instead of taking them with sympathy and carelessness as pleasant or instructive adjuncts to our actual life. artists, historians of art, and critics are forced to isolate pictures; and it is of profit to their souls to do so. but simple folk, who have no aesthetic vocation, whether creative or critical, suffer more than is good for them by compliance with mere fashion. sooner or later we shall return to the spirit of the ages which produced these pictures, and which regarded them with less of an industrious bewilderment than they evoke at present. i am far indeed from wishing to decry art, the study of art, or the benefits to be derived from its intelligent enjoyment. i only mean to suggest that we go the wrong way to work at present in this matter. picture and sculpture galleries accustom us to the separation of art from life. our methods of studying art, making a beginning of art-study while traveling, tend to perpetuate this separation. it is only on reflection, after long experience, that we come to perceive that the most fruitful moments in our art education have been casual and unsought, in quaint nooks and unexpected places, where nature, art, and life are happily blent. the palace of the commune at cortona is interesting because of the shields of florentine governors, sculptured on blocks of grey stone, and inserted in its outer walls--peruzzi, albizzi, strozzi, salviati, among the more ancient--de' medici at a later epoch. the revolutions in the republic of florence may be read by a herald from these coats-of-arms and the dates beneath them. the landscape of this tuscan highland satisfies me more and more with sense of breadth and beauty. from s. margherita above the town the prospect is immense and wonderful and wild--up into those brown, forbidding mountains; down to the vast plain; and over to the cities of chiusi, montepulciano, and foiano. the jewel of the view is trasimeno, a silvery shield encased with serried hills, and set upon one corner of the scene, like a precious thing apart and meant for separate contemplation. there is something in the singularity and circumscribed completeness of the mountain-girded lake, diminished by distance, which would have attracted lionardo da vinci's pencil, had he seen it. cortona seems desperately poor, and the beggars are intolerable. one little blind boy, led by his brother, both frightfully ugly and ragged urchins, pursued us all over the city, incessantly whining 'signore padrone!' it was only on the threshold of the inn that i ventured to give them a few coppers, for i knew well that any public beneficence would raise the whole swarm of the begging population round us. sitting later in the day upon the piazza of s. domenico, i saw the same blind boy taken by his brother to play. the game consists, in the little creature throwing his arms about the trunk of a big tree, and running round and round it, clasping it. this seemed to make him quite inexpressibly happy. his face lit up and beamed with that inner beatitude blind people show--a kind of rapture shining over it, as though nothing could be more altogether delightful. this little boy had the smallpox at eight months, and has never been able to see since. he looks sturdy, and may live to be of any age--doomed always, is that possible, to beg? chiusi what more enjoyable dinner can be imagined than a flask of excellent montepulciano, a well-cooked steak, and a little goat's cheese in the inn of the leone d'oro at chiusi? the windows are open, and the sun is setting. monte cetona bounds the view to the right, and the wooded hills of città della pieve to the left. the deep green dimpled valley goes stretching away toward orvieto; and at its end a purple mountain mass, distinct and solitary, which may peradventure be soracte! the near country is broken into undulating hills, forested with fine olives and oaks; and the composition of the landscape, with its crowning villages, is worthy of a background to an umbrian picture. the breadth and depth and quiet which those painters loved, the space of lucid sky, the suggestion of winding waters in verdant fields, all are here. the evening is beautiful--golden light streaming softly from behind us on this prospect, and gradually mellowing to violet and blue with stars above. at chiusi we visited several etruscan tombs, and saw their red and black scrawled pictures. one of the sepulchres was a well-jointed vault of stone with no wall-paintings. the rest had been scooped out of the living tufa. this was the excuse for some pleasant hours spent in walking and driving through the country. chiusi means for me the mingling of grey olives and green oaks in limpid sunlight; deep leafy lanes; warm sandstone banks; copses with nightingales and cyclamens and cuckoos; glimpses of a silvery lake; blue shadowy distances; the bristling ridge of monte cetona; the conical towers, becca di questo and becca di quello, over against each other on the borders; ways winding among hedgerows like some bit of england in june, but not so full of flowers. it means all this, i fear, for me far more than theories about lars porsenna and etruscan ethnology. gubbio gubbio ranks among the most ancient of italian hill-towns. with its back set firm against the spine of central apennines, and piled, house over house, upon the rising slope, it commands a rich tract of upland champaign, bounded southward toward perugia and foligno by peaked and rolling ridges. this amphitheatre, which forms its source of wealth and independence, is admirably protected by a chain of natural defences; and gubbio wears a singularly old-world aspect of antiquity and isolation. houses climb right to the crests of gaunt bare peaks; and the brown mediæval walls with square towers which protected them upon the mountain side, following the inequalities of the ground, are still a marked feature in the landscape. it is a town of steep streets and staircases, with quaintly framed prospects, and solemn vistas opening at every turn across the lowland. one of these views might be selected for especial notice. in front, irregular buildings losing themselves in country as they straggle by the roadside; then the open post-road with a cypress to the right; afterwards, the rich green fields, and on a bit of rising ground an ancient farmhouse with its brown dependencies; lastly, the blue hills above fossato, and far away a wrack of tumbling clouds. all this enclosed by the heavy archway of the porta romana, where sunlight and shadow chequer the mellow tones of a dim fresco, indistinct with age, but beautiful. gubbio has not greatly altered since the middle ages. but poor people are now living in the palaces of noblemen and merchants. these new inhabitants have walled up the fair arched windows and slender portals of the ancient dwellers, spoiling the beauty of the streets without materially changing the architectural masses. in that witching hour when the italian sunset has faded, and a solemn grey replaces the glowing tones of daffodil and rose, it is not difficult, here dreaming by oneself alone, to picture the old noble life--the ladies moving along those open loggias, the young men in plumed caps and curling hair with one foot on those doorsteps, the knights in armour and the sumpter mules and red-robed cardinals defiling through those gates into the courts within. the modern bricks and mortar with which that picturesque scene has been overlaid, the ugly oblong windows and bright green shutters which now interrupt the flowing lines of arch and gallery; these disappear beneath the fine remembered touch of a sonnet sung by folgore, when still the parties had their day, and this deserted city was the centre of great aims and throbbing aspirations. the names of the chief buildings in gubbio are strongly suggestive of the middle ages. they abut upon a piazza de' signori. one of them, the palazzo del municipio, is a shapeless unfinished block of masonry. it is here that the eugubine tables, plates of brass with umbrian and roman incised characters, are shown. the palazzo de' consoli has higher architectural qualities, and is indeed unique among italian palaces for the combination of massiveness with lightness in a situation of unprecedented boldness. rising from enormous substructures mortised into the solid hillside, it rears its vast rectangular bulk to a giddy height above the town; airy loggias imposed on great forbidding masses of brown stone, shooting aloft into a light aërial tower. the empty halls inside are of fair proportions and a noble size, and the views from the open colonnades in all directions fascinate. but the final impression made by the building is one of square, tranquil, massive strength--perpetuity embodied in masonry--force suggesting facility by daring and successful addition of elegance to hugeness. vast as it is, this pile is not forbidding, as a similarly weighty structure in the north would be. the fine quality of the stone and the delicate though simple mouldings of the windows give it an italian grace. these public palaces belong to the age of the communes, when gubbio was a free town, with a policy of its own, and an important part to play in the internecine struggles of pope and empire, guelf and ghibelline. the ruined, deserted, degraded palazzo ducale reminds us of the advent of the despots. it has been stripped of all its tarsia-work and sculpture. only here and there a fe.d., with the cupping-glass of federigo di montefeltro, remains to show that gubbio once became the fairest fief of the urbino duchy. s. ubaldo, who gave his name to this duke's son, was the patron of gubbio, and to him the cathedral is dedicated--one low enormous vault, like a cellar or feudal banqueting hall, roofed with a succession of solid gothic arches. this strange old church, and the house of canons, buttressed on the hill beside it, have suffered less from modernisation than most buildings in gubbio. the latter, in particular, helps one to understand what this city of grave palazzi must have been, and how the mere opening of old doors and windows would restore it to its primitive appearance. the house of the canons has, in fact, not yet been given over to the use of middle-class and proletariate. at the end of a day in gubbio, it is pleasant to take our ease in the primitive hostelry, at the back of which foams a mountain-torrent, rushing downward from the apennines. the gubbio wine is very fragrant, and of a rich ruby colour. those to whom the tints of wine and jewels give a pleasure not entirely childish, will take delight in its specific blending of tawny hues with rose. they serve the table still, at gubbio, after the antique italian fashion, covering it with a cream-coloured linen cloth bordered with coarse lace--the creases of the press, the scent of old herbs from the wardrobe, are still upon it--and the board is set with shallow dishes of warm, white earthenware, basket-worked in open lattice at the edge, which contain little separate messes of meat, vegetables, cheese, and comfits. the wine stands in strange, slender phials of smooth glass, with stoppers; and the amber-coloured bread lies in fair round loaves upon the cloth. dining thus is like sitting down to the supper at emmaus, in some picture of gian bellini or of masolino. the very bareness of the room--its open rafters, plastered walls, primitive settees, and red-brick floor, on which a dog sits waiting for a bone--enhances the impression of artistic delicacy in the table. from gubbio to fano the road from gubbio, immediately after leaving the city, enters a narrow alpine ravine, where a thin stream dashes over dark, red rocks, and pendent saxifrages wave to the winds. the carriage in which we travelled at the end of may, one morning, had two horses, which our driver soon supplemented with a couple of white oxen. slowly and toilsomely we ascended between the flanks of barren hills--gaunt masses of crimson and grey crag, clothed at their summits with short turf and scanty pasture. the pass leads first to the little town of scheggia, and is called the monte calvo, or bald mountain. at scheggia, it joins the great flaminian way, or north road of the roman armies. at the top there is a fine view over the conical hills that dominate gubbio, and, far away, to noble mountains above the furlo and the foligno line of railway to ancona. range rises over range, crossing at unexpected angles, breaking into sudden precipices, and stretching out long, exquisitely modelled outlines, as only apennines can do, in silvery sobriety of colours toned by clearest air. every square piece of this austere, wild landscape forms a varied picture, whereof the composition is due to subtle arrangements of lines always delicate; and these lines seem somehow to have been determined in their beauty by the vast antiquity of the mountain system, as though they all had taken time to choose their place and wear down into harmony. the effect of tempered sadness was heightened for us by stormy lights and dun clouds, high in air, rolling vapours and flying shadows, over all the prospect, tinted in ethereal grisaille. after scheggia, one enters a land of meadow and oak-trees. this is the sacred central tract of jupiter apenninus, whose fane-- delubra jovis saxoque minantes apenninigenis cultae pastoribus arae --once rose behind us on the bald iguvian summits. a second little pass leads from this region to the adriatic side of the italian watershed, and the road now follows the barano downward toward the sea. the valley is fairly green with woods, where mistletoe may here and there be seen on boughs of oak, and rich with cornfields. cagli is the chief town of the district, and here they show one of the best pictures left to us by raphael's father, giovanni santi. it is a madonna, attended by s. peter, s. francis, s. dominic, s. john, and two angels. one of the angels is traditionally supposed to have been painted from the boy raphael, and the face has something which reminds us of his portraits. the whole composition, excellent in modelling, harmonious in grouping, soberly but strongly coloured, with a peculiar blending of dignity and sweetness, grace and vigour, makes one wonder why santi thought it necessary to send his son from his own workshop to study under perugino. he was himself a master of his art, and this, perhaps the most agreeable of his paintings, has a masculine sincerity which is absent from at least the later works of perugino. some miles beyond cagli, the real pass of the furlo begins. it owes its name to a narrow tunnel bored by vespasian in the solid rock, where limestone crags descend on the barano. the romans called this gallery petra pertusa, or intercisa, or more familiarly forulus, whence comes the modern name. indeed, the stations on the old flaminian way are still well marked by latin designations; for cagli is the ancient calles, and fossombrone is forum sempronii, and fano the fanum fortunæ. vespasian commemorated this early achievement in engineering by an inscription carved on the living stone, which still remains; and claudian, when he sang the journey of his emperor honorius from rimini to rome, speaks thus of what was even then an object of astonishment to travellers:-- laetior hinc fano recipit fortuna vetusto, despiciturque vagus praerupta valle metaurus, qua mons arte patens vivo se perforat arcu admittitque viam sectae per viscera rupis. the forulus itself may now be matched, on any alpine pass, by several tunnels of far mightier dimensions; for it is narrow, and does not extend more than feet in length. but it occupies a fine position at the end of a really imposing ravine. the whole furlo pass might, without too much exaggeration, be described as a kind of cheddar on the scale of the via mala. the limestone rocks, which rise on either hand above the gorge to an enormous height, are noble in form and solemn, like a succession of gigantic portals, with stupendous flanking obelisks and pyramids. some of these crag-masses rival the fantastic cliffs of capri, and all consist of that southern mountain limestone which changes from pale yellow to blue grey and dusky orange. a river roars precipitately through the pass, and the roadsides wave with many sorts of campanulas--a profusion of azure and purple bells upon the hard white stone. of roman remains there is still enough (in the way of roman bridges and bits of broken masonry) to please an antiquary's eye. but the lover of nature will dwell chiefly on the picturesque qualities of this historic gorge, so alien to the general character of italian scenery, and yet so remote from anything to which swiss travelling accustoms one. the furlo breaks out into a richer land of mighty oaks and waving cornfields, a fat pastoral country, not unlike devonshire in detail, with green uplands, and wild-rose tangled hedgerows, and much running water, and abundance of summer flowers. at a point above fossombrone, the barano joins the metauro, and here one has a glimpse of faraway urbino, high upon its mountain eyrie. it is so rare, in spite of immemorial belief, to find in italy a wilderness of wild flowers, that i feel inclined to make a list of those i saw from our carriage windows as we rolled down lazily along the road to fossombrone. broom, and cytisus, and hawthorn mingled with roses, gladiolus, and sainfoin. there were orchises, and clematis, and privet, and wild-vine, vetches of all hues, red poppies, sky-blue cornflowers, and lilac pimpernel. in the rougher hedges, dogwood, honeysuckle, pyracanth, and acacia made a network of white bloom and blushes. milk-worts of all bright and tender tints combined with borage, iris, hawkweeds, harebells, crimson clover, thyme, red snap-dragon, golden asters, and dreamy love-in-a-mist, to weave a marvellous carpet such as the looms of shiraz or of cashmere never spread. rarely have i gazed on flora in such riot, such luxuriance, such self-abandonment to joy. the air was filled with fragrances. songs of cuckoos and nightingales echoed from the copses on the hillsides. the sun was out, and dancing over all the landscape. after all this, fano was very restful in the quiet sunset. it has a sandy stretch of shore, on which the long, green-yellow rollers of the adriatic broke into creamy foam, beneath the waning saffron light over pesaro and the rosy rising of a full moon. this adriatic sea carries an english mind home to many a little watering-place upon our coast. in colour and the shape of waves it resembles our channel. the sea-shore is fano's great attraction; but the town has many churches, and some creditable pictures, as well as roman antiquities. giovanni santi may here be seen almost as well as at cagli; and of perugino there is one truly magnificent altar-piece--lunette, great centre panel, and predella--dusty in its present condition, but splendidly painted, and happily not yet restored or cleaned. it is worth journeying to fano to see this. still better would the journey be worth the traveller's while if he could be sure to witness such a game of _pallone_ as we chanced upon in the via dell' arco di augusto--lads and grown-men, tightly girt, in shirt sleeves, driving the great ball aloft into the air with cunning bias and calculation of projecting house-eaves. i do not understand the game; but it was clearly played something after the manner of our football, that is to say; with sides, and front and back players so arranged as to cover the greatest number of angles of incidence on either wall. fano still remembers that it is the fane of fortune. on the fountain in the market-place stands a bronze fortuna, slim and airy, offering her veil to catch the wind. may she long shower health and prosperity upon the modern watering-place of which she is the patron saint! * * * * * _the palace of urbino_ i at rimini, one spring, the impulse came upon my wife and me to make our way across san marino to urbino. in the piazza, called apocryphally after julius cæsar, i found a proper _vetturino_, with a good carriage and two indefatigable horses. he was a splendid fellow, and bore a great historic name, as i discovered when our bargain was completed. 'what are you called?' i asked him. '_filippo visconti, per servirla!_' was the prompt reply. brimming over with the darkest memories of the italian renaissance, i hesitated when i heard this answer. the associations seemed too ominous. and yet the man himself was so attractive--tall, stalwart, and well looking--no feature of his face or limb of his athletic form recalling the gross tyrant who concealed worse than caligula's ugliness from sight in secret chambers--that i shook this preconception from my mind. as it turned out, filippo visconti had nothing in common with his infamous namesake but the name. on a long and trying journey, he showed neither sullen nor yet ferocious tempers; nor, at the end of it, did he attempt by any master-stroke of craft to wheedle from me more than his fair pay; but took the meerschaum pipe i gave him for a keepsake, with the frank goodwill of an accomplished gentleman. the only exhibition of his hot italian blood which i remember did his humanity credit. while we were ascending a steep hillside, he jumped from his box to thrash a ruffian by the roadside for brutal treatment to a little boy. he broke his whip, it is true, in this encounter; risked a dangerous quarrel; and left his carriage, with myself and wife inside it, to the mercy of his horses in a somewhat perilous position. but when he came back, hot and glowing, from this deed of justice, i could only applaud his zeal. an italian of this type, handsome as an antique statue, with the refinement of a modern gentleman and that intelligence which is innate in a race of immemorial culture, is a fascinating being. he may be absolutely ignorant in all book-learning. he may be as ignorant as a bersagliere from montalcino with whom i once conversed at rimini, who gravely said that he could walk in three months to north america, and thought of doing it when his term of service was accomplished. but he will display, as this young soldier did, a grace and ease of address which are rare in london drawing-rooms; and by his shrewd remarks upon the cities he has visited, will show that he possesses a fine natural taste for things of beauty. the speech of such men, drawn from the common stock of the italian people, is seasoned with proverbial sayings, the wisdom of centuries condensed in a few nervous words. when emotion fires their brain, they break into spontaneous eloquence, or suggest the motive of a poem by phrases pregnant with imagery. for the first stage of the journey out of rimini, filippo's two horses sufficed. the road led almost straight across the level between quickset hedges in white bloom. but when we reached the long steep hill which ascends to san marino, the inevitable oxen were called out, and we toiled upwards leisurely through cornfields bright with red anemones and sweet narcissus. at this point pomegranate hedges replaced the may-thorns of the plain. in course of time our _bovi_ brought us to the borgo, or lower town, whence there is a further ascent of seven hundred feet to the topmost hawk's-nest or acropolis of the republic. these we climbed on foot, watching the view expand around us and beneath. crags of limestone here break down abruptly to the rolling hills, which go to lose themselves in field and shore. misty reaches of the adriatic close the world to eastward. cesena, rimini, verucchio, and countless hill-set villages, each isolated on its tract of verdure conquered from the stern grey soil, define the points where montefeltri wrestled with malatestas in long bygone years. around are marly mountain-flanks in wrinkles and gnarled convolutions like some giant's brain, furrowed by rivers crawling through dry wasteful beds of shingle. interminable ranges of gaunt apennines stretch, tier by tier, beyond; and over all this landscape, a grey-green mist of rising crops and new-fledged oak-trees lies like a veil upon the nakedness of nature's ruins. nothing in europe conveys a more striking sense of geological antiquity than such a prospect. the denudation and abrasion of innumerable ages, wrought by slow persistent action of weather and water on an upheaved mountain mass, are here made visible. every wave in that vast sea of hills, every furrow in their worn flanks, tells its tale of a continuous corrosion still in progress. the dominant impression is one of melancholy. we forget how romans, countermarching carthaginians, trod the land beneath us. the marvel of san marino, retaining independence through the drums and tramplings of the last seven centuries, is swallowed in a deeper sense of wonder. we turn instinctively in thought to leopardi's musings on man's destiny at war with unknown nature-forces and malignant rulers of the universe. omai disprezza te, la natura, il brutto poter che, ascoso, a comun danno impera, e l' infinita vanità del tutto. and then, straining our eyes southward, we sweep the dim blue distance for recanati, and remember that the poet of modern despair and discouragement was reared in even such a scene as this. the town of san marino is grey, narrow-streeted, simple; with a great, new, decent, greek-porticoed cathedral, dedicated to the eponymous saint. a certain austerity defines it from more picturesque hill-cities with a less uniform history. there is a marble statue of s. marino in the choir of his church; and in his cell is shown the stone bed and pillow on which he took austere repose. one narrow window near the saint's abode commands a proud but melancholy landscape of distant hills and seaboard. to this, the great absorbing charm of san marino, our eyes instinctively, recurrently, take flight. it is a landscape which by variety and beauty thralls attention, but which by its interminable sameness might grow almost overpowering. there is no relief. the gladness shed upon far humbler northern lands in may is ever absent here. the german word _gemüthlichkeit_, the english phrase 'a home of ancient peace,' are here alike by art and nature untranslated into visibilities. and yet (as we who gaze upon it thus are fain to think) if peradventure the intolerable _ennui_ of this panorama should drive a citizen of san marino into out-lands, the same view would haunt him whithersoever he went--the swallows of his native eyrie would shrill through his sleep--he would yearn to breathe its fine keen air in winter, and to watch its iris-hedges deck themselves with blue in spring;--like virgil's hero, dying, he would think of san marino: _aspicit, et dulces moriens reminiscitur argos_. even a passing stranger may feel the mingled fascination and oppression of this prospect--the monotony which maddens, the charm which at a distance grows upon the mind, environing it with memories. descending to the borgo, we found that filippo visconti had ordered a luncheon of excellent white bread, pigeons, and omelette, with the best red muscat wine i ever drank, unless the sharp air of the hills deceived my appetite. an italian history of san marino, including its statutes, in three volumes, furnished intellectual food. but i confess to having learned from these pages little else than this: first, that the survival of the commonwealth through all phases of european politics had been semi-miraculous; secondly, that the most eminent san marinesi had been lawyers. it is possible on a hasty deduction from these two propositions (to which, however, i am far from wishing to commit myself), that the latter is a sufficient explanation of the former. from san marino the road plunges at a break-neck pace. we are now in the true feltrian highlands, whence the counts of montefeltro issued in the twelfth century. yonder eyrie is san leo, which formed the key of entrance to the duchy of urbino in campaigns fought many hundred years ago. perched on the crest of a precipitous rock, this fortress looks as though it might defy all enemies but famine. and yet san leo was taken and re-taken by strategy and fraud, when montefeltro, borgia, malatesta, rovere, contended for dominion in these valleys. yonder is sta. agata, the village to which guidobaldo fled by night when valentino drove him from his dukedom. a little farther towers carpegna, where one branch of the montefeltro house maintained a countship through seven centuries, and only sold their fief to rome in . monte coppiolo lies behind, pietra rubia in front: two other eagles' nests of the same brood. what a road it is! it beats the tracks on exmoor. the uphill and downhill of devonshire scorns compromise or mitigation by _détour_ and zigzag. but here geography is on a scale so far more vast, and the roadway is so far worse metalled than with us in england--knotty masses of talc and nodes of sandstone cropping up at dangerous turnings--that only dante's words describe the journey:-- vassi in sanleo, e discendesi in noli, montasi su bismantova in cacume con esso i piè; ma qui convien ch' uom voli. of a truth, our horses seemed rather to fly than scramble up and down these rugged precipices; visconti cheerily animating them with the brave spirit that was in him, and lending them his wary driver's help of hand and voice at need. we were soon upon a cornice-road between the mountains and the adriatic: following the curves of gulch and cleft ravine; winding round ruined castles set on points of vantage; the sea-line high above their grass-grown battlements, the shadow-dappled champaign girdling their bastions mortised on the naked rock. except for the blue lights across the distance, and the ever-present sea, these earthy apennines would be too grim. infinite air and this spare veil of spring-tide greenery on field and forest soothe their sternness. two rivers, swollen by late rains, had to be forded. through one of these, the foglia, bare-legged peasants led the way. the horses waded to their bellies in the tawny water. then more hills and vales; green nooks with rippling corn-crops; secular oaks attired in golden leafage. the clear afternoon air rang with the voices of a thousand larks overhead. the whole world seemed quivering with light and delicate ethereal sound. and yet my mind turned irresistibly to thoughts of war, violence, and pillage. how often has this intermediate land been fought over by montefeltro and brancaleoni, by borgia and malatesta, by medici and della rovere! its _contadini_ are robust men, almost statuesque in build, and beautiful of feature. no wonder that the princes of urbino, with such materials to draw from, sold their service and their troops to florence, rome, s. mark, and milan. the bearing of these peasants is still soldierly and proud. yet they are not sullen or forbidding like the sicilians, whose habits of life, for the rest, much resemble theirs. the villages, there as here, are few and far between, perched high on rocks, from which the folk descend to till the ground and reap the harvest. but the southern _brusquerie_ and brutality are absent from this district. the men have something of the dignity and slow-eyed mildness of their own huge oxen. as evening fell, more solemn apennines upreared themselves to southward. the monte d'asdrubale, monte nerone, and monte catria hove into sight. at last, when light was dim, a tower rose above the neighbouring ridge, a broken outline of some city barred the sky-line. urbino stood before us. our long day's march was at an end. the sunset was almost spent, and a four days' moon hung above the western apennines, when we took our first view of the palace. it is a fancy-thralling work of wonder seen in that dim twilight; like some castle reared by atlante's magic for imprisonment of ruggiero, or palace sought in fairyland by astolf winding his enchanted horn. where shall we find its like, combining, as it does, the buttressed battlemented bulk of mediæval strongholds with the airy balconies, suspended gardens, and fantastic turrets of italian pleasure-houses? this unique blending of the feudal past with the renaissance spirit of the time when it was built, connects it with the art of ariosto--or more exactly with boiardo's epic. duke federigo planned his palace at urbino just at the moment when the count of scandiano had began to chaunt his lays of roland in the castle of ferrara. chivalry, transmuted by the italian genius into something fanciful and quaint, survived as a frail work of art. the men-at-arms of the condottieri still glittered in gilded hauberks. their helmets waved with plumes and bizarre crests. their surcoats blazed with heraldries; their velvet caps with medals bearing legendary emblems. the pomp and circumstance of feudal war had not yet yielded to the cannon of the gascon or the switzer's pike. the fatal age of foreign invasions had not begun for italy. within a few years charles viii.'s holiday excursion would reveal the internal rottenness and weakness of her rival states, and the peninsula for half a century to come would be drenched in the blood of frenchmen, germans, spaniards, fighting for her cities as their prey. but now lorenzo de' medici was still alive. the famous policy which bears his name held italy suspended for a golden time in false tranquillity and independence. the princes who shared his culture and his love of art were gradually passing into modern noblemen, abandoning the savage feuds and passions of more virile centuries, yielding to luxury and scholarly enjoyments. the castles were becoming courts, and despotisms won by force were settling into dynasties. it was just at this epoch that duke federigo built his castle at urbino. one of the ablest and wealthiest condottieri of his time, one of the best instructed and humanest of italian princes, he combined in himself the qualities which mark that period of transition. and these he impressed upon his dwelling-house, which looks backward to the mediæval fortalice and forward to the modern palace. this makes it the just embodiment in architecture of italian romance, the perfect analogue of the 'orlando innamorato.' by comparing it with the castle of the estes at ferrara and the palazzo del te of the gonzagas at mantua, we place it in its right position between mediæval and renaissance italy, between the age when principalities arose upon the ruins of commercial independence and the age when they became dynastic under spain. the exigencies of the ground at his disposal forced federigo to give the building an irregular outline. the fine façade, with its embayed _loggie_ and flanking turrets, is placed too close upon the city ramparts for its due effect. we are obliged to cross the deep ravine which separates it from a lower quarter of the town, and take our station near the oratory of s. giovanni battista, before we can appreciate the beauty of its design, or the boldness of the group it forms with the cathedral dome and tower and the square masses of numerous out-buildings. yet this peculiar position of the palace, though baffling to a close observer of its details, is one of singular advantage to the inhabitants. set on the verge of urbino's towering eminence, it fronts a wave-tossed sea of vales and mountain summits toward the rising and the setting sun. there is nothing but illimitable air between the terraces and loggias of the duchess's apartments and the spreading pyramid of monte catria. a nobler scene is nowhere swept from palace windows than this, which castiglione touched in a memorable passage at the end of his 'cortegiano.' to one who in our day visits urbino, it is singular how the slight indications of this sketch, as in some silhouette, bring back the antique life, and link the present with the past--a hint, perhaps, for reticence in our descriptions. the gentlemen and ladies of the court had spent a summer night in long debate on love, rising to the height of mystical platonic rapture on the lips of bembo, when one of them exclaimed, 'the day has broken!' 'he pointed to the light which was beginning to enter by the fissures of the windows. whereupon we flung the casements wide upon that side of the palace which looks toward the high peak of monte catria, and saw that a fair dawn of rosy hue was born already in the eastern skies, and all the stars had vanished except the sweet regent of the heaven of venus, who holds the borderlands of day and night; and from her sphere it seemed as though a gentle wind were breathing, filling the air with eager freshness, and waking among the numerous woods upon the neighbouring hills the sweet-toned symphonies of joyous birds.' ii the house of montefeltro rose into importance early in the twelfth century. frederick barbarossa erected their fief into a county in . supported by imperial favour, they began to exercise an undefined authority over the district, which they afterwards converted into a duchy. but, though ghibelline for several generations, the montefeltri were too near neighbours of the papal power to free themselves from ecclesiastical vassalage. therefore in they sought and obtained the title of vicars of the church. urbino acknowledged them as semi-despots in their double capacity of imperial and papal deputies. cagli and gubbio followed in the fourteenth century. in the fifteenth, castel durante was acquired from the brancaleoni by warfare, and fossombrone from the malatestas by purchase. numerous fiefs and villages fell into their hands upon the borders of rimini in the course of a continued struggle with the house of malatesta: and when fano and pesaro were added at the opening of the sixteenth century, the domain over which they ruled was a compact territory, some forty miles square, between the adriatic and the apennines. from the close of the thirteenth century they bore the title of counts of urbino. the famous conte guido, whom dante placed among the fraudulent in hell, supported the honours of the house and increased its power by his political action, at this epoch. but it was not until the year that the montefeltri acquired their ducal title. this was conferred by eugenius iv. upon oddantonio, over whose alleged crimes and indubitable assassination a veil of mystery still hangs. he was the son of count guidantonio, and at his death the montefeltri of urbino were extinct in the legitimate line. a natural son of guidantonio had been, however, recognised in his father's lifetime, and married to gentile, heiress of mercatello. this was federigo, a youth of great promise, who succeeded his half-brother in as count of urbino. it was not until that the ducal title was revived for him. duke frederick was a prince remarkable among italian despots for private virtues and sober use of his hereditary power. he spent his youth at mantua, in that famous school of vittorino da feltre, where the sons and daughters of the first italian nobility received a model education in humanities, good manners, and gentle physical accomplishments. more than any of his fellow-students frederick profited by this rare scholar's discipline. on leaving school he adopted the profession of arms, as it was then practised, and joined the troop of the condottiere niccolò piccinino. young men of his own rank, especially the younger sons and bastards of ruling families, sought military service under captains of adventure. if they succeeded they were sure to make money. the coffers of the church and the republics lay open to their not too scrupulous hands; the wealth of milan and naples was squandered on them in retaining-fees and salaries for active service. there was always the further possibility of placing a coronet upon their brows before they died, if haply they should wrest a town from their employers, or obtain the cession of a province from a needy pope. the neighbours of the montefeltri in umbria, romagna, and the marches of ancona were all of them condottieri. malatestas of rimini and pesaro, vitelli of città di castello, varani of camerino, baglioni of perugia, to mention only a few of the most eminent nobles, enrolled themselves under the banners of plebeian adventurers like piccinino and sforza attendolo. though their family connections gave them a certain advantage, the system was essentially democratic. gattamelata and carmagnola sprang from obscurity by personal address and courage to the command of armies. colleoni fought his way up from the grooms to princely station and the _bâton_ of s. mark. francesco sforza, whose father had begun life as a tiller of the soil, seized the ducal crown of milan, and founded a house which ranked among the first in europe. it is not needful to follow duke frederick in his military career. we may briefly remark that when he succeeded to urbino by his brother's death in , he undertook generalship on a grand scale. his own dominions supplied him with some of the best troops in italy. he was careful to secure the goodwill of his subjects by attending personally to their interests, relieving them of imposts, and executing equal justice. he gained the then unique reputation of an honest prince, paternally disposed toward his dependents. men flocked to his standards willingly, and he was able to bring an important contingent into any army. these advantages secured for him alliances with francesco sforza, and brought him successively into connection with milan, venice, florence, the church of naples. as a tactician in the field he held high rank among the generals of the age, and so considerable were his engagements that he acquired great wealth in the exercise of his profession. we find him at one time receiving ducats a month as war-pay from naples, with a peace pension of . while captain-general of the league, he drew for his own use in war , ducats of annual pay. retaining-fees and pensions in the name of past services swelled his income, the exact extent of which has not, so far as i am aware, been estimated, but which must have made him one of the richest of italian princes. all this wealth he spent upon his duchy, fortifying and beautifying its cities, drawing youths of promise to his court, maintaining a great train of life, and keeping his vassals in good-humour by the lightness of a rule which contrasted favourably with the exactions of needier despots. while fighting for the masters who offered him _condotta_ in the complicated wars of italy, duke frederick used his arms, when occasion served, in his own quarrels. many years of his life were spent in a prolonged struggle with his neighbour sigismondo pandolfo malatesta, the bizarre and brilliant tyrant of rimini, who committed the fatal error of embroiling himself beyond all hope of pardon with the church, and who died discomfited in the duel with his warier antagonist. urbino profited by each mistake of sigismondo, and the history of this long desultory strife with rimini is a history of gradual aggrandisement and consolidation for the montefeltrian duchy. in duke frederick married his second wife, battista, daughter of alessandro sforza, lord of pesaro. their portraits, painted by piero della francesca, are to be seen in the uffizzi at florence. some years earlier, frederick lost his right eye and had the bridge of his nose broken in a jousting match outside the town-gate of urbino. after this accident, he preferred to be represented in profile--the profile so well known to students of italian art on medals and basreliefs. it was not without medical aid and vows fulfilled by a mother's self-sacrifice to death, if we may trust the diarists of urbino, that the ducal couple got an heir. in , however, a son was born to them, whom they christened guido paolo ubaldo. he proved a youth of excellent parts and noble nature--apt at study, perfect in all chivalrous accomplishments. but he inherited some fatal physical debility, and his life was marred with a constitutional disease, which then received the name of gout, and which deprived him of the free use of his limbs. after his father's death in , naples, florence, and milan continued frederick's war engagements to guidobaldo. the prince was but a boy of ten. therefore these important _condotte_ must be regarded as compliments and pledges for the future. they prove to what a pitch duke frederick had raised the credit of his state and war establishment. seven years later, guidobaldo married elisabetta, daughter of francesco gonzaga, marquis of mantua. this union, though a happy one, was never blessed with children; and in the certainty of barrenness, the young duke thought it prudent to adopt a nephew as heir to his dominions. he had several sisters, one of whom, giovanna, had been married to a nephew of sixtus iv., giovanni della rovere, lord of sinigaglia and prefect of rome. they had a son, francesco maria, who, after his adoption by guidobaldo, spent his boyhood at urbino. the last years of the fifteenth century were marked by the sudden rise of cesare borgia to a power which threatened the liberties of italy. acting as general for the church, he carried his arms against the petty tyrants of romagna, whom he dispossessed and extirpated. his next move was upon camerino and urbino. he first acquired camerino, having lulled guidobaldo into false security by treacherous professions of goodwill. suddenly the duke received intelligence that the borgia was marching on him over cagli. this was in the middle of june . it is difficult to comprehend the state of weakness in which guidobaldo was surprised, or the panic which then seized him. he made no efforts to rouse his subjects to resistance, but fled by night with his nephew through rough mountain roads, leaving his capital and palace to the marauder. cesare borgia took possession without striking a blow, and removed the treasures of urbino to the vatican. his occupation of the duchy was not undisturbed, however; for the people rose in several places against him, proving that guidobaldo had yielded too hastily to alarm. by this time the fugitive was safe in mantua, whence he returned, and for a short time succeeded in establishing himself again at urbino. but he could not hold his own against the borgias, and in december, by a treaty, he resigned his claims and retired to venice, where he lived upon the bounty of s. mark. it must be said, in justice to the duke, that his constitutional debility rendered him unfit for active operations in the field. perhaps he could not have done better than thus to bend beneath the storm. the sudden death of alexander vi. and the election of a della rovere to the papacy in changed guidobaldo's prospects. julius ii. was the sworn foe of the borgias and the close kinsman of urbino's heir. it was therefore easy for the duke to walk into his empty palace on the hill, and to reinstate himself in the domains from which he had so recently been ousted. the rest of his life was spent in the retirement of his court, surrounded with the finest scholars and the noblest gentlemen of italy. the ill-health which debarred him from the active pleasures and employments of his station, was borne with uniform sweetness of temper and philosophy. when he died, in , his nephew, francesco maria della rovere, succeeded to the duchy, and once more made the palace of urbino the resort of men-at-arms and captains. he was a prince of very violent temper: of its extravagance history has recorded three remarkable examples. he murdered the cardinal of pavia with his own hand in the streets of ravenna; stabbed a lover of his sister to death at urbino; and in a council of war knocked francesco guicciardini down with a blow of his fist. when the history of italy came to be written, guicciardini was probably mindful of that insult, for he painted francesco maria's character and conduct in dark colours. at the same time this duke of urbino passed for one of the first generals of the age. the greatest stain upon his memory is his behaviour in the year , when, by dilatory conduct of the campaign in lombardy, he suffered the passage of frundsberg's army unopposed, and afterwards hesitated to relieve rome from the horrors of the sack. he was the last italian condottiere of the antique type; and the vices which machiavelli exposed in that bad system of mercenary warfare were illustrated on these occasions. during his lifetime, the conditions of italy were so changed by charles v.'s imperial settlement in , that the occupation of condottiere ceased to have any meaning. strozzi and farnesi, who afterwards followed this profession, enlisted in the ranks of france or spain, and won their laurels in northern europe. while leo x. held the papal chair, the duchy of urbino was for a while wrested from the house of della rovere, and conferred upon lorenzo de' medici. francesco maria made a better fight for his heritage than guidobaldo had done. yet he could not successfully resist the power of rome. the pope was ready to spend enormous sums of money on this petty war; the duke's purse was shorter, and the mercenary troops he was obliged to use, proved worthless in the field. spaniards, for the most part, pitted against spaniards, they suffered the campaigns to degenerate into a guerilla warfare of pillage and reprisals. in the duchy was formally ceded to lorenzo. but this medici did not live long to enjoy it, and his only child catherine, the future queen of france, never exercised the rights which had devolved upon her by inheritance. the shifting scene of italy beheld francesco maria reinstated in urbino after leo's death in . this duke married leonora gonzaga, a princess of the house of mantua. their portraits, painted by titian, adorn the venetian room of the uffizzi. of their son, guidobaldo ii., little need be said. he was twice married, first to giulia varano, duchess by inheritance of camerino; secondly, to vittoria farnese, daughter of the duke of parma. guidobaldo spent a lifetime in petty quarrels with his subjects, whom he treated badly, attempting to draw from their pockets the wealth which his father and the montefeltri had won in military service. he intervened at an awkward period of italian politics. the old italy of despots, commonwealths, and condottieri, in which his predecessors played substantial parts, was at an end. the new italy of popes and austro-spanish dynasties had hardly settled into shape. between these epochs, guidobaldo ii., of whom we have a dim and hazy presentation on the page of history, seems somehow to have fallen flat. as a sign of altered circumstances, he removed his court to pesaro, and built the great palace of the della roveres upon the public square. guidobaldaccio, as he was called, died in , leaving an only son, francesco maria ii., whose life and character illustrate the new age which had begun for italy. he was educated in spain at the court of philip ii., where he spent more than two years. when he returned, his spanish haughtiness, punctilious attention to etiquette, and superstitious piety attracted observation. the violent temper of the della roveres, which francesco maria i. displayed in acts of homicide, and which had helped to win his bad name for guidobaldaccio, took the form of sullenness in the last duke. the finest episode in his life was the part he played in the battle of lepanto, under his old comrade, don john of austria. his father forced him to an uncongenial marriage with lucrezia d'este, princess of ferrara. she left him, and took refuge in her native city, then honoured by the presence of tasso and guarini. he bore her departure with philosophical composure, recording the event in his diary as something to be dryly grateful for. left alone, the duke abandoned himself to solitude, religious exercises, hunting, and the economy of his impoverished dominions. he became that curious creature, a man of narrow nature and mediocre capacity, who, dedicated to the cult of self, is fain to pass for saint and sage in easy circumstances. he married, for the second time, a lady, livia della rovere, who belonged to his own family, but had been born in private station. she brought him one son, the prince federigo-ubaldo. this youth might have sustained the ducal honours of urbino, but for his sage-saint father's want of wisdom. the boy was a spoiled child in infancy. inflated with spanish vanity from the cradle, taught to regard his subjects as dependents on a despot's will, abandoned to the caprices of his own ungovernable temper, without substantial aid from the paternal piety or stoicism, he rapidly became a most intolerable princeling. his father married him, while yet a boy, to claudia de' medici, and virtually abdicated in his favour. left to his own devices, federigo chose companions from the troupes of players whom he drew from venice. he filled his palaces with harlots, and degraded himself upon the stage in parts of mean buffoonery. the resources of the duchy were racked to support these parasites. spanish rules of etiquette and ceremony were outraged by their orgies. his bride brought him one daughter, vittoria, who afterwards became the wife of ferdinand, grand duke of tuscany. then in the midst of his low dissipation and offences against ducal dignity, he died of apoplexy at the early age of eighteen--the victim, in the severe judgment of history, of his father's selfishness and want of practical ability. this happened in . francesco maria was stunned by the blow. his withdrawal from the duties of the sovereignty in favour of such a son had proved a constitutional unfitness for the duties of his station. the life he loved was one of seclusion in a round of pious exercises, petty studies, peddling economies, and mechanical amusements. a powerful and grasping pope was on the throne of rome. urban at this juncture pressed francesco maria hard; and in the last duke of urbino devolved his lordships to the holy see. he survived the formal act of abdication seven years; when he died, the pontiff added his duchy to the papal states, which thenceforth stretched from naples to the bounds of venice on the po. iii duke frederick began the palace at urbino in , when he was still only count. the architect was luziano of lauranna, a dalmatian; and the beautiful white limestone, hard as marble, used in the construction, was brought from the dalmatian coast. this stone, like the istrian stone of venetian buildings, takes and retains the chisel mark with wonderful precision. it looks as though, when fresh, it must have had the pliancy of clay, so delicately are the finest curves in scroll or foliage scooped from its substance. and yet it preserves each cusp and angle of the most elaborate pattern with the crispness and the sharpness of a crystal. when wrought by a clever craftsman, its surface has neither the waxiness of parian, nor the brittle edge of carrara marble; and it resists weather better than marble of the choicest quality. this may be observed in many monuments of venice, where the stone has been long exposed to sea-air. these qualities of the dalmatian limestone, no less than its agreeable creamy hue and smooth dull polish, adapt it to decoration in low relief. the most attractive details in the palace at urbino are friezes carved of this material in choice designs of early renaissance dignity and grace. one chimney-piece in the sala degli angeli deserves especial comment. a frieze of dancing cupids, with gilt hair and wings, their naked bodies left white on a ground of ultramarine, is supported by broad flat pilasters. these are engraved with children holding pots of flowers; roses on one side, carnations on the other. above the frieze another pair of angels, one at each end, hold lighted torches; and the pyramidal cap of the chimney is carved with two more, flying, and supporting the eagle of the montefeltri on a raised medallion. throughout the palace we notice emblems appropriate to the houses of montefeltro and della rovere: their arms, three golden bends upon a field of azure: the imperial eagle, granted when montefeltro was made a fief of the empire: the garter of england, worn by the dukes federigo and guidobaldo: the ermine of naples: the _ventosa_, or cupping-glass, adopted for a private badge by frederick: the golden oak-tree on an azure field of della rovere: the palm-tree, bent beneath a block of stone, with its accompanying motto, _inclinata resurgam_: the cipher, fe dx. profile medallions of federigo and guidobaldo, wrought in the lowest possible relief, adorn the staircases. round the great courtyard runs a frieze of military engines and ensigns, trophies, machines, and implements of war, alluding to duke frederick's profession of condottiere. the doorways are enriched with scrolls of heavy-headed flowers, acanthus foliage, honeysuckles, ivy-berries, birds and boys and sphinxes, in all the riot of renaissance fancy. this profusion of sculptured _rilievo_ is nearly all that remains to show how rich the palace was in things of beauty. castiglione, writing in the reign of guidobaldo, says that 'in the opinion of many it is the fairest to be found in italy; and the duke filled it so well with all things fitting its magnificence, that it seemed less like a palace than a city. not only did he collect articles of common use, vessels of silver, and trappings for chambers of rare cloths of gold and silk, and suchlike furniture, but he added multitudes of bronze and marble statues, exquisite pictures, and instruments of music of all sorts. there was nothing but was of the finest and most excellent quality to be seen there. moreover, he gathered together at a vast cost a large number of the best and rarest books in greek, latin, and hebrew, all of which he adorned with gold and silver, esteeming them the chiefest treasure of his spacious palace.' when cesare borgia entered urbino as conqueror in , he is said to have carried off loot to the value of , ducats, or perhaps about a quarter of a million sterling. vespasiano, the florentine bookseller, has left us a minute account of the formation of the famous library of manuscripts, which he valued at considerably over , ducats. yet wandering now through these deserted halls, we seek in vain for furniture or tapestry or works of art. the books have been removed to rome. the pictures are gone, no man knows whither. the plate has long been melted down. the instruments of music are broken. if frescoes adorned the corridors, they have been whitewashed; the ladies' chambers have been stripped of their rich arras. only here and there we find a raftered ceiling, painted in fading colours, which, taken with the stonework of the chimney, and some fragments of inlaid panel-work on door or window, enables us to reconstruct the former richness of these princely rooms. exception must be made in favour of two apartments between the towers upon the southern facade. these were apparently the private rooms of the duke and duchess, and they are still approached by a great winding staircase in one of the _torricini_. adorned in indestructible or irremovable materials, they retain some traces of their ancient splendour. on the first floor, opening on the vaulted loggia, we find a little chapel encrusted with lovely work in stucco and marble; friezes of bulls, sphinxes, sea-horses, and foliage; with a low relief of madonna and child in the manner of mino da fiesole. close by is a small study with inscriptions to the muses and apollo. the cabinet connecting these two cells has a latin legend, to say that religion here dwells near the temple of the liberal arts: bina vides parvo discrimine juncta sacella, altera pars musis altera sacra deo est. on the floor above, corresponding in position to this apartment, is a second, of even greater interest, since it was arranged by the duke frederick for his own retreat. the study is panelled in tarsia of beautiful design and execution. three of the larger compartments show faith, hope, and charity; figures not unworthy of a botticelli or a filippino lippi. the occupations of the duke are represented on a smaller scale by armour, _bâtons_ of command, scientific instruments, lutes, viols, and books, some open and some shut. the bible, homer, virgil, seneca, tacitus, and cicero, are lettered; apparently to indicate his favourite authors. the duke himself, arrayed in his state robes, occupies a fourth great panel; and the whole of this elaborate composition is harmonised by emblems, badges, and occasional devices of birds, articles of furniture, and so forth. the tarsia, or inlaid wood of different kinds and colours, is among the best in this kind of art to be found in italy, though perhaps it hardly deserves to rank with the celebrated choir-stalls of bergamo and monte oliveto. hard by is a chapel, adorned, like the lower one, with excellent reliefs. the loggia to which these rooms have access looks across the apennines, and down on what was once a private garden. it is now enclosed and paved for the exercise of prisoners who are confined in one part of the desecrated palace! a portion of the pile is devoted to more worthy purposes; for the academy of raphael here holds its sittings, and preserves a collection of curiosities and books illustrative of the great painter's life and works. they have recently placed in a tiny oratory, scooped by guidobaldo ii. from the thickness of the wall, a cast of raphael's skull, which will be studied with interest and veneration. it has the fineness of modelling combined with shapeliness of form and smallness of scale which is said to have characterised mozart and shelley. the impression left upon the mind after traversing this palace in its length and breadth is one of weariness and disappointment. how shall we reconstruct the long-past life which filled its rooms with sound, the splendour of its pageants, the thrill of tragedies enacted here? it is not difficult to crowd its doors and vacant spaces with liveried servants, slim pages in tight hose, whose well-combed hair escapes from tiny caps upon their silken shoulders. we may even replace the tapestries of troy which hung one hall, and build again the sideboards with their embossed gilded plate. but are these chambers really those where emilia pia held debate on love with bembo and castiglione; where bibbiena's witticisms and fra serafino's pranks raised smiles on courtly lips; where bernardo accolti, 'the unique,' declaimed his verses to applauding crowds? is it possible that into yonder hall, where now the lion of s. mark looks down alone on staring desolation, strode the borgia in all his panoply of war, a gilded glittering dragon, and from the dais tore the montefeltri's throne, and from the arras stripped their ensigns, replacing these with his own bull and valentinus dux? here tasso tuned his lyre for francesco maria's wedding-feast, and read 'aminta' to lucrezia d'este. here guidobaldo listened to the jests and whispered scandals of the aretine. here titian set his easel up to paint; here the boy raphael, cap in hand, took signed and sealed credentials from his duchess to the gonfalonier of florence. somewhere in these huge chambers, the courtiers sat before a torch-lit stage, when bibbiena's 'calandria' and caetiglione's 'tirsi,' with their miracles of masques and mummers, whiled the night away. somewhere, we know not where, giuliano de' medici made love in these bare rooms to that mysterious mother of ill-fated cardinal ippolito; somewhere, in some darker nook, the bastard alessandro sprang to his strange-fortuned life of tyranny and license, which brutus-lorenzino cut short with a traitor's poignard-thrust in via larga. how many men, illustrious for arts and letters, memorable by their virtues or their crimes, have trod these silent corridors, from the great pope julius down to james iii., self-titled king of england, who tarried here with clementina sobieski through some twelve months of his ex-royal exile! the memories of all this folk, flown guests and masters of the still-abiding palace-chambers, haunt us as we hurry through. they are but filmy shadows. we cannot grasp them, localise them, people surrounding emptiness with more than withering cobweb forms. death takes a stronger hold on us than bygone life. therefore, returning to the vast throne-room, we animate it with one scene it witnessed on an april night in . duke guidobaldo had died at fossombrone, repeating to his friends around his bed these lines of virgil: me circum limus niger et deformis arundo cocyti tardaque palus inamabilis unda alligat, et novies styx interfusa coercet. his body had been carried on the shoulders of servants through those mountain ways at night, amid the lamentations of gathering multitudes and the baying of dogs from hill-set farms alarmed by flaring flambeaux. now it is laid in state in the great hall. the dais and the throne are draped in black. the arms and _bâtons_ of his father hang about the doorways. his own ensigns are displayed in groups and trophies, with the banners of s. mark, the montefeltrian eagle, and the cross keys of s. peter. the hall itself is vacant, save for the high-reared catafalque of sable velvet and gold damask, surrounded with wax candles burning steadily. round it passes a ceaseless stream of people, coming and going, gazing at their duke. he is attired in crimson hose and doublet of black damask. black velvet slippers are on his feet, and his ducal cap is of black velvet. the mantle of the garter, made of dark-blue alexandrine velvet, hooded with crimson, lined with white silk damask, and embroidered with the badge, drapes the stiff sleeping form. it is easier to conjure up the past of this great palace, strolling round it in free air and twilight; perhaps because the landscape and the life still moving on the city streets bring its exterior into harmony with real existence. the southern façade, with its vaulted balconies and flanking towers, takes the fancy, fascinates the eye, and lends itself as a fit stage for puppets of the musing mind. once more imagination plants trim orange-trees in giant jars of gubbio ware upon the pavement where the garden of the duchess lay--the pavement paced in these bad days by convicts in grey canvas jackets--that pavement where monsignor bombo courted 'dear dead women' with platonic phrase, smothering the menta of his natural man in lettuce culled from academe and thyme of mount hymettus. in yonder loggia, lifted above the garden and the court, two lovers are in earnest converse. they lean beneath the coffered arch, against the marble of the balustrade, he fingering his dagger under the dark velvet doublet, she playing with a clove carnation, deep as her own shame. the man is giannandrea, broad-shouldered bravo of verona, duke guidobaldo's favourite and carpet-count. the lady is madonna maria, daughter of rome's prefect, widow of venanzio varano, whom the borgia strangled. on their discourse a tale will hang of woman's frailty and man's boldness--camerino's duchess yielding to a low-born suitor's stalwart charms. and more will follow, when that lady's brother, furious francesco maria della rovere, shall stab the bravo in torch-litten palace rooms with twenty poignard strokes 'twixt waist and throat, and their pandarus shall be sent down to his account by a varlet's _coltellata_ through the midriff. imagination shifts the scene, and shows in that same loggia rome's warlike pope, attended by his cardinals and all urbino's chivalry. the snowy beard of julius flows down upon his breast, where jewels clasp the crimson mantle, as in raphael's picture. his eyes are bright with wine; for he has come to gaze on sunset from the banquet-chamber, and to watch the line of lamps which soon will leap along that palace cornice in his honour. behind him lies bologna humbled. the pope returns, a conqueror, to rome. yet once again imagination is at work. a gaunt, bald man, close-habited in spanish black, his spare, fine features carved in purest ivory, leans from that balcony. gazing with hollow eyes, he tracks the swallows in their flight, and notes that winter is at hand. this is the last duke of urbino, francesco maria ii., he whose young wife deserted him, who made for himself alone a hermit-pedant's round of petty cares and niggard avarice and mean-brained superstition. he drew a second consort from the convent, and raised up seed unto his line by forethought, but beheld his princeling fade untimely in the bloom of boyhood. nothing is left but solitude. to the mortmain of the church reverts urbino's lordship, and even now he meditates the terms of devolution. jesuits cluster in the rooms behind, with comfort for the ducal soul and calculations for the interests of holy see. a farewell to these memories of urbino's dukedom should be taken in the crypt of the cathedral, where francesco maria ii., the last duke, buried his only son and all his temporal hopes. the place is scarcely solemn. its dreary _barocco_ emblems mar the dignity of death. a bulky _pietà_ by gian bologna, with madonna's face unfinished, towers up and crowds the narrow cell. religion has evanished from this late renaissance art, nor has the afterglow of guido reni's hectic piety yet overflushed it. chilled by the stifling humid sense of an extinct race here entombed in its last representative, we gladly emerge from the sepulchral vault into the air of day. filippo visconti, with a smile on his handsome face, is waiting for us at the inn. his horses, sleek, well fed, and rested, toss their heads impatiently. we take our seats in the carriage, open wide beneath a sparkling sky, whirl past the palace and its ghost-like recollections, and are halfway on the road to fossombrone in a cloud of dust and whirr of wheels before we think of looking back to greet urbino. there is just time. the last decisive turning lies in front. we stand bareheaded to salute the grey mass of buildings ridged along the sky. then the open road invites us with its varied scenery and movement. from the shadowy past we drive into the world of human things, for ever changefully unchanged, unrestfully the same. this interchange between dead memories and present life is the delight of travel. * * * * * _vittoria accoramboni_ and the tragedy of webster i during the pontificate of gregory xiii. ( - ), papal authority in rome reached its lowest point of weakness, and the ancient splendour of the papal court was well-nigh eclipsed. art and learning had died out. the traditions of the days of leo, julius, and paul iii. were forgotten. it seemed as though the genius of the renaissance had migrated across the alps. all the powers of the papacy were directed to the suppression of heresies and to the re-establishment of spiritual supremacy over the intellect of europe. meanwhile society in rome returned to mediæval barbarism. the veneer of classical refinement and humanistic urbanity, which for a time had hidden the natural savagery of the roman nobles, wore away. the holy city became a den of bandits; the territory of the church supplied a battle-ground for senseless party strife, which the weak old man who wore the triple crown was quite unable to control. it is related how a robber chieftain, marianazzo, refused the offer of a general pardon from the pope, alleging that the profession of brigand was far more lucrative, and offered greater security of life, than any trade within the walls of rome. the campagna, the ruined citadels about the basements of the sabine and ciminian hills, the quarters of the aristocracy within the city, swarmed with bravos, who were protected by great nobles and fed by decent citizens for the advantages to be derived from the assistance of abandoned and courageous ruffians. life, indeed, had become impossible without fixed compact with the powers of lawlessness. there was hardly a family in rome which did not number some notorious criminal among the outlaws. murder, sacrilege, the love of adventure, thirst for plunder, poverty, hostility to the ascendant faction of the moment, were common causes of voluntary or involuntary outlawry; nor did public opinion regard a bandit's calling as other than honourable. it may readily be imagined that in such a state of society the grisliest tragedies were common enough in rome. the history of some of these has been preserved to us in documents digested from public trials and personal observation by contemporary writers. that of the cenci, in which a notorious act of parricide furnished the plot of a popular novella, is well known. and such a tragedy, even more rife in characteristic incidents, and more distinguished by the quality of its _dramatis personæ_, is that of vittoria accoramboni. vittoria was born in , of a noble but impoverished family, at gubbio, among the hills of umbria. her biographers are rapturous in their praises of her beauty, grace, and exceeding charm of manner. not only was her person most lovely, but her mind shone at first with all the amiable lustre of a modest, innocent, and winning youth. her father, claudio accoramboni, removed to rome, where his numerous children were brought up under the care of their mother, tarquinia, an ambitious and unscrupulous woman, bent on rehabilitating the decayed honours of their house. here vittoria in early girlhood soon became the fashion. she exercised an irresistible influence over all who saw her, and many were the offers of marriage she refused. at length a suitor appeared whose condition and connection with the roman ecclesiastical nobility rendered him acceptable in the eyes of the accoramboni. francesco peretti was welcomed as the successful candidate for vittoria's hand. his mother, camilla, was sister to felice, cardinal of montalto; and her son, francesco mignucci, had changed his surname in compliment to this illustrious relative. the peretti were of humble origin. the cardinal himself had tended swine in his native village; but, supported by an invincible belief in his own destinies, and gifted with a powerful intellect and determined character, he passed through all grades of the franciscan order to its generalship, received the bishoprics of fermo and s. agata, and lastly, in the year , assumed the scarlet with the title of cardinal montalto. he was now upon the high way to the papacy, amassing money by incessant care, studying the humours of surrounding factions, effacing his own personality, and by mixing but little in the intrigues of the court, winning the reputation of a prudent, inoffensive old man. these were his tactics for securing the papal throne; nor were his expectations frustrated; for in he was chosen pope, the parties of the medici and the farnesi agreeing to accept him as a compromise. when sixtus v. was once firmly seated on s. peter's chair, he showed himself in his true colours. an implacable administrator of severest justice, a rigorous economist, an iconoclastic foe to paganism, the first act of his reign was to declare a war of extirpation against the bandits who had reduced rome in his predecessor's rule to anarchy. it was the nephew, then, of this man, whom historians have judged the greatest personage of his own times, that vittoria accoramboni married on the th of june . for a short while the young couple lived happily together. according to some accounts of their married life, the bride secured the favour of her powerful uncle-in-law, who indulged her costly fancies to the full. it is, however, more probable that the cardinal montalto treated her follies with a grudging parsimony; for we soon find the peretti household hopelessly involved in debt. discord, too, arose between vittoria and her husband on the score of a certain levity in her behaviour; and it was rumoured that even during the brief space of their union she had proved a faithless wife. yet she contrived to keep francesco's confidence, and it is certain that her family profited by their connection with the peretti. of her six brothers, mario, the eldest, was a favourite courtier of the great cardinal d'este. ottavio was in orders, and through montalto's influence obtained the see of fossombrone. the same eminent protector placed scipione in the service of the cardinal sforza. camillo, famous for his beauty and his courage, followed the fortunes of filibert of savoy, and died in france. flaminio was still a boy, dependent, as the sequel of this story shows, upon his sister's destiny. of marcello, the second in age and most important in the action of this tragedy, it is needful to speak with more particularity. he was young, and, like the rest of his breed, singularly handsome--so handsome, indeed, that he is said to have gained an infamous ascendency over the great duke of bracciano, whose privy chamberlain he had become. marcello was an outlaw for the murder of matteo pallavicino, the brother of the cardinal of that name. this did not, however, prevent the chief of the orsini house from making him his favourite and confidential friend. marcello, who seems to have realised in actual life the worst vices of those roman courtiers described for us by aretino, very soon conceived the plan of exalting his own fortunes by trading on his sister's beauty. he worked upon the duke of bracciano's mind so cleverly, that he brought this haughty prince to the point of an insane passion for peretti's young wife; and meanwhile so contrived to inflame the ambition of vittoria and her mother, tarquinia, that both were prepared to dare the worst of crimes in expectation of a dukedom. the game was a difficult one to play. not only had francesco peretti first to be murdered, but the inequality of birth and wealth and station between vittoria and the duke of bracciano rendered a marriage almost impossible. it was also an affair of delicacy to stimulate without satisfying the duke's passion. yet marcello did not despair. the stakes were high enough to justify great risks; and all he put in peril was his sister's honour, the fame of the accoramboni, and the favour of montalto. vittoria, for her part, trusted in her power to ensnare and secure the noble prey both had in view. paolo giordano orsini, born about the year , was reigning duke of bracciano. among italian princes he ranked at least upon a par with the dukes of urbino, and his family, by its alliances, was more illustrious than any of that time in italy. he was a man of gigantic stature, prodigious corpulence, and marked personal daring; agreeable in manners, but subject to uncontrollable fits of passion, and incapable of self-restraint when crossed in any whim or fancy. upon the habit of his body it is needful to insist, in order that the part he played in this tragedy of intrigue, crime, and passion may be well defined. he found it difficult to procure a charger equal to his weight, and he was so fat that a special dispensation relieved him from the duty of genuflexion in the papal presence. though lord of a large territory, yielding princely revenues, he laboured under heavy debts; for no great noble of the period lived more splendidly, with less regard for his finances. in the politics of that age and country, paolo giordano leaned toward france. yet he was a grandee of spain, and had played a distinguished part in the battle of lepanto. now the duke of bracciano was a widower. he had been married in to isabella de' medici, daughter of the grand duke cosimo, sister of francesco, bianca capello's lover, and of the cardinal ferdinando. suspicion of adultery with troilo orsini had fallen on isabella, and her husband, with the full concurrence of her brothers, removed her in from this world.[ ] no one thought the worse of bracciano for this murder of his wife. in those days of abandoned vice and intricate villany, certain points of honour were maintained with scrupulous fidelity. a wife's adultery was enough to justify the most savage and licentious husband in an act of semi-judicial vengeance; and the shame she brought upon his head was shared by the members of her own house, so that they stood by, consenting to her death. isabella, it may be said, left one son, virginio, who became in due time duke of bracciano. it appears that in the year , four years after vittoria's marriage, the duke of bracciano had satisfied marcello of his intention to make her his wife, and of his willingness to countenance francesco peretti's murder. marcello, feeling sure of his game, introduced the duke in private to his sister, and induced her to overcome any natural repugnance she may have felt for the unwieldy and gross lover. having reached this point, it was imperative to push matters quickly on toward matrimony. but how should the unfortunate francesco be entrapped? they caught him in a snare of peculiar atrocity, by working on the kindly feelings which his love for vittoria had caused him to extend to all the acooramboni. marcello, the outlaw, was her favourite brother, and marcello at that time lay in hiding, under the suspicion of more than ordinary crime, beyond the walls of rome. late in the evening of the th of april, while the peretti family were retiring to bed, a messenger from marcello arrived, entreating francesco to repair at once to monte cavallo. marcello had affairs of the utmost importance to communicate, and begged his brother-in-law not to fail him at a grievous pinch. the letter containing this request was borne by one dominico d'aquaviva, _alias_ il mancino, a confederate of vittoria's waiting-maid. this fellow, like marcello, was an outlaw; but when he ventured into rome he frequented peretti's house, and had made himself familiar with its master as a trusty bravo. neither in the message, therefore, nor in the messenger was there much to rouse suspicion. the time, indeed, was oddly chosen, and marcello had never made a similar appeal on any previous occasion. yet his necessities might surely have obliged him to demand some more than ordinary favour from a brother. francesco immediately made himself ready to set out, armed only with his sword and attended by a single servant. it was in vain that his wife and his mother reminded him of the dangers of the night, the loneliness of monte cavallo, its ruinous palaces and robber-haunted caves. he was resolved to undertake the adventure, and went forth, never to return. as he ascended the hill, he fell to earth, shot with three harquebuses. his body was afterwards found on monte cavallo, stabbed through and through, without a trace that could identify the murderers. only, in the course of subsequent investigations, il mancino (on the th of february ) made the following statements:--that vittoria's mother, assisted by the waiting woman, had planned the trap; that marchionne of gubbio and paolo barca of bracciano, two of the duke's men, had despatched the victim. marcello himself, it seems, had come from bracciano to conduct the whole affair. suspicion fell immediately upon vittoria and her kindred, together with the duke of bracciano; nor was this diminished when the accoramboni, fearing the pursuit of justice, took refuge in a villa of the duke's at magnanapoli a few days after the murder. a cardinal's nephew, even in those troublous times, was not killed without some noise being made about the matter. accordingly pope gregory xiii. began to take measures for discovering the authors of the crime. strange to say, however, the cardinal montalto, notwithstanding the great love he was known to bear his nephew, begged that the investigation might be dropped. the coolness with which he first received the news of francesco peretti's death, the dissimulation with which he met the pope's expression of sympathy in a full consistory, his reserve in greeting friends on ceremonial visits of condolence, and, more than all, the self-restraint he showed in the presence of the duke of bracciano, impressed the society of rome with the belief that he was of a singularly moderate and patient temper. it was thought that the man who could so tamely submit to his nephew's murder, and suspend the arm of justice when already raised for vengeance, must prove a mild and indulgent ruler. when, therefore, in the fifth year after this event, montalto was elected pope, men ascribed his elevation in no small measure to his conduct at the present crisis. some, indeed, attributed his extraordinary moderation and self-control to the right cause. _'veramente costui è un gran frate!_' was gregory's remark at the close of the consistory when montalto begged him to let the matter of peretti's murder rest. '_of a truth, that fellow is a consummate hypocrite!_' how accurate this judgment was, appeared when sixtus v. assumed the reins of power. the same man who, as monk and cardinal, had smiled on bracciano, though he knew him to be his nephew's assassin, now, as pontiff and sovereign, bade the chief of the orsini purge his palace and dominions of the scoundrels he was wont to harbour, adding significantly, that if felice peretti forgave what had been done against him in a private station, he would exact uttermost vengeance for disobedience to the will of sixtus. the duke of bracciano judged it best, after that warning, to withdraw from rome. francesco peretti had been murdered on the th of april . sixtus v. was proclaimed on the th of april . in this interval vittoria underwent a series of extraordinary perils and adventures. first of all, she had been secretly married to the duke in his gardens of magnanapoli at the end of april . that is to say, marcello and she secured their prize, as well as they were able, the moment after francesco had been removed by murder. but no sooner had the marriage become known, than the pope, moved by the scandal it created, no less than by the urgent instance of the orsini and medici, declared it void. after some while spent in vain resistance, bracciano submitted, and sent vittoria back to her father's house. by an order issued under gregory's own hand, she was next removed to the prison of corte savella, thence to the monastery of s. cecilia in trastevere, and finally to the castle of s. angelo. here, at the end of december , she was put on trial for the murder of her first husband. in prison she seems to have borne herself bravely, arraying her beautiful person in delicate attire, entertaining visitors, exacting from her friends the honours due to a duchess, and sustaining the frequent examinations to which she was submitted with a bold, proud front. in the middle of the month of july her constancy was sorely tried by the receipt of a letter in the duke's own handwriting, formally renouncing his marriage. it was only by a lucky accident that she was prevented on this occasion from committing suicide. the papal court meanwhile kept urging her either to retire to a monastery or to accept another husband. she firmly refused to embrace the religious life, and declared that she was already lawfully united to a living husband, the duke of bracciano. it seemed impossible to deal with her; and at last, on the th of november, she was released from prison under the condition of retirement to gubbio. the duke had lulled his enemies to rest by the pretence of yielding to their wishes. but marcello was continually beside him at bracciano, where we read of a mysterious greek enchantress whom he hired to brew love-philters for the furtherance of his ambitious plots. whether bracciano was stimulated by the brother's arguments or by the witch's potions need not be too curiously questioned. but it seems in any case certain that absence inflamed his passion instead of cooling it. accordingly, in september , under the excuse of a pilgrimage to loreto, he contrived to meet vittoria at trevi, whence he carried her in triumph to bracciano. here he openly acknowledged her as his wife, installing her with all the splendour due to a sovereign duchess. on the th of october following, he once more performed the marriage ceremony in the principal church of his fief; and in the january of he brought her openly to rome. this act of contumacy to the pope, both as feudal superior and as supreme pontiff, roused all the former opposition to his marriage. once more it was declared invalid. once more the duke pretended to give way. but at this juncture gregory died; and while the conclave was sitting for the election of the new pope, he resolved to take the law into his own hands, and to ratify his union with vittoria by a third and public marriage in rome. on the morning of the th of april , their nuptials were accordingly once more solemnised in the orsini palace. just one hour after the ceremony, as appears from the marriage register, the news arrived of cardinal montalto's election to the papacy, vittoria lost no time in paying her respects to camilla, sister of the new pope, her former mother-in-law. the duke visited sixtus v. in state to compliment him on his elevation. but the reception which both received proved that rome was no safe place for them to live in. they consequently made up their minds for flight. a chronic illness from which bracciano had lately suffered furnished a sufficient pretext. this seems to have been something of the nature of a cancerous ulcer, which had to be treated by the application of raw meat to open sores. such details are only excusable in the present narrative on the ground that bracciano's disease considerably affects our moral judgment of the woman who could marry a man thus physically tainted, and with her husband's blood upon his hands. at any rate, the duke's _lupa_ justified his trying what change of air, together with the sulphur waters of abano, would do for him. the duke and duchess arrived in safety at venice, where they had engaged the dandolo palace on the zuecca. there they only stayed a few days, removing to padua, where they had hired palaces of the foscari in the arena and a house called de' cavalli. at salò, also, on the lake of garda, they provided themselves with fit dwellings for their princely state and their large retinues, intending to divide their time between the pleasures which the capital of luxury afforded and the simpler enjoyments of the most beautiful of the italian lakes. but _la gioia dei profani è un fumo passaggier_. paolo giordano orsini, duke of bracciano, died suddenly at salò on the th of november , leaving the young and beautiful vittoria helpless among enemies. what was the cause of his death? it is not possible to give a clear and certain answer. we have seen that he suffered from a horrible and voracious disease, which after his removal from rome seems to have made progress. yet though this malady may well have cut his life short, suspicion of poison was not, in the circumstances, quite unreasonable. the grand duke of tuscany, the pope, and the orsini family were all interested in his death. anyhow, he had time to make a will in vittoria's favour, leaving her large sums of money, jewels, goods, and houses--enough, in fact, to support her ducal dignity with splendour. his hereditary fiefs and honours passed by right to his only son, virginio. vittoria, accompanied by her brother, marcello, and the whole court of bracciano, repaired at once to padua, where she was soon after joined by flaminio, and by the prince lodovico orsini. lodovico orsini assumed the duty of settling vittoria's affairs under her dead husband's will. in life he had been the duke's ally as well as relative. his family pride was deeply wounded by what seemed to him an ignoble, as it was certainly an unequal, marriage. he now showed himself the relentless enemy of the duchess. disputes arose between them as to certain details, which seem to have been legally decided in the widow's favour. on the night of the nd of december, however, forty men disguised in black and fantastically tricked out to elude detection, surrounded her palace. through the long galleries and chambers hung with arras, eight of them went, bearing torches, in search of vittoria and her brothers. marcello escaped, having fled the house under suspicion of the murder of one of his own followers. flaminio, the innocent and young, was playing on his lute and singing _miserere_ in the great hall of the palace. the murderers surprised him with a shot from one of their harquebuses. he ran, wounded in the shoulder, to his sister's room. she, it is said, was telling her beads before retiring for the night. when three of the assassins entered, she knelt before the crucifix, and there they stabbed her in the left breast, turning the poignard in the wound, and asking her with savage insults if her heart was pierced. her last words were, 'jesus, i pardon you.' then they turned to flaminio, and left him pierced with seventy-four stiletto wounds. the authorities of padua identified the bodies of vittoria and flaminio, and sent at once for further instructions to venice. meanwhile it appears that both corpses were laid out in one open coffin for the people to contemplate. the palace and the church of the eremitani, to which they had been removed, were crowded all through the following day with a vast concourse of the paduans. vittoria's wonderful dead body, pale yet sweet to look upon, the golden hair flowing around her marble shoulders, the red wound in her breast uncovered, the stately limbs arrayed in satin as she died, maddened the populace with its surpassing loveliness. '_dentibus fremebant_,' says the chronicler, when they beheld that gracious lady stiff in death. and of a truth, if her corpse was actually exposed in the chapel of the eremitani, as we have some right to assume, the spectacle must have been impressive. those grim gaunt frescoes of mantegna looked down on her as she lay stretched upon her bier, solemn and calm, and, but for pallor, beautiful as though in life. no wonder that the folk forgot her first husband's murder, her less than comely marriage to the second. it was enough for them that this flower of surpassing loveliness had been cropped by villains in its bloom. gathering in knots around the torches placed beside the corpse, they vowed vengeance against the orsini; for suspicion, not unnaturally, fell on prince lodovico. the prince was arrested and interrogated before the court of padua. he entered their hall attended by forty armed men, responded haughtily to their questions, and demanded free passage for his courier to virginio orsini, then at florence. to this demand the court acceded; but the precaution of way-laying the courier and searching his person was very wisely taken. besides some formal dispatches which announced vittoria's assassination, they found in this man's boot a compromising letter, declaring virginio a party to the crime, and asserting that lodovico had with his own poignard killed their victim. padua placed itself in a state of defence, and prepared to besiege the palace of prince lodovico, who also got himself in readiness for battle. engines, culverins, and firebrands were directed against the barricades which he had raised. the militia was called out and the brenta was strongly guarded. meanwhile the senate of s. mark had dispatched the avogadore, aloisio bragadin, with full power to the scene of action. lodovico orsini, it may be mentioned, was in their service; and had not this affair intervened, he would in a few weeks have entered on his duties as governor for venice of corfu. the bombardment of orsini's palace began on christmas day. three of the prince's men were killed in the first assault; and since the artillery brought to bear upon him threatened speedy ruin to the house and its inhabitants, he made up his mind to surrender. 'the prince luigi,' writes one-chronicler of these events, 'walked attired in brown, his poignard at his side, and his cloak slung elegantly under his arm. the weapon being taken from him, he leaned upon a balustrade, and began to trim his nails with a little pair of scissors he happened to find there.' on the th he was strangled in prison by order of the venetian republic. his body was carried to be buried, according to his own will, in the church of s. maria dell' orto at venice. two of his followers were hung next day. fifteen were executed on the following monday; two of these were quartered alive; one of them, the conte paganello, who confessed to having slain vittoria, had his left side probed with his own cruel dagger. eight were condemned to the galleys, six to prison, and eleven were acquitted. thus ended this terrible affair, which brought, it is said, good credit and renown to the lords of venice through all nations of the civilised world. it only remains to be added that marcello accoramboni was surrendered to the pope's vengeance and beheaded at ancona, where also his mysterious accomplice, the greek sorceress, perished. ii this story of vittoria accoramboni's life and tragic ending is drawn, in its main details, from a narrative published by henri beyle in his 'chroniques et novelles.'[ ] he professes to have translated it literally from a manuscript communicated to him by a nobleman of mantua; and there are strong internal evidences of the truth of this assertion. such compositions are frequent in italian libraries, nor is it rare for one of them to pass into the common market--as mr. browning's famous purchase of the tale on which he based his 'ring and the book' sufficiently proves. these pamphlets were produced, in the first instance, to gratify the curiosity of the educated public in an age which had no newspapers, and also to preserve the memory of famous trials. how far the strict truth was represented, or whether, as in the case of beatrice cenci, the pathetic aspect of the tragedy was unduly dwelt on, depended, of course, upon the mental bias of the scribe, upon his opportunities of obtaining exact information, and upon the taste of the audience for whom he wrote. therefore, in treating such documents as historical data, we must be upon our guard. professor gnoli, who has recently investigated the whole of vittoria's eventful story by the light of contemporary documents, informs us that several narratives exist in manuscript, all dealing more or less accurately with the details of the tragedy. one of these was published in italian at brescia in . a frenchman, de rosset, printed the same story in its main outlines at lyons in . our own dramatist, john webster, made it the subject of a tragedy, which he gave to the press in . what were his sources of information we do not know for certain. but it is clear that he was well acquainted with the history. he has changed some of the names and redistributed some of the chief parts. vittoria's first husband, for example, becomes camillo; her mother, named cornelia instead of tarquinia, is so far from abetting peretti's murder and countenancing her daughter's shame, that she acts the _rôle_ of a domestic cassandra. flaminio and not marcello is made the main instrument of vittoria's crime and elevation. the cardinal montalto is called monticelso, and his papal title is paul iv. instead of sixtus v. these are details of comparative indifference, in which a playwright may fairly use his liberty of art. on the other hand, webster shows a curious knowledge of the picturesque circumstances of the tale. the garden in which vittoria meets bracciano is the villa of magnanapoli; zanche, the moorish slave, combines vittoria's waiting-woman, caterina, and the greek sorceress who so mysteriously dogged marcello's footsteps to the death. the suspicion of bracciano's murder is used to introduce a quaint episode of italian poisoning. webster exercised the dramatist's privilege of connecting various threads of action in one plot, disregarding chronology, and hazarding an ethical solution of motives which mere fidelity to fact hardly warrants. he shows us vittoria married to camillo, a low-born and witless fool, whose only merit consists in being nephew to the cardinal monticelso, afterwards pope paul iv.[ ] paulo giordano ursini, duke of brachiano, loves vittoria, and she suggests to him that, for the furtherance of their amours, his wife, the duchess isabella, sister to francesco de' medici, grand duke of florence, should be murdered at the same time as her own husband, camillo. brachiano is struck by this plan, and with the help of vittoria's brother, flamineo, he puts it at once into execution. flamineo hires a doctor who poisons brachiano's portrait, so that isabella dies after kissing it. he also with his own hands twists camillo's neck during a vaulting-match, making it appear that he came by his death accidentally. suspicion of the murder attaches, however, to vittoria. she is tried for her life before monticelso and de' medici; acquitted, and relegated to a house of convertites or female reformatory. brachiano, on the accession of monticelso to the papal throne, resolves to leave rome with vittoria. they escape, together with her mother cornelia, and her brothers flamineo and marcello, to padua; and it is here that the last scenes of the tragedy are laid. the use webster made of lodovico orsini deserves particular attention. he introduces this personage in the very first scene as a spendthrift, who, having run through his fortune, has been outlawed. count lodovico, as he is always called, has no relationship with the orsini, but is attached to the service of francesco de' medici, and is an old lover of the duchess isabella. when, therefore, the grand duke meditates vengeance on brachiano, he finds a fitting instrument in the desperate lodovico. together, in disguise, they repair to padua. lodovico poisons the duke of brachiano's helmet, and has the satisfaction of ending his last struggles by the halter. afterwards, with companions, habited as a masquer, he enters vittoria's palace and puts her to death together with her brother flamineo. just when the deed of vengeance has been completed, young giovanni orsini, heir of brachiano, enters and orders the summary execution of lodovico for this deed of violence. webster's invention in this plot is confined to the fantastic incidents attending on the deaths of isabella, camillo, and brachiano, and to the murder of marcello by his brother flamineo, with the further consequence of cornelia's madness and death. he has heightened our interest in isabella, at the expense of brachiano's character, by making her an innocent and loving wife instead of an adulteress. he has ascribed different motives from the real ones to lodovico in order to bring this personage into rank with the chief actors, though this has been achieved with only moderate success. vittoria is abandoned to the darkest interpretation. she is a woman who rises to eminence by crime, as an unfaithful wife, the murderess of her husband, and an impudent defier of justice. her brother, flamineo, becomes under webster's treatment one of those worst human infamies--a court dependent; ruffian, buffoon, pimp, murderer by turns. furthermore, and without any adequate object beyond that of completing this study of a type he loved, webster makes him murder his own brother marcello by treason. the part assigned to marcello, it should be said, is a genial and happy one; and cornelia, the mother of the accoramboni, is a dignified character, pathetic in her suffering. webster, it may be added, treats the cardinal monticelso as allied in some special way to the medici. yet certain traits in his character, especially his avoidance of bloodshed and the tameness of his temper after camillo has been murdered, seem to have been studied from the historical sixtus. iii the character of the 'white devil, or vittoria corombona,' is perhaps the most masterly creation of webster's genius. though her history is a true one in its leading incidents, the poet, while portraying a real personage, has conceived an original individuality. it is impossible to know for certain how far the actual vittoria was guilty of her first husband's murder. her personality fails to detach itself from the romance of her biography by any salient qualities. but webster, with true playwright's instinct, casts aside historical doubts, and delineates in his heroine a woman of a very marked and terrible nature. hard as adamant, uncompromising, ruthless, vittoria follows ambition as the loadstar of her life. it is the ambition to reign as duchess, far more than any passion for a paramour, which makes her plot camillo's and isabella's murders, and throws her before marriage into brachiano's arms. added to this ambition, she is possessed with the cold demon of her own imperial and victorious beauty. she has the courage of her criminality in the fullest sense; and much of the fascination with which webster has invested her, depends upon her dreadful daring. her portrait is drawn with full and firm touches. although she appears but five times on the scene, she fills it from the first line of the drama to the last. each appearance adds effectively to the total impression. we see her first during a criminal interview with brachiano, contrived by her brother flamineo. the plot of the tragedy is developed in this scene; vittoria suggesting, under the metaphor of a dream, that her lover should compass the deaths of his duchess and her husband. the dream is told with deadly energy and ghastly picturesqueness. the cruel sneer at its conclusion, murmured by a voluptuous woman in the ears of an impassioned paramour, chills us with the sense of concentrated vice. her next appearance is before the court, on trial for her husband's murder. the scene is celebrated, and has been much disputed by critics. relying on her own dauntlessness, on her beauty, and on the protection of brachiano, vittoria hardly takes the trouble to plead innocence or to rebut charges. she stands defiant, arrogant, vigilant, on guard; flinging the lie in the teeth of her arraigners; quick to seize the slightest sign of feebleness in their attack; protesting her guiltlessness so loudly that she shouts truth down by brazen strength of lung; retiring at the close with taunts; blazing throughout with the intolerable lustre of some baleful planet. when she enters for the third time, it is to quarrel with her paramour. he has been stung to jealousy by a feigned love-letter. she knows that she has given him no cause; it is her game to lure him by fidelity to marriage. therefore she resolves to make his mistake the instrument of her exaltation. beginning with torrents of abuse, hurling reproaches at him for her own dishonour and the murder of his wife, working herself by studied degrees into a tempest of ungovernable rage, she flings herself upon the bed, refuses his caresses, spurns and tramples on him, till she has brought brachiano, terrified, humbled, fascinated, to her feet. then she gradually relents beneath his passionate protestations and repeated promises of marriage. at this point she speaks but little. we only feel her melting humour in the air, and long to see the scene played by such an actress as madame bernhardt. when vittoria next appears, it is as duchess by the deathbed of the duke, her husband. her attendance here is necessary, but it contributes little to the development of her character. we have learned to know her, and expect neither womanish tears nor signs of affection at a crisis which touches her heart less than her self-love. webster, among his other excellent qualities, knew how to support character by reticence. vittoria's silence in this act is significant; and when she retires exclaiming, 'o me! this place is hell!' we know that it is the outcry, not of a woman who has lost what made life dear, but of one who sees the fruits of crime imperilled by a fatal accident. the last scene of the play is devoted to vittoria. it begins with a notable altercation between her and flamineo. she calls him 'ruffian' and 'villain,' refusing him the reward of his vile service. this quarrel emerges in one of webster's grotesque contrivances to prolong a poignant situation. flamineo quits the stage and reappears with pistols. he affects a kind of madness; and after threatening vittoria, who never flinches, he proposes they should end their lives by suicide. she humours him, but manages to get the first shot. flamineo falls, wounded apparently to death. then vittoria turns and tramples on him with her feet and tongue, taunting him in his death agony with the enumeration of his crimes. her malice and her energy are equally infernal. soon, however, it appears that the whole device was but a trick of flamineo's to test his sister. the pistol was not loaded. he now produces a pair which are properly charged, and proceeds in good earnest to the assassination of vittoria. but at this critical moment lodovico and his masquers appear; brother and sister both die unrepentant, defiant to the end. vittoria's customary pride and her familiar sneers impress her speech in these last moments with a trenchant truth to nature: _you_ my death's-man! methinks thou dost not look horrid enough, thou hast too good a face to be a hangman: if thou be, do thy office in right form; fall down upon thy knees, and ask forgiveness! * * * * * i will be waited on in death; my servant shall never go before me. * * * * * yes, i shall welcome death as princes do some great ambassadors: i'll meet thy weapon half-way. * * * * * 'twas a manly blow! the next thou giv'st, murder some sucking infant; and then thou wilt be famous. so firmly has webster wrought the character of this white devil, that we seem to see her before us as in a picture. 'beautiful as the leprosy, dazzling as the lightning,' to use a phrase of her enthusiastic admirer hazlitt, she takes her station like a lady in some portrait by paris bordone, with gleaming golden hair twisted into snakelike braids about her temples, with skin white as cream, bright cheeks, dark dauntless eyes, and on her bosom, where it has been chafed by jewelled chains, a flush of rose. she is luxurious, but not so abandoned to the pleasures of the sense as to forget the purpose of her will and brain. crime and peril add zest to her enjoyment. when arraigned in open court before the judgment-seat of deadly and unscrupulous foes, she conceals the consciousness of guilt, and stands erect, with fierce front, unabashed, relying on the splendour of her irresistible beauty and the subtlety of her piercing wit. chafing with rage, the blood mounts and adds a lustre to her cheek. it is no flush of modesty, but of rebellious indignation. the cardinal, who hates her, brands her emotion with the name of shame. she rebukes him, hurling a jibe at his own mother. and when they point with spiteful eagerness to the jewels blazing on her breast, to the silks and satins that she rustles in, her husband lying murdered, she retorts: had i foreknown his death, as you suggest, i would have bespoke my mourning. she is condemned, but not vanquished, and leaves the court with a stinging sarcasm. they send her to a house of convertites: _v.c_. a house of convertites! what's that? _m_. a house of penitent whores. _v.c_. do the noblemen of rome erect it for their wives, that i am sent to lodge there? charles lamb was certainly in error? when he described vittoria's attitude as one of 'innocence-resembling boldness.' in the trial scene, no less than in the scenes of altercation with brachiano and flamineo, webster clearly intended her to pass for a magnificent vixen, a beautiful and queenly termagant. her boldness is the audacity of impudence, which does not condescend to entertain the thought of guilt. her egotism is so hard and so profound that the very victims whom she sacrifices to ambition seem in her sight justly punished. of camillo and isabella, her husband and his wife, she says to brachiano: and both were struck dead by that sacred yew, in that base shallow grave that was their due. iv it is tempting to pass from this analysis of vittoria's life to a consideration of webster's drama as a whole, especially in a book dedicated to italian byways. for that mysterious man of genius had explored the dark and devious paths of renaissance vice, and had penetrated the secrets of italian wickedness with truly appalling lucidity. his tragedies, though worthless as historical documents, have singular value as commentaries upon history, as revelations to us of the spirit of the sixteenth century in its deepest gloom. webster's plays, owing to the condensation of their thought and the compression of their style, are not easy to read for the first time. he crowds so many fantastic incidents into one action, and burdens his discourse with so much profoundly studied matter, that we rise from the perusal of his works with a blurred impression of the fables, a deep sense of the poet's power and personality, and an ineffaceable recollection of one or two resplendent scenes. his roman history-play of 'appius and virginia' proves that he understood the value of a simple plot, and that he was able, when he chose, to work one out with conscientious calmness. but the two italian dramas upon which his fame is justly founded, by right of which he stands alone among the playwrights of all literatures, are marked by a peculiar and wayward mannerism. each part is etched with equal effort after luminous effect upon a back-ground of lurid darkness; and the whole play is made up of these parts, without due concentration on a master-motive. the characters are definite in outline, but, taken together in the conduct of a single plot, they seem to stand apart, like figures in a _tableau vivant_; nor do they act and react each upon the other in the play of interpenetrative passions. that this mannerism was deliberately chosen, we have a right to believe. 'willingly, and not ignorantly, in this kind have i faulted,' is the answer webster gives to such as may object that he has not constructed his plays upon the classic model. he seems to have had a certain sombre richness of tone and intricacy of design in view, combining sensational effect and sententious pregnancy of diction in works of laboured art, which, when adequately represented to the ear and eye upon the stage, might at a touch obtain the animation they now lack for chamber-students. when familiarity has brought us acquainted with his style, when we have disentangled the main characters and circumstances from their adjuncts, we perceive that he treats poignant and tremendous situations with a concentrated vigour special to his genius; that he has studied each word and trait of character, and that he has prepared by gradual approaches and degrees of horror for the culmination of his tragedies. the sentences which seem at first sight copied from a commonplace book, are found to be appropriate. brief lightning flashes of acute perception illuminate the midnight darkness of his all but unimaginably depraved characters. sharp unexpected touches evoke humanity in the _fantoccini_ of his wayward art. no dramatist has shown more consummate ability in heightening terrific effects, in laying bare the innermost mysteries of crime, remorse, and pain, combined to make men miserable. it has been said of webster that, feeling himself deficient in the first poetic qualities, he concentrated his powers upon one point, and achieved success by sheer force of self-cultivation. there is perhaps some truth in this. at any rate, his genius was of a narrow and peculiar order, and he knew well how to make the most of its limitations. yet we must not forget that he felt a natural bias toward the dreadful stuff with which he deals. the mystery of iniquity had an irresistible attraction for his mind. he was drawn to comprehend and reproduce abnormal elements of spiritual anguish. the materials with which he builds his tragedies are sought for in the ruined places of lost souls, in the agonies of madness and despair, in the sarcasms of criminal and reckless atheism, in slow tortures, griefs beyond endurance, the tempests of remorseful death, the spasms of fratricidal bloodshed. he is often melodramatic in the means employed to bring these psychological conditions home to us. he makes too free use of poisoned engines, daggers, pistols, disguised murderers, and so forth. yet his firm grasp upon the essential qualities of diseased and guilty human nature saves him, even at his wildest, from the unrealities and extravagances into which less potent artists of the _drame sanglant_--marston, for example--blundered. with webster, the tendency to brood on horrors was no result of calculation. it belonged to his idiosyncrasy. he seems to have been suckled from birth at the breast of that _mater tenebrarum_, our lady of darkness, whom de quincey in one of his 'suspiria de profundis' describes among the semnai theai, the august goddesses, the mysterious foster-nurses of suffering humanity. he cannot say the simplest thing without giving it a ghastly or sinister turn. if one of his characters draws a metaphor from pie-crust, he must needs use language of the churchyard: you speak as if a man should know what fowl is coffined in a baked meat afore you cut it open. hideous similes are heaped together in illustration of the commonest circumstances: places at court are but like beds in the hospital, where this man's head lies at that man's foot, and so lower and lower. when knaves come to preferment, they rise as gallowses are raised in the low countries, one upon another's shoulders. i would sooner eat a dead pigeon taken from the soles of the feet of one sick of the plague than kiss one of you fasting. a soldier is twitted with serving his master: as witches do their serviceable spirits, even with thy prodigal blood. an adulterous couple get this curse: like mistletoe on sear elms spent by weather, let him cleave to her, and both rot together. a bravo is asked: dost thou imagine thou canst slide on blood, and not be tainted with a shameful fall? or, like the black and melancholic yew-tree, dost think to root thyself in dead men's graves, and yet to prosper? it is dangerous to extract philosophy of life from any dramatist. yet webster so often returns to dark and doleful meditations, that we may fairly class him among constitutional pessimists. men, according to the grimness of his melancholy, are: only like dead walls or vaulted graves, that, ruined, yield no echo. o this gloomy world! in what a shadow or deep pit of darkness doth womanish and fearful mankind live! * * * * * we are merely the stars' tennis-balls, struck and banded which way please them. * * * * * pleasure of life! what is't? only the good hours of an ague. a duchess is 'brought to mortification,' before her strangling by the executioner, in this high fantastical oration: thou art a box of worm-seed, at best but a salvatory of green mummy. what's this flesh? a little crudded milk, fantastical puff-paste, &c. &c. man's life in its totality is summed up with monastic cynicism in these lyric verses: of what is't fools make such vain keeping? sin their conception, their birth weeping, their life a general mist of error, their death a hideous storm of terror. the greatness of the world passes by with all its glory: vain the ambition of kings, who seek by trophies and dead things to leave a living name behind, and weave but nets to catch the wind. it would be easy to surfeit criticism with similar examples; where webster is writing in sarcastic, meditative, or deliberately terror-stirring moods. the same dark dye of his imagination shows itself even more significantly in circumstances where, in the work of any other artist, it would inevitably mar the harmony of the picture. a lady, to select one instance, encourages her lover to embrace her at the moment of his happiness. she cries: sir, be confident! what is't distracts you? this is flesh and blood, sir; 'tis not the figure cut in alabaster, kneels at my husband's tomb. yet so sustained is webster's symphony of sombre tints, that we do not feel this sepulchral language, this 'talk fit for a charnel' (to use one of his own phrases), to be out of keeping. it sounds like a presentiment of coming woes, which, as the drama grows to its conclusion, gather and darken on the wretched victims of his bloody plot. it was with profound sagacity, or led by some deep-rooted instinct, that webster sought the fables of his two great tragedies, 'the white devil' and 'the duchess of malfi,' in italian annals. whether he had visited italy in his youth, we cannot say; for next to nothing is known about webster's life. but that he had gazed long and earnestly into the mirror held up by that enchantress of the nations in his age, is certain. aghast and fascinated by the sins he saw there flaunting in the light of day--sins on whose pernicious glamour ascham, greene, and howell have insisted with impressive vehemence--webster discerned in them the stuff he needed for philosophy and art. withdrawing from that contemplation, he was like a spirit 'loosed out of hell to speak of horrors.' deeper than any poet of the time, deeper than any even of the italians, he read the riddle of the sphinx of crime. he found there something akin to his own imaginative mood, something which he alone could fully comprehend and interpret. from the superficial narratives of writers like bandello he extracted a spiritual essence which was, if not the literal, at least the ideal, truth involved in them. the enormous and unnatural vices, the domestic crimes of cruelty, adultery, and bloodshed, the political scheming and the subtle arts of vengeance, the ecclesiastical tyranny and craft, the cynical scepticism and lustre of luxurious godlessness, which made italy in the midst of her refinement blaze like 'a bright and ominous star' before the nations; these were the very elements in which the genius of webster--salamander-like in flame--could live and flourish. only the incidents of italian history, or of french history in its italianated epoch, were capable of supplying him with the proper type of plot. it was in italy alone, or in an italianated country, such as england for a brief space in the reign of the first stuart threatened to become, that the well-nigh diabolical wickedness of his characters might have been realised. an audience familiar with italian novels through belleforest and painter, inflamed by the long struggle of the reformation against the scarlet abominations of the papal see, outraged in their moral sense by the political paradoxes of machiavelli, horror-stricken at the still recent misdoings of borgias and medici and farnesi, alarmed by that italian policy which had conceived the massacre of s. bartholomew in france, and infuriated by that ecclesiastical hypocrisy which triumphed in the same; such an audience were at the right point of sympathy with a poet who undertook to lay the springs of southern villany before them bare in a dramatic action. but, as the old proverb puts it, 'inglese italianato è un diavolo incarnato.' 'an englishman assuming the italian habit is a devil in the flesh.' the italians were depraved, but spiritually feeble. the english playwright, when he brought them on the stage, arrayed with intellectual power and gleaming with the lurid splendour of a northern fancy, made them tenfold darker and more terrible. to the subtlety and vices of the south he added the melancholy, meditation, and sinister insanity of his own climate. he deepened the complexion of crime and intensified lawlessness by robbing the italian character of levity. sin, in his conception of that character, was complicated with the sense of sin, as it never had been in a florentine or a neapolitan. he had not grasped the meaning of the machiavellian conscience, in its cold serenity and disengagement from the dread of moral consequence. not only are his villains stealthy, frigid, quick to evil, merciless, and void of honour; but they brood upon their crimes and analyse their motives. in the midst of their audacity they are dogged by dread of coming retribution. at the crisis of their destiny they look back upon their better days with intellectual remorse. in the execution of their bloodiest schemes they groan beneath the chains of guilt they wear, and quake before the phantoms of their haunted brains. thus passion and reflection, superstition and profanity, deliberate atrocity and fear of judgment, are united in the same nature; and to make the complex still more strange, the play-wright has gifted these tremendous personalities with his own wild humour and imaginative irony. the result is almost monstrous, such an ideal of character as makes earth hell. and yet it is not without justification. to the italian text has been added the teutonic commentary, and both are fused by a dramatic genius into one living whole. one of these men is flamineo, the brother of vittoria corombona, upon whose part the action of the 'white devil' depends. he has been bred in arts and letters at the university of padua; but being poor and of luxurious appetites, he chooses the path of crime in courts for his advancement. a duke adopts him for his minion, and flamineo acts the pander to this great man's lust. he contrives the death of his brother-in-law, suborns a doctor to poison the duke's wife, and arranges secret meetings between his sister and the paramour who is to make her fortune and his own. his mother appears like a warning até to prevent her daughter's crime. in his rage he cries: what fury raised _thee_ up? away, away! and when she pleads the honour of their house he answers: shall i, having a path so open and so free to my preferment, still retain your milk in my pale forehead? later on, when it is necessary to remove another victim, he runs his own brother through the body and drives his mother to madness. yet, in the midst of these crimes, we are unable to regard him as a simple cut-throat. his irony and reckless courting of damnation open-eyed to get his gust of life in this world, make him no common villain. he can be brave as well as fierce. when the duke insults him he bandies taunt for taunt: _brach_. no, you pander? _flam_. what, me, my lord? am i your dog? _b_. a bloodhound; do you brave, do you stand me? _f_. stand you! let those that have diseases run; i need no plasters. _b_. would you be kicked? _f_. would you have your neck broke? i tell you, duke, i am not in russia; my shins must be kept whole. _b_. do you know me? _f_. oh, my lord, methodically: as in this world there are degrees of evils, so in this world there are degrees of devils. you're a great duke, i your poor secretary. when the duke dies and his prey escapes him, the rage of disappointment breaks into this fierce apostrophe: i cannot conjure; but if prayers or oaths. will get the speech of him, though forty devils wait on him in his livery of flames, i'll speak to him and shake him by the hand, though i be blasted. as crimes thicken round him, and he still despairs of the reward for which he sold himself, conscience awakes: i have lived riotously ill, like some that live in court, and sometimes when my face was full of smiles have felt the maze of conscience in my breast. the scholar's scepticism, which lies at the root of his perversity, finds utterance in this meditation upon death: whither shall i go now? o lucian, thy ridiculous purgatory! to find alexander the great cobbling shoes, pompey tagging points, and julius cæsar making hair-buttons! whether i resolve to fire, earth, water, air, or all the elements by scruples, i know not, nor greatly care. at the last moment he yet can say: we cease to grieve, cease to be fortune's slaves, nay, cease to die, by dying. and again, with the very yielding of his spirit: my life was a black charnel. it will be seen that in no sense does flamineo resemble iago. he is not a traitor working by craft and calculating ability to well-considered ends. he is the desperado frantically clutching at an uncertain and impossible satisfaction. webster conceives him as a self-abandoned atheist, who, maddened by poverty and tainted by vicious living, takes a fury to his heart, and, because the goodness of the world has been for ever lost to him, recklessly seeks the bad. bosola, in the 'duchess of malfi,' is of the same stamp. he too has been a scholar. he is sent to the galleys 'for a notorious murder,' and on his release he enters the service of two brothers, the duke of calabria and the cardinal of aragon, who place him as their intelligencer at the court of their sister. _bos_. it seems you would create me one of your familiars. _ferd_. familiar! what's that? _bos_. why, a very quaint invisible devil in flesh, an intelligencer. _ferd_. such a kind of thriving thing i would wish thee; and ere long thou may'st arrive at a higher place by it. lured by hope of preferment, bosola undertakes the office of spy, tormentor, and at last of executioner. for: discontent and want is the best clay to mould a villain of. but his true self, though subdued to be what he quaintly styles 'the devil's quilted anvil,' on which 'all sins are fashioned and the blows never heard,' continually rebels against this destiny. compared with flamineo, he is less unnaturally criminal. his melancholy is more fantastic, his despair more noble. throughout the course of craft and cruelty on which he is goaded by a relentless taskmaster, his nature, hardened as it is, revolts. at the end, when bosola presents the body of the murdered duchess to her brother, webster has wrought a scene of tragic savagery that surpasses almost any other that the english stage can show. the sight, of his dead sister maddens ferdinand, who, feeling the eclipse of reason gradually absorb his faculties, turns round with frenzied hatred on the accomplice of his fratricide. bosola demands the price of guilt. ferdinand spurns him with the concentrated eloquence of despair and the extravagance of approaching insanity. the murderer taunts his master coldly and laconically, like a man whose life is wrecked, who has waded through blood to his reward, and who at the last moment discovers the sacrifice of his conscience and masculine freedom to be fruitless. remorse, frustrated hopes, and thirst for vengeance convert bosola from this hour forward into an instrument of retribution. the duke and his brother the cardinal are both brought to bloody deaths by the hand which they had used to assassinate their sister. it is fitting that something should be said about webster's conception of the italian despot. brachiano and ferdinand, the employers of flamineo and bosola, are tyrants such as savonarola described, and as we read of in the chronicles of petty southern cities. nothing is suffered to stand between their lust and its accomplishment. they override the law by violence, or pervert its action to their own advantage: the law to him is like a foul black cobweb to a spider; he makes it his dwelling and a prison to entangle those shall feed him. they are eaten up with parasites, accomplices, and all the creatures of their crimes: he and his brother are like plum-trees that grow crooked over standing pools; they are rich and over-laden with fruit, but none but crows, pies, and caterpillars feed on them. in their lives they are without a friend; for society in guilt brings nought of comfort, and honours are but emptiness: glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright; but looked to near, have neither heat nor light. their plots and counterplots drive repose far from them: there's but three furies found in spacious hell; but in a great man's breast three thousand dwell. fearful shapes afflict their fancy; shadows of ancestral crime or ghosts of their own raising: for these many years none of our family dies, but there is seen the shape of an old woman; which is given by tradition to us to have been murdered by her nephews for her riches. apparitions haunt them: how tedious is a guilty conscience! when i look into the fish-ponds in my garden, methinks i see a thing armed with a rake that seems to strike at me. continually scheming against the objects of their avarice and hatred, preparing poisons or suborning bravoes, they know that these same arts will be employed against them. the wine-cup hides arsenic; the headpiece is smeared with antimony; there is a dagger behind every arras, and each shadow is a murderer's. when death comes, they meet it trembling. what irony webster has condensed in brachiano's outcry: on pain of death, let no man name death to me; it is a word infinitely horrible. and how solemn are the following reflections on the death of princes: o thou soft natural death, that art joint-twin to sweetest slumber! no rough-bearded comet stares on thy mild departure; the dull owl beats not against thy casement, the hoarse wolf scents not thy carrion: pity winds thy corse, whilst horror waits on princes. after their death, this is their epitaph: these wretched eminent things leave no more fame behind'em than should one fall in a frost and leave his print in snow. of webster's despots, the finest in conception and the firmest in execution is ferdinand of aragon. jealousy of his sister and avarice take possession of him and torment him like furies. the flash of repentance over her strangled body is also the first flash of insanity. he survives to present the spectacle of a crazed lunatic, and to be run through the body by his paid assassin. in the cardinal of aragon, webster paints a profligate churchman, no less voluptuous, blood-guilty, and the rest of it, than his brother the duke of calabria. it seems to have been the poet's purpose in each of his italian tragedies to unmask rome as the papal city really was. in the lawless desperado, the intemperate tyrant, and the godless ecclesiastic, he portrayed the three curses from which italian society was actually suffering. it has been needful to dwell upon the gloomy and fantastic side of webster's genius. but it must not be thought that he could touch no finer chord. indeed, it might be said that in the domain of pathos he is even more powerful than in that of horror. his mastery in this region is displayed in the creation of that dignified and beautiful woman, the duchess of malfi, who, with nothing in her nature, had she but lived prosperously, to divide her from the sisterhood of gentle ladies, walks, shrined in love and purity and conscious rectitude, amid the snares and pitfalls of her persecutors, to die at last the victim of a brother's fevered avarice and a desperado's egotistical ambition. the apparatus of infernal cruelty, the dead man's hand, the semblances of murdered sons and husband, the masque of madmen, the dirge and doleful emblems of the tomb with which she is environed in her prison by the torturers who seek to goad her into lunacy, are insufficient to disturb the tranquillity and tenderness of her nature. when the rope is being fastened to her throat, she does not spend her breath in recriminations, but turns to the waiting-woman and says: farewell, cariola! i pray thee look thou givest my little boy some syrup for his cold, and let the girl say her prayers ere she sleep. in the preceding scenes we have had enough, nay, over-much, of madness, despair, and wrestling with doom. this is the calm that comes when death is present, when the tortured soul lays down its burden of the flesh with gladness. but webster has not spared another touch of thrilling pathos. the death-struggle is over; the fratricide has rushed away, a maddened man; the murderer is gazing with remorse upon the beautiful dead body of his lady, wishing he had the world wherewith to buy her back to life again; when suddenly she murmurs 'mercy!' our interest, already overstrained, revives with momentary hope. but the guardians of the grave will not be exorcised; and 'mercy!' is the last groan of the injured duchess. webster showed great skill in his delineation of the duchess. he had to paint a woman in a hazardous situation: a sovereign stooping in her widowhood to wed a servant; a lady living with the mystery of this unequal marriage round her like a veil. he dowered her with no salient qualities of intellect or heart or will; but he sustained our sympathy with her, and made us comprehend her. to the last she is a duchess; and when she has divested state and bowed her head to enter the low gate of heaven--too low for coronets--her poet shows us, in the lines already quoted, that the woman still survives. the same pathos surrounds the melancholy portrait of isabella in 'vittoria corombona.' but isabella, in that play, serves chiefly to enhance the tyranny of her triumphant rival. the main difficulty under which these scenes of rarest pathos would labour, were they brought upon the stage, is their simplicity in contrast with the ghastly and contorted horrors that envelop them. a dialogue abounding in the passages i have already quoted--a dialogue which bandies 'o you screech-owl!' and 'thou foul black cloud!'--in which a sister's admonition to her brother to think twice of suicide assumes a form so weird as this: i prithee, yet remember, millions are now in graves, which at last day like mandrakes shall rise shrieking.-- such a dialogue could not be rendered save by actors strung up to a pitch of almost frenzied tension. to do full justice to what in webster's style would be spasmodic were it not so weighty, and at the same time to maintain the purity of outline and melodious rhythm of such characters as isabella, demands no common histrionic power. in attempting to define webster's touch upon italian tragic story, i have been led perforce to concentrate attention on what is painful and shocking to our sense of harmony in art. he was a vigorous and profoundly imaginative playwright. but his most enthusiastic admirers will hardly contend that good taste or moderation determined the movement of his genius. nor, though his insight into the essential dreadfulness of italian tragedy was so deep, is it possible to maintain that his portraiture of italian life was true to its more superficial aspects. what place would there be for a correggio or a raphael in such a world as webster's? yet we know that the art of raphael and correggio is in exact harmony with the italian temperament of the same epoch which gave birth to cesare borgia and bianca gapello. the comparatively slighter sketch of iachimo in 'cymbeline' represents the italian as he felt and lived, better than the laboured portrait of flamineo. webster's italian tragedies are consequently true, not so much to the actual conditions of italy, as to the moral impression made by those conditions on a northern imagination. * * * * * _autumn wanderings_ i.--italiam petimus _italiam petimus!_ we left our upland home before daybreak on a clear october morning. there had been a hard frost, spangling the meadows with rime-crystals, which twinkled where the sun's rays touched them. men and women were mowing the frozen grass with thin short alpine scythes; and as the swathes fell, they gave a crisp, an almost tinkling sound. down into the gorge, surnamed of avalanche, our horses plunged; and there we lost the sunshine till we reached the bear's walk, opening upon the vales of albula, and julier, and schyn. but up above, shone morning light upon fresh snow, and steep torrent-cloven slopes reddening with a hundred fading plants; now and then it caught the grey-green icicles that hung from cliffs where summer streams had dripped. there is no colour lovelier than the blue of an autumn sky in the high alps, defining ridges powdered with light snow, and melting imperceptibly downward into the warm yellow of the larches and the crimson of the bilberry. wiesen was radiantly beautiful: those aërial ranges of the hills that separate albula from julier soared crystal-clear above their forests; and for a foreground, on the green fields starred with lilac crocuses, careered a group of children on their sledges. then came the row of giant peaks--pitz d'aela, tinzenhorn, and michelhorn, above the deep ravine of albula--all seen across wide undulating golden swards, close-shaven and awaiting winter. carnations hung from cottage windows in full bloom, casting sharp angular black shadows on white walls. _italiam petimus!_ we have climbed the valley of the julier, following its green, transparent torrent. a night has come and gone at mühlen. the stream still leads us up, diminishing in volume as we rise, up through the fleecy mists that roll asunder for the sun, disclosing far-off snowy ridges and blocks of granite mountains. the lifeless, soundless waste of rock, where only thin winds whistle out of silence and fade suddenly into still air, is passed. then comes the descent, with its forests of larch and cembra, golden and dark green upon a ground of grey, and in front the serried shafts of the bernina, and here and there a glimpse of emerald lake at turnings of the road. autumn is the season for this landscape. through the fading of innumerable leaflets, the yellowing of larches, and something vaporous in the low sun, it gains a colour not unlike that of the lands we seek. by the side of the lake at silvaplana the light was strong and warm, but mellow. pearly clouds hung over the maloja, and floating overhead cast shadows on the opaque water, which may literally be compared to chrysoprase. the breadth of golden, brown, and russet tints upon the valley at this moment adds softness to its lines of level strength. devotees of the engadine contend that it possesses an austere charm beyond the common beauty of swiss landscape; but this charm is only perfected in autumn. the fresh snow on the heights that guard it helps. and then there are the forests of dark pines upon those many knolls and undulating mountain-flanks beside the lakes. sitting and dreaming there in noonday sun, i kept repeating to myself _italiam petimus!_ a hurricane blew upward from the pass as we left silvaplana, ruffling the lake with gusts of the italian wind. by silz maria we came in sight of a dozen italian workmen, arm linked in arm in two rows, tramping in rhythmic stride, and singing as they went. two of them were such nobly built young men, that for a moment the beauty of the landscape faded from my sight, and i was saddened. they moved to their singing, like some of mason's or frederick walker's figures, with the free grace of living statues, and laughed as we drove by. and yet, with all their beauty, industry, sobriety, intelligence, these italians of the northern valleys serve the sterner people of the grisons like negroes, doing their roughest work at scanty wages. so we came to the vast alpine wall, and stood on a bare granite slab, and looked over into italy, as men might lean from the battlements of a fortress. behind lies the alpine valley, grim, declining slowly northward, with wind-lashed lakes and glaciers sprawling from storm-broken pyramids of gneiss. below spread the unfathomable depths that lead to lombardy, flooded with sunlight, filled with swirling vapour, but never wholly hidden from our sight. for the blast kept shifting the cloud-masses, and the sun streamed through in spears and bands of sheeny rays. over the parapet our horses dropped, down through sable spruce and amber larch, down between tangles of rowan and autumnal underwood. ever as we sank, the mountains rose--those sharp embattled precipices, toppling spires, impendent chasms blurred with mist, that make the entrance into italy sublime. nowhere do the alps exhibit their full stature, their commanding puissance, with such majesty as in the gates of italy; and of all those gates i think there is none to compare with maloja, none certainly to rival it in abruptness of initiation into the italian secret. below vico soprano we pass already into the violets and blues of titian's landscape. then come the purple boulders among chestnut trees; then the double dolomite-like peak of pitz badin and promontogno. it is sad that words can do even less than painting could to bring this window-scene at promontogno before another eye. the casement just frames it. in the foreground are meadow slopes, thinly, capriciously planted with chestnut trees and walnuts, each standing with its shadow cast upon the sward. a little farther falls the torrent, foaming down between black jaws of rain-stained granite, with the wooden buildings of a rustic mill set on a ledge of rock. suddenly above this landscape soars the valley, clothing its steep sides on either hand with pines; and there are emerald isles of pasture on the wooded flanks; and then cliffs, where the red-stemmed larches glow; and at the summit, shooting into ether with a swathe of mist around their basement, soar the double peaks, the one a pyramid, the other a bold broken crystal not unlike the finsteraarhorn seen from furka. these are connected by a snowy saddle, and snow is lying on their inaccessible crags in powdery drifts. sunlight pours between them into the ravine. the green and golden forests now join from either side, and now recede, according as the sinuous valley brings their lines together or disparts them. there is a sound of cow-bells on the meadows; and the roar of the stream is dulled or quickened as the gusts of this october wind sweep by or slacken. _italiam petimus!_ _tangimus italiam!_ chiavenna is a worthy key to this great gate italian. we walked at night in the open galleries of the cathedral cloister--white, smoothly curving, well-proportioned loggie, enclosing a green space, whence soars the campanile to the stars. the moon had sunk, but her light still silvered the mountains that stand at watch round chiavenna; and the castle rock was flat and black against that dreamy background. jupiter, who walked so lately for us on the long ridge of the jacobshorn above our pines, had now an ample space of sky over lombardy to light his lamp in. why is it, we asked each other, as we smoked our pipes and strolled, my friend and i;--why is it that italian beauty does not leave the spirit so untroubled as an alpine scene? why do we here desire the flower of some emergent feeling to grow from the air, or from the soil, or from humanity to greet us? this sense of want evoked by southern beauty is perhaps the antique mythop�ic yearning. but in our perplexed life it takes another form, and seems the longing for emotion, ever fleeting, ever new, unrealised, unreal, insatiable. ii.--over the apennines at parma we slept in the albergo della croce bianca, which is more a bric-à-brac shop than an inn; and slept but badly, for the good folk of parma twanged guitars and exercised their hoarse male voices all night in the street below. we were glad when christian called us, at a.m., for an early start across the apennines. this was the day of a right roman journey. in thirteen and a half hours, leaving parma at , and arriving in sarzana at . , we flung ourselves across the spine of italy, from the plains of eridanus to the seashore of etruscan luna. i had secured a carriage and extra post-horses the night before; therefore we found no obstacles upon the road, but eager drivers, quick relays, obsequious postmasters, change, speed, perpetual movement. the road itself is a noble one, and nobly entertained in all things but accommodation for travellers. at berceto, near the summit of the pass, we stopped just half an hour, to lunch off a mouldy hen and six eggs; but that was all the halt we made. as we drove out of parma, striking across the plain to the _ghiara_ of the taro, the sun rose over the austere autumnal landscape, with its withered vines and crimson haws. christian, the mountaineer, who at home had never seen the sun rise from a flat horizon, stooped from the box to call attention to this daily recurring miracle, which on the plain of lombardy is no less wonderful than on a rolling sea. from the village of fornovo, where the italian league was camped awaiting charles viii. upon that memorable july morn in , the road strikes suddenly aside, gains a spur of the descending apennines, and keeps this vantage till the pass of la cisa is reached. many windings are occasioned by thus adhering to arêtes, but the total result is a gradual ascent with free prospect over plain and mountain. the apennines, built up upon a smaller scale than the alps, perplexed in detail and entangled with cross sections and convergent systems, lend themselves to this plan of carrying highroads along their ridges instead of following the valley. what is beautiful in the landscape of that northern watershed is the subtlety, delicacy, variety, and intricacy of the mountain outlines. there is drawing wherever the eye falls. each section of the vast expanse is a picture of tossed crests and complicated undulations. and over the whole sea of stationary billows, light is shed like an ethereal raiment, with spare colour--blue and grey, and parsimonious green--in the near foreground. the detail is somewhat dry and monotonous; for these so finely moulded hills are made up of washed earth, the immemorial wrecks of earlier mountain ranges. brown villages, not unlike those of midland england, low houses built of stone and tiled with stone, and square-towered churches, occur at rare intervals in cultivated hollows, where there are fields and fruit trees. water is nowhere visible except in the wasteful river-beds. as we rise, we break into a wilder country, forested with oak, where oxen and goats are browsing. the turf is starred with lilac gentian and crocus bells, but sparely. then comes the highest village, berceto, with keen alpine air. after that, broad rolling downs of yellowing grass and russet beech-scrub lead onward to the pass la cisa. the sense of breadth in composition is continually satisfied through this ascent by the fine-drawn lines, faint tints, and immense air-spaces of italian landscape. each little piece reminds one of england; but the geographical scale is enormously more grandiose, and the effect of majesty proportionately greater. from la cisa the road descends suddenly; for the southern escarpment of the apennine, as of the alpine, barrier is pitched at a far steeper angle than the northern. yet there is no view of the sea. that is excluded by the lower hills which hem the magra. the upper valley is beautiful, with verdant lawns and purple hillsides breaking down into thick chestnut woods, through which we wound at a rapid pace for nearly an hour. the leaves were still green, mellowing to golden; but the fruit was ripe and heavy, ready at all points to fall. in the still october air the husks above our heads would loosen, and the brown nuts rustle through the foliage, and with a dull short thud, like drops of thunder-rain, break down upon the sod. at the foot of this rich forest, wedged in between huge buttresses, we found pontremoli, and changed our horses here for the last time. it was sunday, and the little town was alive with country-folk; tall stalwart fellows wearing peacock's feathers in their black slouched hats, and nut-brown maids. from this point the valley of the magra is exceeding rich with fruit trees, vines, and olives. the tendrils of the vine are yellow now, and in some places hued like generous wine; through their thick leaves the sun shot crimson. in one cool garden, as the day grew dusk, i noticed quince trees laden with pale fruit entangled with pomegranates--green spheres and ruddy amid burnished leaves. by the roadside too were many berries of bright hues; the glowing red of haws and hips, the amber of the pyracanthus, the rose tints of the spindle-wood. these make autumn even lovelier than spring. and then there was a wood of chestnuts carpeted with pale pinkling, a place to dream of in the twilight. but the main motive of this landscape was the indescribable carrara range, an island of pure form and shooting peaks, solid marble, crystalline in shape and texture, faintly blue against the blue sky, from which they were but scarce divided. these mountains close the valley to south-east, and seem as though they belonged to another and more celestial region. soon the sunlight was gone, and moonrise came to close the day, as we rolled onward to sarzana, through arundo donax and vine-girdled olive trees and villages, where contadini lounged upon the bridges. there was a stream of sound in our ears, and in my brain a rhythmic dance of beauties caught through the long-drawn glorious golden autumn-day. iii.--fosdinovo the hamlet and the castle of fosdinovo stand upon a mountain-spur above sarzana, commanding the valley of the magra and the plains of luni. this is an ancient fief of the malaspina house, and is still in the possession of the marquis of that name. the road to fosdinovo strikes across the level through an avenue of plane trees, shedding their discoloured leaves. it then takes to the open fields, bordered with tall reeds waving from the foss on either hand, where grapes are hanging to the vines. the country-folk allow their vines to climb into the olives, and these golden festoons are a great ornament to the grey branches. the berries on the trees are still quite green, and it is a good olive season. leaving the main road, we pass a villa of the malaspini, shrouded in immense thickets of sweet bay and ilex, forming a grove for the nymphs or pan. here may you see just such clean stems and lucid foliage as gian bellini painted, inch by inch, in his peter martyr picture. the place is neglected now; the semicircular seats of white carrara marble are stained with green mosses, the altars chipped, the fountains choked with bay leaves; and the rose trees, escaped from what were once trim garden alleys, have gone wandering a-riot into country hedges. there is no demarcation between the great man's villa and the neighbouring farms. from this point the path rises, and the barren hillside is a-bloom with late-flowering myrtles. why did the greeks consecrate these myrtle-rods to death as well as love? electra complained that her father's tomb had not received the honour of the myrtle branch; and the athenians wreathed their swords with myrtle in memory of harmodius. thinking of these matters, i cannot but remember lines of greek, which have themselves the rectitude and elasticity of myrtle wands: (greek:) kai prospesôn eklaus' erêmias tuchôn spondas te lusas askon hon pherô xenois espeisa tumbô d'amphethêka mursinas. as we approach fosdinovo, the hills above us gain sublimity; the prospect over plain and sea--the fields where luna was, the widening bay of spezzia--grows ever grander. the castle is a ruin, still capable of partial habitation, and now undergoing repair--the state in which a ruin looks most sordid and forlorn. how strange it is, too, that, to enforce this sense of desolation, sad dishevelled weeds cling ever to such antique masonry! here are the henbane, the sow-thistle, the wild cucumber. at avignon, at orvieto, at dolce acqua, at les baux, we never missed them. and they have the dusty courtyards, the massive portals, where portcullises still threaten, of fosdinovo to themselves. over the gate, and here and there on corbels, are carved the arms of malaspina--a barren thorn-tree, gnarled with the geometrical precision of heraldic irony. leaning from the narrow windows of this castle, with the spacious view to westward, i thought of dante. for dante in this castle was the guest of moroello malaspina, what time he was yet finishing the 'inferno.' there is a little old neglected garden, full to south, enclosed upon a rampart which commands the borgo, where we found frail canker-roses and yellow amaryllis. here, perhaps, he may have sat with ladies--for this was the marchesa's pleasaunce; or may have watched through a short summer's night, until he saw that _tremolar della marina_, portending dawn, which afterwards he painted in the 'purgatory.' from fosdinovo one can trace the magra work its way out seaward, not into the plain where once the _candentia moenia lunae_ flashed sunrise from their battlements, but close beside the little hills which back the southern arm of the spezzian gulf. at the extreme end of that promontory, called del corvo, stood the benedictine convent of s. croce; and it was here in , if we may trust to tradition, that dante, before his projected journey into france, appeared and left the first part of his poem with the prior. fra ilario, such was the good father's name, received commission to transmit the 'inferno' to uguccione della faggiuola; and he subsequently recorded the fact of dante's visit in a letter which, though its genuineness has been called in question, is far too interesting to be left without allusion. the writer says that on occasion of a journey into lands beyond the riviera, dante visited this convent, appearing silent and unknown among the monks. to the prior's question what he wanted, he gazed upon the brotherhood, and only answered, 'peace!' afterwards, in private conversation, he communicated his name and spoke about his poem. a portion of the 'divine comedy' composed in the italian tongue aroused ilario's wonder, and led him to inquire why his guest had not followed the usual course of learned poets by committing his thoughts to latin. dante replied that he had first intended to write in that language, and that he had gone so far as to begin the poem in virgilian hexameters. reflection upon the altered conditions of society in that age led him, however, to reconsider the matter; and he was resolved to tune another lyre, 'suited to the sense of modern men.' 'for,' said he, 'it is idle to set solid food before the lips of sucklings.' if we can trust fra ilario's letter as a genuine record, which is unhappily a matter of some doubt, we have in this narration not only a picturesque, almost a melodramatically picturesque glimpse of the poet's apparition to those quiet monks in their seagirt house of peace, but also an interesting record of the destiny which presided over the first great work of literary art in a distinctly modern language. iv.--la spezzia while we were at fosdinovo the sky filmed over, and there came a halo round the sun. this portended change; and by evening, after we had reached la spezzia, earth, sea, and air were conscious of a coming tempest. at night i went down to the shore, and paced the sea-wall they have lately built along the rada. the moon was up, but overdriven with dry smoky clouds, now thickening to blackness over the whole bay, now leaving intervals through which the light poured fitfully and fretfully upon the wrinkled waves; and ever and anon they shuddered with electric gleams which were not actual lightning. heaven seemed to be descending on the sea; one might have fancied that some powerful charms were drawing down the moon with influence malign upon those still resisting billows. for not as yet the gulf was troubled to its depth, and not as yet the breakers dashed in foam against the moonlight-smitten promontories. there was but an uneasy murmuring of wave to wave; a whispering of wind, that stooped its wing and hissed along the surface, and withdrew into the mystery of clouds again; a momentary chafing of churned water round the harbour piers, subsiding into silence petulant and sullen. i leaned against an iron stanchion and longed for the sea's message. but nothing came to me, and the drowned secret of shelley's death those waves which were his grave revealed not. howler and scooper of storms! capricious and dainty sea! meanwhile the incantation swelled in shrillness, the electric shudders deepened. alone in this elemental overture to tempest i took no note of time, but felt, through self-abandonment to the symphonic influence, how sea and air, and clouds akin to both, were dealing with each other complainingly, and in compliance to some maker of unrest within them. a touch upon my shoulder broke this trance; i turned and saw a boy beside me in a coastguard's uniform. francesco was on patrol that night; but my english accent soon assured him that i was no _contrabbandiere_, and he too leaned against the stanchion and told me his short story. he was in his nineteenth year, and came from florence, where his people live in the borgo ognissanti. he had all the brightness of the tuscan folk, a sort of innocent malice mixed with _espieglerie_. it was diverting to see the airs he gave himself on the strength of his new military dignity, his gun, and uniform, and night duty on the shore. i could not help humming to myself _non più andrai_; for francesco was a sort of tuscan cherubino. we talked about picture galleries and libraries in florence, and i had to hear his favourite passages from the italian poets. and then there came the plots of jules verne's stories and marvellous narrations about _l' uomo cavallo, l' uomo volante, l' uomo pesce_. the last of these personages turned out to be paolo boÿnton (so pronounced), who had swam the arno in his diving dress, passing the several bridges, and when he came to the great weir 'allora tutti stare con bocca aperta.' meanwhile the storm grew serious, and our conversation changed. francesco told me about the terrible sun-stricken sand shores of the riviera, burning in summer noon, over which the coast-guard has to tramp, their perils from falling stones in storm, and the trains that come rushing from those narrow tunnels on the midnight line of march. it is a hard life; and the thirst for adventure which drove this boy--'il più matto di tutta la famiglia'--to adopt it, seems well-nigh quenched. and still, with a return to giulio verne, he talked enthusiastically of deserting, of getting on board a merchant ship, and working his way to southern islands where wonders are. a furious blast swept the whole sky for a moment almost clear. the moonlight fell, with racing cloud-shadows, upon sea and hills, the lights of lerici, the great _fanali_ at the entrance of the gulf, and francesco's upturned handsome face. then all again was whirled in mist and foam; one breaker smote the sea wall in a surge of froth, another plunged upon its heels; with inconceivable swiftness came rain; lightning deluged the expanse of surf, and showed the windy trees bent landward by the squall. it was long past midnight now, and the storm was on us for the space of three days. v.--porto venere for the next three days the wind went worrying on, and a line of surf leapt on the sea-wall always to the same height. the hills all around were inky black and weary. at night the wild libeccio still rose, with floods of rain and lightning poured upon the waste. i thought of the florentine patrol. is he out in it, and where? at last there came a lull. when we rose on the fourth morning, the sky was sulky, spent and sleepy after storm--the air as soft and tepid as boiled milk or steaming flannel. we drove along the shore to porto venere, passing the arsenals and dockyards, which have changed the face of spezzia since shelley knew it. this side of the gulf is not so rich in vegetation as the other, probably because it lies open to the winds from the carrara mountains. the chestnuts come down to the shore in many places, bringing with them the wild mountain-side. to make up for this lack of luxuriance, the coast is furrowed with a succession of tiny harbours, where the fishing-boats rest at anchor. there are many villages upon the spurs of hills, and on the headlands naval stations, hospitals, lazzaretti, and prisons. a prickly bindweed (the _smilax sarsaparilla_) forms a feature in the near landscape, with its creamy odoriferous blossoms, coral berries, and glossy thorned leaves. a turn of the road brought porto venere in sight, and on its grey walls flashed a gleam of watery sunlight. the village consists of one long narrow street, the houses on the left side hanging sheer above the sea. their doors at the back open on to cliffs which drop about fifty feet upon the water. a line of ancient walls, with mediaeval battlements and shells of chambers suspended midway between earth and sky, runs up the rock behind the town; and this wall is pierced with a deep gateway above which the inn is piled. we had our lunch in a room opening upon the town-gate, adorned with a deep-cut pisan arch enclosing images and frescoes--a curious episode in a place devoted to the jollity of smugglers and seafaring folk. the whole house was such as tintoretto loved to paint--huge wooden rafters; open chimneys with pent-house canopies of stone, where the cauldrons hung above logs of chestnut; rude low tables spread with coarse linen embroidered at the edges, and laden with plates of fishes, fruit, quaint glass, big-bellied jugs of earthenware, and flasks of yellow wine. the people of the place were lounging round in lazy attitudes. there were odd nooks and corners everywhere; unexpected staircases with windows slanting through the thickness of the town-wall; pictures of saints; high-zoned serving women, on whose broad shoulders lay big coral beads; smoke-blackened roofs, and balconies that opened on the sea. the house was inexhaustible in motives for pictures. we walked up the street, attended by a rabble rout of boys--_diavoli scatenati_--clean, grinning, white-teethed, who kept incessantly shouting, 'soldo, soldo!' i do not know why these sea-urchins are so far more irrepressible than their land brethren. but it is always thus in italy. they take an imperturbable delight in noise and mere annoyance. i shall never forget the sea-roar of porto venere, with that shrill obligate, 'soldo, soldo, soldo!' rattling like a dropping fire from lungs of brass. at the end of porto venere is a withered and abandoned city, climbing the cliffs of s. pietro; and on the headland stands the ruined church, built by pisans with alternate rows of white and black marble, upon the site of an old temple of venus. this is a modest and pure piece of gothic architecture, fair in desolation, refined and dignified, and not unworthy in its grace of the dead cyprian goddess. through its broken lancets the sea-wind whistles and the vast reaches of the tyrrhene gulf are seen. samphire sprouts between the blocks of marble, and in sheltered nooks the caper hangs her beautiful purpureal snowy bloom. the headland is a bold block of white limestone stained with red. it has the pitch of exmoor stooping to the sea near lynton. to north, as one looks along the coast, the line is broken by porto fino's amethystine promontory; and in the vaporous distance we could trace the riviera mountains, shadowy and blue. the sea came roaring, rolling in with tawny breakers; but, far out, it sparkled in pure azure, and the cloud-shadows over it were violet. where corsica should have been seen, soared banks of fleecy, broad-domed alabaster clouds. this point, once dedicated to venus, now to peter--both, be it remembered, fishers of men--is one of the most singular in europe. the island of palmaria, rich in veined marbles, shelters the port; so that outside the sea rages, while underneath the town, reached by a narrow strait, there is a windless calm. it was not without reason that our lady of beauty took this fair gulf to herself; and now that she has long been dispossessed, her memory lingers yet in names. for porto venere remembers her, and lerici is only eryx. there is a grotto here, where an inscription tells us that byron once 'tempted the ligurian waves.' it is just such a natural sea-cave as might have inspired euripides when he described the refuge of orestes in 'iphigenia.' vi.--lerici libeccio at last had swept the sky clear. the gulf was ridged with foam-fleeced breakers, and the water churned into green, tawny wastes. but overhead there flew the softest clouds, all silvery, dispersed in flocks. it is the day for pilgrimage to what was shelley's home. after following the shore a little way, the road to lerici breaks into the low hills which part la spezzia from sarzana. the soil is red, and overgrown with arbutus and pinaster, like the country around cannes. through the scattered trees it winds gently upwards, with frequent views across the gulf, and then descends into a land rich with olives--a genuine riviera landscape, where the mountain-slopes are hoary, and spikelets of innumerable light-flashing leaves twinkle against a blue sea, misty-deep. the walls here are not unfrequently adorned with basreliefs of carrara marble--saints and madonnas very delicately wrought, as though they were love-labours of sculptors who had passed a summer on this shore. san terenzio is soon discovered low upon the sands to the right, nestling under little cliffs; and then the high-built castle of lerici comes in sight, looking across, the bay to porto venere--one aphrodite calling to the other, with the foam between. the village is piled around its cove with tall and picturesquely coloured houses; the molo and the fishing-boats lie just beneath the castle. there is one point of the descending carriage road where all this gracefulness is seen, framed by the boughs of olive branches, swaying, wind-ruffled, laughing the many-twinkling smiles of ocean back from their grey leaves. here _erycina ridens_ is at home. and, as we stayed to dwell upon the beauty of the scene, came women from the bay below--barefooted, straight as willow wands, with burnished copper bowls upon their heads. these women have the port of goddesses, deep-bosomed, with the length of thigh and springing ankles that betoken strength no less than elasticity and grace. the hair of some of them was golden, rippling in little curls around brown brows and glowing eyes. pale lilac blent with orange on their dress, and coral beads hung from their ears. at lerici we took a boat and pushed into the rolling breakers. christian now felt the movement of the sea for the first time. this was rather a rude trial, for the grey-maned monsters played, as it seemed, at will with our cockle-shell, tumbling in dolphin curves to reach the shore. our boatmen knew all about shelley and the casa magni. it is not at lerici, but close to san terenzio, upon the south side of the village. looking across the bay from the molo, one could clearly see its square white mass, tiled roof, and terrace built on rude arcades with a broad orange awning. trelawny's description hardly prepares one for so considerable a place. i think the english exiles of that period must have been exacting if the casa magni seemed to them no better than a bathing-house. we left our boat at the jetty, and walked through some gardens to the villa. there we were kindly entertained by the present occupiers, who, when i asked them whether such visits as ours were not a great annoyance, gently but feelingly replied: 'it is not so bad now as it used to be.' the english gentleman who rents the casa magni has known it uninterruptedly since shelley's death, and has used it for _villeggiatura_ during the last thirty years. we found him in the central sitting-room, which readers of trelawny's 'recollections' have so often pictured to themselves. the large oval table, the settees round the walls, and some of the pictures are still unchanged. as we sat talking, i laughed to think of that luncheon party, when shelley lost his clothes, and came naked, dripping with sea-water, into the room, protected by the skirts of the sympathising waiting-maid. and then i wondered where they found him on the night when he stood screaming in his sleep, after the vision of his veiled self, with its question, '_siete soddisfatto_?' there were great ilexes behind the house in shelley's time, which have been cut down, and near these he is said to have sat and written the 'triumph of life.' some new houses, too, have been built between the villa and the town; otherwise the place is unaltered. only an awning has been added to protect the terrace from the sun. i walked out on this terrace, where shelley used to listen to jane's singing. the sea was fretting at its base, just as mrs. shelley says it did when the don juan disappeared. from san terenzio we walked back to lerici through olive woods, attended by a memory which toned the almost overpowering beauty of the place to sadness. vii.--viareggio the same memory drew us, a few days later, to the spot where shelley's body was burned. viareggio is fast becoming a fashionable watering-place for the people of florence and lucca, who seek fresher air and simpler living than livorno offers. it has the usual new inns and improvised lodging-houses of such places, built on the outskirts of a little fishing village, with a boundless stretch of noble sands. there is a wooden pier on which we walked, watching the long roll of waves, foam-flaked, and quivering with moonlight. the apennines faded into the grey sky beyond, and the sea-wind was good to breathe. there is a feeling of 'immensity, liberty, action' here, which is not common in italy. it reminds us of england; and to-night the mediterranean had the rough force of a tidal sea. morning revealed beauty enough in viareggio to surprise even one who expects from italy all forms of loveliness. the sand-dunes stretch for miles between the sea and a low wood of stone pines, with the carrara hills descending from their glittering pinnacles by long lines to the headlands of the spezzian gulf. the immeasurable distance was all painted in sky-blue and amethyst; then came the golden green of the dwarf firs; and then dry yellow in the grasses of the dunes; and then the many-tinted sea, with surf tossed up against the furthest cliffs. it is a wonderful and tragic view, to which no painter but the roman costa has done justice; and he, it may be said, has made this landscape of the carrarese his own. the space between sand and pine-wood was covered with faint, yellow, evening primroses. they flickered like little harmless flames in sun and shadow, and the spires of the carrara range were giant flames transformed to marble. the memory of that day described by trelawny in a passage of immortal english prose, when he and byron and leigh hunt stood beside the funeral pyre, and libations were poured, and the 'cor cordium' was found inviolate among the ashes, turned all my thoughts to flame beneath the gentle autumn sky. still haunted by these memories, we took the carriage road to pisa, over which shelley's friends had hurried to and fro through those last days. it passes an immense forest of stone-pines--aisles and avenues; undergrowth of ilex, laurustinus, gorse, and myrtle; the crowded cyclamens, the solemn silence of the trees; the winds hushed in their velvet roof and stationary domes of verdure. * * * * * _parma_ parma is perhaps the brightest _residenzstadt_ of the second class in italy. built on a sunny and fertile tract of the lombard plain, within view of the alps, and close beneath the shelter of the apennines, it shines like a well-set gem with stately towers and cheerful squares in the midst of verdure. the cities of lombardy are all like large country houses: walking out of their gates, you seem to be stepping from a door or window that opens on a trim and beautiful garden, where mulberry-tree is married to mulberry by festoons of vines, and where the maize and sunflower stand together in rows between patches of flax and hemp. but it is not in order to survey the union of well-ordered husbandry with the civilities of ancient city-life that we break the journey at parma between milan and bologna. we are attracted rather by the fame of one great painter, whose work, though it may be studied piecemeal in many galleries of europe, in parma has a fulness, largeness, and mastery that can nowhere else be found. in parma alone correggio challenges comparison with raphael, with tintoret, with all the supreme decorative painters who have deigned to make their art the handmaid of architecture. yet even in the cathedral and the church of s. giovanni, where correggio's frescoes cover cupola and chapel wall, we could scarcely comprehend his greatness now--so cruelly have time and neglect dealt with those delicate dream-shadows of celestial fairyland--were it not for an interpreter, who consecrated a lifetime to the task of translating his master's poetry of fresco into the prose of engraving. that man was paolo toschi--a name to be ever venerated by all lovers of the arts; since without his guidance we should hardly know what to seek for in the ruined splendours of the domes of parma, or even seeking, how to find the object of our search. toschi's labour was more effectual than that of a restorer however skilful, more loving than that of a follower however faithful. he respected correggio's handiwork with religious scrupulousness, adding not a line or tone or touch of colour to the fading frescoes; but he lived among them, aloft on scaffoldings, and face to face with the originals which he designed to reproduce. by long and close familiarity, by obstinate and patient interrogation, he divined correggio's secret, and was able at last to see clearly through the mist of cobweb and mildew and altar smoke, and through the still more cruel travesty of so-called restoration. what he discovered, he faithfully committed first to paper in water colours, and then to copperplate with the burin, so that we enjoy the privilege of seeing correggio's masterpieces as toschi saw them, with the eyes of genius and of love and of long scientific study. it is not too much to say that some of correggio's most charming compositions--for example, the dispute of s. augustine and s. john--have been resuscitated from the grave by toschi's skill. the original offers nothing but a mouldering surface from which the painter's work has dropped in scales. the engraving presents a design which we doubt not was correggio's, for it corresponds in all particulars to the style and spirit of the master. to be critical in dealing with so successful an achievement of restoration and translation is difficult. yet it may be admitted once and for all that toschi has not unfrequently enfeebled his original. under his touch correggio loses somewhat of his sensuous audacity, his dithyrambic ecstasy, and approaches the ordinary standard of prettiness and graceful beauty. the diana of the camera di s. paolo, for instance, has the strong calm splendour of a goddess: the same diana in toschi's engraving seems about to smile with girlish joy. in a word, the engraver was a man of a more common stamp--more timid and more conventional than the painter. but this is after all a trifling deduction from the value of his work. our debt to paolo toschi is such that it would be ungrateful not to seek some details of his life. the few that can be gathered even at parma are brief and bald enough. the newspaper articles and funeral panegyrics which refer to him are as barren as all such occasional notices in italy have always been; the panegyrist seeming more anxious about his own style than eager to communicate information. yet a bare outline of toschi's biography may be supplied. he was born at parma in . his father was cashier of the post-office, and his mother's name was anna maria brest. early in his youth he studied painting at parma under biagio martini; and in he went to paris, where he learned the art of engraving from bervic and of etching from oortman. in paris he contracted an intimate friendship with the painter gérard. but after ten years he returned to parma, where he established a company and school of engravers in concert with his friend antonio isac. maria louisa, the then duchess, under whose patronage the arts flourished at parma (witness bodoni's exquisite typography), soon recognised his merit, and appointed him director of the ducal academy. he then formed the project of engraving a series of the whole of correggio's frescoes. the undertaking was a vast one. both the cupolas of s. john and the cathedral, together with the vault of the apse of s. giovanni[ ] and various portions of the side aisles, and the so-called camera di s. paolo, are covered by frescoes of correggio and his pupil parmegiano. these frescoes have suffered so much from neglect and time, and from unintelligent restoration, that it is difficult in many cases to determine their true character. yet toschi did not content himself with selections, or shrink from the task of deciphering and engraving the whole. he formed a school of disciples, among whom were carlo raimondi of milan, antonio costa of venice, edward eichens of berlin, aloisio juvara of naples, antonio dalcò, giuseppe magnani, and lodovico bisola of parma, and employed them as assistants in his work. death overtook him in , before it was finished, and now the water-colour drawings which are exhibited in the gallery of parma prove to what extent the achievement fell short of his design. enough, however, was accomplished to place the chief masterpieces of correggio beyond the possibility of utter oblivion. to the piety of his pupil carlo raimondi, the bearer of a name illustrious in the annals of engraving, we owe a striking portrait of toschi. the master is represented on his seat upon the scaffold in the dizzy half-light of the dome. the shadowy forms of saints and angels are around him. he has raised his eyes from his cartoon to study one of these. in his right hand is the opera-glass with which he scrutinises the details of distant groups. the upturned face, with its expression of contemplative intelligence, is like that of an astronomer accustomed to commerce with things above the sphere of common life, and ready to give account of all that he has gathered from his observation of a world not ours. in truth the world created by correggio and interpreted by toschi is very far removed from that of actual existence. no painter has infused a more distinct individuality into his work, realising by imaginative force and powerful projection an order of beauty peculiar to himself, before which it is impossible to remain quite indifferent. we must either admire the manner of correggio, or else shrink from it with the distaste which sensual art is apt to stir in natures of a severe or simple type. what, then, is the correggiosity of correggio? in other words, what is the characteristic which, proceeding from the personality of the artist, is impressed on all his work? the answer to this question, though by no means simple, may perhaps be won by a process of gradual analysis. the first thing that strikes us in the art of correggio is, that he has aimed at the realistic representation of pure unrealities. his saints and angels are beings the like of whom we have hardly seen upon the earth. yet they are displayed before us with all the movement and the vivid truth of nature. next we feel that what constitutes the superhuman, visionary quality of these creatures, is their uniform beauty of a merely sensuous type. they are all created for pleasure, not for thought or passion or activity or heroism. the uses of their brains, their limbs, their every feature, end in enjoyment; innocent and radiant wantonness is the condition of their whole existence. correggio conceived the universe under the one mood of sensuous joy: his world was bathed in luxurious light; its inhabitants were capable of little beyond a soft voluptuousness. over the domain of tragedy he had no sway, and very rarely did he attempt to enter on it: nothing, for example, can be feebler than his endeavour to express anguish in the distorted features of madonna, s. john, and the magdalen, who are bending over the dead body of a christ extended in the attitude of languid repose. in like manner he could not deal with subjects which demand a pregnancy of intellectual meaning. he paints the three fates like young and joyous bacchantes, places rose-garlands and thyrsi in their hands instead of the distaff and the thread of human destinies, and they might figure appropriately upon the panels of a banquet-chamber in pompeii. in this respect correggio might be termed the rossini of painting. the melodies of the 'stabat mater'--_fac ut portem_ or _quis est homo_--are the exact analogues in music of correggio's voluptuous renderings of grave or mysterious motives. nor, again, did he possess that severe and lofty art of composition which subordinates the fancy to the reason, and which seeks for the highest intellectual beauty in a kind of architectural harmony supreme above the melodies of gracefulness in detail. the florentines and those who shared their spirit--michelangelo and lionardo and raphael--deriving this principle of design from the geometrical art of the middle ages, converted it to the noblest uses in their vast well-ordered compositions. but correggio ignored the laws of scientific construction. it was enough for him to produce a splendid and brilliant effect by the life and movement of his figures, and by the intoxicating beauty of his forms. his type of beauty, too, is by no means elevated. lionardo painted souls whereof the features and the limbs are but an index. the charm of michelangelo's ideal is like a flower upon a tree of rugged strength. raphael aims at the loveliness which cannot be disjoined from goodness. but correggio is contented with bodies 'delicate and desirable.' his angels are genii disimprisoned from the perfumed chalices of flowers, houris of an erotic paradise, elemental spirits of nature wantoning in eden in her prime. to accuse the painter of conscious immorality or of what is stigmatised as sensuality, would be as ridiculous as to class his seraphic beings among the products of the christian imagination. they belong to the generation of the fauns; like fauns, they combine a certain savage wildness, a dithyrambic ecstasy of inspiration, a delight in rapid movement as they revel amid clouds or flowers, with the permanent and all-pervading sweetness of the master's style. when infantine or childlike, these celestial sylphs are scarcely to be distinguished for any noble quality of beauty from murillo's cherubs, and are far less divine than the choir of children who attend madonna in titian's 'assumption.' but in their boyhood and their prime of youth, they acquire a fulness of sensuous vitality and a radiance that are peculiar to correggio. the lily-bearer who helps to support s. thomas beneath the dome of the cathedral at parma, the groups of seraphs who crowd behind the incoronata of s. giovanni, and the two wild-eyed open-mouthed s. johns stationed at each side of the celestial throne, are among the most splendid instances of the adolescent loveliness conceived by correggio. where the painter found their models may be questioned but not answered; for he has made them of a different fashion from the race of mortals: no court of roman emperor or turkish sultan, though stocked with the flowers of bithynian and circassian youth, have seen their like. mozart's cherubino seems to have sat for all of them. at any rate they incarnate the very spirit of the songs he sings. as a consequence of this predilection for sensuous and voluptuous forms, correggio had no power of imagining grandly or severely. satisfied with material realism in his treatment even of sublime mysteries, he converts the hosts of heaven into a 'fricassee of frogs,' according to the old epigram. his apostles, gazing after the virgin who has left the earth, are thrown into attitudes so violent and so dramatically foreshortened, that seen from below upon the pavement of the cathedral, little of their form is distinguishable except legs and arms in vehement commotion. very different is titian's conception of this scene. to express the spiritual meaning, the emotion of madonna's transit, with all the pomp which colour and splendid composition can convey, is titian's sole care; whereas correggio appears to have been satisfied with realising the tumult of heaven rushing to meet earth, and earth straining upwards to ascend to heaven in violent commotion--a very orgasm of frenetic rapture. the essence of the event is forgotten: its external manifestation alone is presented to the eye; and only the accessories of beardless angels and cloud-encumbered cherubs are really beautiful amid a surge of limbs in restless movement. more dignified, because designed with more repose, is the apocalypse of s. john painted upon the cupola of s. giovanni. the apostles throned on clouds, with which the dome is filled, gaze upward to one point. their attitudes are noble; their form is heroic; in their eyes there is the strange ecstatic look by which correggio interpreted his sense of supernatural vision: it is a gaze not of contemplation or deep thought, but of wild half-savage joy, as if these saints also had become the elemental genii of cloud and air, spirits emergent from ether, the salamanders of an empyrean intolerable to mortal sense. the point on which their eyes converge, the culmination of their vision, is the figure of christ. here all the weakness of correggio's method is revealed. he had undertaken to realise by no ideal allegorical suggestion, by no symbolism of architectural grouping, but by actual prosaic measurement, by corporeal form in subjection to the laws of perspective and foreshortening, things which in their very essence admit of only a figurative revelation. therefore his christ, the centre of all those earnest eyes, is contracted to a shape in which humanity itself is mean, a sprawling figure which irresistibly reminds one of a frog. the clouds on which the saints repose are opaque and solid; cherubs in countless multitudes, a swarm of merry children, crawl about upon these feather-beds of vapour, creep between the legs of the apostles, and play at bopeep behind their shoulders. there is no propriety in their appearance there. they take no interest in the beatific vision. they play no part in the celestial symphony; nor are they capable of more than merely infantine enjoyment. correggio has sprinkled them lavishly like living flowers about his cloudland, because he could not sustain a grave and solemn strain of music, but was forced by his temperament to overlay the melody with roulades. gazing at these frescoes, the thought came to me that correggio was like a man listening to sweetest flute-playing, and translating phrase after phrase as they passed through his fancy into laughing faces, breezy tresses, and rolling mists. sometimes a grander cadence reached his ear; and then s. peter with the keys, or s. augustine of the mighty brow, or the inspired eyes of s. john, took form beneath his pencil. but the light airs returned, and rose and lily faces bloomed again for him among the clouds. it is not therefore in dignity or sublimity that correggio excels, but in artless grace and melodious tenderness. the madonna della scala clasping her baby with a caress which the little child returns, s. catherine leaning in a rapture of ecstatic love to wed the infant christ, s. sebastian in the bloom of almost boyish beauty, are the so-called sacred subjects to which the painter was adequate, and which he has treated with the voluptuous tenderness we find in his pictures of leda and danae and io. could these saints and martyrs descend from correggio's canvas, and take flesh, and breathe, and begin to live; of what high action, of what grave passion, of what exemplary conduct in any walk of life would they be capable? that is the question which they irresistibly suggest; and we are forced to answer, none! the moral and religious world did not exist for correggio. his art was but a way of seeing carnal beauty in a dream that had no true relation to reality. correggio's sensibility to light and colour was exactly on a par with his feeling for form. he belongs to the poets of chiaroscuro and the poets of colouring; but in both regions he maintains the individuality so strongly expressed in his choice of purely sensuous beauty. tintoretto makes use of light and shade for investing his great compositions with dramatic intensity. rembrandt interprets sombre and fantastic moods of the mind by golden gloom and silvery irradiation, translating thought into the language of penumbral mystery. lionardo studies the laws of light scientifically, so that the proper roundness and effect of distance should be accurately rendered, and all the subtleties of nature's smiles be mimicked. correggio is content with fixing on his canvas the [greek: anêrithmon gelasma], the many-twinkling laughter of light in motion, rained down through fleecy clouds or trembling foliage, melting into half-shadows, bathing and illuminating every object with a soft caress. there are no tragic contrasts of splendour sharply defined on blackness, no mysteries of half-felt and pervasive twilight, no studied accuracies of noonday clearness in his work. light and shadow are woven together on his figures like an impalpable coan gauze, aërial and transparent, enhancing the palpitations of voluptuous movement which he loved. his colouring, in like manner, has none of the superb and mundane pomp which the venetians affected; it does not glow or burn or beat the fire of gems into our brain; joyous and wanton, it seems to be exactly such a beauty-bloom as sense requires for its satiety. there is nothing in his hues to provoke deep passion or to stimulate the yearnings of the soul: the pure blushes of the dawn and the crimson pyres of sunset are nowhere in the world that he has painted. but that chord of jocund colour which may fitly be married to the smiles of light, the blues which are found in laughing eyes, the pinks that tinge the cheeks of early youth, and the warm yet silvery tones of healthy flesh, mingle as in a marvellous pearl-shell on his pictures. both chiaroscuro and colouring have this supreme purpose in art, to effect the sense like music, and like music to create a mood in the soul of the spectator. now the mood which correggio stimulates is one of natural and thoughtless pleasure. to feel his influence, and at the same moment to be the subject of strong passion, or fierce lust, or heroic resolve, or profound contemplation, or pensive melancholy, is impossible. wantonness, innocent because unconscious of sin, immoral because incapable of any serious purpose, is the quality which prevails in all that he has painted. the pantomimes of a mohammedan paradise might be put upon the stage after patterns supplied by this least spiritual of painters. it follows from this analysis that the correggiosity of correggio, that which sharply distinguished him from all previous artists, was the faculty of painting a purely voluptuous dream of beautiful beings in perpetual movement, beneath the laughter of morning light, in a world of never-failing april hues. when he attempts to depart from the fairyland of which he was the prospero, and to match himself with the masters of sublime thought or earnest passion, he proves his weakness. but within his own magic circle he reigns supreme, no other artist having blended the witcheries of colouring, chiaroscuro,and faunlike loveliness of form into a harmony so perfect in its sensuous charm. bewitched by the strains of the siren, we pardon affectations of expression, emptiness of meaning, feebleness of composition, exaggerated and melodramatic attitudes. there is what goethe called a demonic influence in the art of correggio: 'in poetry,' said goethe to eckermann, 'especially in that which is unconscious, before which reason and understanding fall short, and which therefore produces effects so far surpassing all conception, there is always something demonic.' it is not to be wondered that correggio, possessed of this demonic power in the highest degree, and working to a purely sensuous end, should have exercised a fatal influence over art. his successors, attracted by an intoxicating loveliness which they could not analyse, which had nothing in common with the reason or the understanding, but was like a glamour cast upon the soul in its most secret sensibilities, threw themselves blindly into the imitation of correggio's faults. his affectation, his want of earnest thought, his neglect of composition, his sensuous realism, his all-pervading sweetness, his infantine prettiness, his substitution of thaumaturgical effects for conscientious labour, admitted only too easy imitation, and were but too congenial with the spirit of the late renaissance. cupolas through the length and breadth of italy began to be covered with clouds and simpering cherubs in the convulsions of artificial ecstasy. the attenuated elegance of parmigiano, the attitudinising of anselmi's saints and angels, and a general sacrifice of what is solid and enduring to sentimental gewgaws on the part of all painters who had submitted to the magic of correggio, proved how easy it was to go astray with the great master. meanwhile no one could approach him in that which was truly his own--the delineation of a transient moment in the life of sensuous beauty, the painting of a smile on nature's face, when light and colour tremble in harmony with the movement of joyous living creatures. another demonic nature of a far more powerful type contributed his share to the ruin of art in italy. michelangelo's constrained attitudes and muscular anatomy were imitated by painters and sculptors, who thought that the grand style lay in the presentation of theatrical athletes, but who could not seize the secret whereby the great master made even the bodies of men and women--colossal trunks and writhen limbs--interpret the meanings of his deep and melancholy soul. it is a sad law of progress in art, that when the æsthetic impulse is on the wane, artists should perforce select to follow the weakness rather than the vigour, of their predecessors. while painting was in the ascendant, raphael could take the best of perugino and discard the worst; in its decadence parmigiano reproduces the affectations of correggio, and bernini carries the exaggerations of michelangelo to absurdity. all arts describe a parabola. the force which produces them causes them to rise throughout their growth up to a certain point, and then to descend more gradually in a long and slanting line of regular declension. there is no real break of continuity. the end is the result of simple exhaustion. thus the last of our elizabethan dramatists, shirley and crowne and killigrew, pushed to its ultimate conclusion the principle inherent in marlowe, not attempting to break new ground, nor imitating the excellences so much as the defects of their forerunners. thus too the pointed style of architecture in england gave birth first to what is called the decorated, next to the perpendicular, and finally expired in the tudor. each step was a step of progress--at first for the better--at last for the worse--but logical, continuous, necessitated.[ ] it is difficult to leave correggio without at least posing the question of the difference between moralised and merely sensual art. is all art excellent in itself and good in its effect that is beautiful and earnest? there is no doubt that correggio's work is in a way most beautiful; and it bears unmistakable signs of the master having given himself with single-hearted devotion to the expression of that phase of loveliness which he could apprehend. in so far we must admit that his art is both excellent and solid. yet we are unable to conceive that any human being could be made better--stronger for endurance, more fitted for the uses of the world, more sensitive to what is noble in nature--by its contemplation. at the best correggio does but please us in our lighter moments, and we are apt to feel that the pleasure he has given is of an enervating kind. to expect obvious morality of any artist is confessedly absurd. it is not the artist's province to preach, or even to teach, except by remote suggestion. yet the mind of the artist may be highly moralised, and then he takes rank not merely with the ministers to refined pleasure, but also with the educators of the world. he may, for example, be penetrated with a just sense of humanity like shakspere, or with a sublime temperance like sophocles, instinct with prophetic intuition like michelangelo, or with passionate experience like beethoven. the mere sight of the work of pheidias is like breathing pure health-giving air. milton and dante were steeped in religious patriotism; goethe was pervaded with philosophy, and balzac with scientific curiosity. ariosto, cervantes, and even boccaccio are masters in the mysteries of common life. in all these cases the tone of the artist's mind is felt throughout his work: what he paints, or sings, or writes, conveys a lesson while it pleases. on the other hand, depravity in an artist or a poet percolates through work which has in it nothing positive of evil, and a very miasma of poisonous influence may rise from the apparently innocuous creations of a tainted soul. now correggio is moralised in neither way--neither as a good nor as a bad man, neither as an acute thinker nor as a deliberate voluptuary. he is simply sensuous. on his own ground he is even very fresh and healthy: his delineation of youthful maternity, for example, is as true as it is beautiful; and his sympathy with the gleefulness of children is devoid of affectation. we have then only to ask ourselves whether the defect in him of all thought and feeling which is not at once capable of graceful fleshly incarnation, be sufficient to lower him in the scale of artists. this question must of course be answered according to our definition of the purposes of art. there is no doubt that the most highly organised art--that which absorbs the most numerous human qualities and effects a harmony between the most complex elements--is the noblest. therefore the artist who combines moral elevation and power of thought with a due appreciation of sensual beauty, is more elevated and more beneficial than one whose domain is simply that of carnal loveliness. correggio, if this be so, must take a comparatively low rank. just as we welcome the beautiful athlete for the radiant life that is in him, but bow before the personality of sophocles, whose perfect form enshrined a noble and highly educated soul, so we gratefully accept correggio for his grace, while we approach the consummate art of michelangelo with reverent awe. it is necessary in æsthetics as elsewhere to recognise a hierarchy of excellence, the grades of which are determined by the greater or less comprehensiveness of the artist's nature expressed in his work. at the same time, the calibre of the artist's genius must be estimated; for eminent greatness even of a narrow kind will always command our admiration: and the amount of his originality has also to be taken into account. what is unique has, for that reason alone, a claim on our consideration. judged in this way, correggio deserves a place, say, in the sweet planet venus, above the moon and above mercury, among the artists who have not advanced beyond the contemplations which find their proper outcome in love. yet, even thus, he aids the culture of humanity. 'we should take care,' said goethe, apropos of byron, to eckermann, 'not to be always looking for culture in the decidedly pure and moral. everything that is great promotes cultivation as soon as we are aware of it.' * * * * * _canossa_ italy is less the land of what is venerable in antiquity, than of beauty, by divine right young eternally in spite of age. this is due partly to her history and art and literature, partly to the temper of the races who have made her what she is, and partly to her natural advantages. her oldest architectural remains, the temples of paestum and girgenti, or the gates of perugia and volterra, are so adapted to italian landscape and so graceful in their massive strength, that we forget the centuries which have passed over them. we leap as by a single bound from the times of roman greatness to the new birth of humanity in the fourteenth century, forgetting the many years during which italy, like the rest of europe, was buried in what our ancestors called gothic barbarism. the illumination cast upon the classic period by the literature of rome and by the memory of her great men is so vivid, that we feel the days of the republic and the empire to be near us; while the italian renaissance is so truly a revival of that former splendour, a resumption of the music interrupted for a season, that it is extremely difficult to form any conception of the five long centuries which elapsed between the lombard invasion in and the accession of hildebrand to the pontificate in . so true is it that nothing lives and has reality for us but what is spiritual, intellectual, self-possessed in personality and consciousness. when the egyptian priest said to solon, 'you greeks are always children,' he intended a gentle sarcasm, but he implied a compliment; for the quality of imperishable youth belonged to the hellenic spirit, and has become the heritage of every race which partook of it. and this spirit in no common degree has been shared by the italians of the earlier and the later classic epoch. the land is full of monuments pertaining to those two brilliant periods; and whenever the voice of poet has spoken or the hand of artist has been at work, that spirit, as distinguished from the spirit of mediaevalism, has found expression. yet it must be remembered that during the five centuries above mentioned italy was given over to lombards, franks, and germans. feudal institutions, alien to the social and political ideals of the classic world, took a tolerably firm hold on the country. the latin element remained silent, passive, in abeyance, undergoing an important transformation. it was in the course of those five hundred years that the italians as a modern people, separable from their roman ancestors, were formed. at the close of this obscure passage in italian history, their communes, the foundation of italy's future independence, and the source of her peculiar national development, appeared in all the vigour and audacity of youth. at its close the italian genius presented europe with its greatest triumph of constructive ability, the papacy. at its close again the series of supreme artistic achievements, starting with the architecture of churches and public palaces, passing on to sculpture and painting, and culminating in music, which only ended with the temporary extinction of national vitality in the seventeenth century, was simultaneously begun in all the provinces of the peninsula. so important were these five centuries of incubation for italy, and so little is there left of them to arrest the attention of the student, dazzled as he is by the ever-living glories of greece, rome, and the renaissance, that a visit to the ruins of canossa is almost a duty. there, in spite of himself, by the very isolation and forlorn abandonment of what was once so formidable a seat of feudal despotism and ecclesiastical tyranny, he is forced to confront the obscure but mighty spirit of the middle ages. there, if anywhere, the men of those iron-hearted times anterior to the crusades will acquire distinctness for his imagination, when he recalls the three main actors in the drama enacted on the summit of canossa's rock in the bitter winter of . canossa lies almost due south of reggio d'emilia, upon the slopes of the apennines. starting from reggio, the carriage-road keeps to the plain for some while in a westerly direction, and then bends away towards the mountains. as we approach their spurs, the ground begins to rise. the rich lombard tilth of maize and vine gives place to english-looking hedgerows, lined with oaks, and studded with handsome dark tufts of green hellebore. the hills descend in melancholy earth-heaps on the plain, crowned here and there with ruined castles. four of these mediaeval strongholds, called bianello, montevetro, monteluzzo, and montezano, give the name of quattro castelli to the commune. the most important of them, bianello, which, next to canossa, was the strongest fortress possessed by the countess matilda and her ancestors, still presents a considerable mass of masonry, roofed and habitable. the group formed a kind of advance-guard for canossa against attack from lombardy. after passing quattro castelli we enter the hills, climbing gently upwards between barren slopes of ashy grey earth--the _débris_ of most ancient apennines--crested at favourable points with lonely towers. in truth the whole country bristles with ruined forts, making it clear that during the middle ages canossa was but the centre of a great military system, the core and kernel of a fortified position which covered an area to be measured by scores of square miles, reaching far into the mountains, and buttressed on the plain. as yet, however, after nearly two hours' driving, canossa has not come in sight. at last a turn in the road discloses an opening in the valley of the enza to the left: up this lateral gorge we see first the castle of rossena on its knoll of solid red rock, flaming in the sunlight; and then, further withdrawn, detached from all surrounding objects, and reared aloft as though to sweep the sea of waved and broken hills around it, a sharp horn of hard white stone. that is canossa--the _alba canossa_, the _candida petra_ of its rhyming chronicler. there is no mistaking the commanding value of its situation. at the same time the brilliant whiteness of canossa's rocky hill, contrasted with the red gleam of rossena, and outlined against the prevailing dulness of these earthy apennines, secures a picturesque individuality concordant with its unique history and unrivalled strength. there is still a journey of two hours before the castle can be reached: and this may be performed on foot or horseback. the path winds upward over broken ground; following the _arête_ of curiously jumbled and thwarted hill-slopes; passing beneath the battlements of rossena, whence the unfortunate everelina threw herself in order to escape the savage love of her lord and jailor; and then skirting those horrid earthen _balze_ which are so common and so unattractive a feature of apennine scenery. the most hideous _balze_ to be found in the length and breadth of italy are probably those of volterra, from which the citizens themselves recoil with a kind of terror, and which lure melancholy men by intolerable fascination on to suicide. for ever crumbling, altering with frost and rain, discharging gloomy glaciers of slow-crawling mud, and scarring the hillside with tracts of barrenness, these earth-precipices are among the most ruinous and discomfortable failures of nature. they have not even so much of wildness or grandeur as forms, the saving merit of nearly all wasteful things in the world, and can only be classed with the desolate _ghiare_ of italian river-beds. such as they are, these _balze_ form an appropriate preface to the gloomy and repellent isolation of canossa. the rock towers from a narrow platform to the height of rather more than feet from its base. the top is fairly level, forming an irregular triangle, of which the greatest length is about feet, and the width about feet. scarcely a vestige of any building can be traced either upon the platform or the summit, with the exception of a broken wall and windows supposed to belong to the end of the sixteenth century. the ancient castle, with its triple circuit of walls, enclosing barracks for the garrison, lodgings for the lord and his retainers, a stately church, a sumptuous monastery, storehouses, stables, workshops, and all the various buildings of a fortified stronghold, have utterly disappeared. the very passage of approach cannot be ascertained; for it is doubtful whether the present irregular path that scales the western face of the rock be really the remains of some old staircase, corresponding to that by which mont s. michel in normandy is ascended. one thing is tolerably certain--that the three walls of which we hear so much from the chroniclers, and which played so picturesque a part in the drama of henry iv.'s penance, surrounded the cliff at its base, and embraced a large acreage of ground. the citadel itself must have been but the acropolis or keep of an extensive fortress. there has been plenty of time since the year , when the people of reggio sacked and destroyed canossa, for nature to resume her undisputed sway by obliterating the handiwork of men; and at present nature forms the chief charm of canossa. lying one afternoon of may on the crisp short grass at the edge of a precipice purple with iris in full blossom, i surveyed, from what were once the battlements of matilda's castle, a prospect than which there is none more spirit-stirring by reason of its beauty and its manifold associations in europe. the lower castle-crowded hills have sunk. reggio lies at our feet, shut in between the crests of monte carboniano and monte delle celle. beyond reggio stretches lombardy--the fairest and most memorable battlefield of nations, the richest and most highly cultivated garden of civilised industry. nearly all the lombard cities may be seen, some of them faint like bluish films of vapour, some clear with dome and spire. there is modena and her ghirlandina. carpi, parma, mirandola, verona, mantua, lie well defined and russet on the flat green map; and there flashes a bend of lordly po; and there the euganeans rise like islands, telling us where padua and ferrara nestle in the amethystine haze beyond and above all to the northward sweep the alps, tossing their silvery crests up into the cloudless sky from the violet mist that girds their flanks and drowns their basements. monte adamello and the ortler, the cleft of the brenner, and the sharp peaks of the venetian alps are all distinctly visible. an eagle flying straight from our eyrie might traverse lombardy and light among the snow-fields of the valtelline between sunrise and sundown. nor is the prospect tame to southward. here the apennines roll, billow above billow, in majestic desolation, soaring to snow summits in the pellegrino region. as our eye attempts to thread that labyrinth of hill and vale, we tell ourselves that those roads wind to tuscany, and yonder stretches garfagnana, where ariosto lived and mused in honourable exile from the world he loved. it was by one of the mountain passes that lead from lucca northward that the first founder of canossa is said to have travelled early in the tenth century. sigifredo, if the tradition may be trusted, was very wealthy; and with his money he bought lands and signorial rights at reggio, bequeathing to his children, when he died about , a patrimony which they developed into a petty kingdom. azzo, his second son, fortified canossa, and made it his principal place of residence. when lothair, king of italy, died in , leaving his beautiful widow to the ill-treatment of his successor, berenger, adelaide found a protector in this azzo. she had been imprisoned on the lake of garda; but managing to escape in man's clothes to mantua, she thence sent news of her misfortunes to canossa. azzo lost no time in riding with his knights to her relief, and brought her back in safety to his mountain fastness. it is related that azzo was afterwards instrumental in calling otho into italy and procuring his marriage with adelaide, in consequence of which events italy became a fief of the empire. owing to the part he played at this time, the lord of canossa was recognised as one of the most powerful vassals of the german emperor in lombardy. honours were heaped upon him; and he grew so rich and formidable that berenger, the titular king of italy, laid siege to his fortress of canossa. the memory of this siege, which lasted for three years and a half, is said still to linger in the popular traditions of the place. when azzo died at the end of the tenth century, he left to his son tedaldo the title of count of reggio and modena; and this title was soon after raised to that of marquis. the marches governed as vicar of the empire by tedaldo included reggio, modena, ferrara, brescia, and probably mantua. they stretched, in fact, across the north of italy, forming a quadrilateral between the alps and apennines. like his father, tedaldo adhered consistently to the imperial party; and when he died and was buried at canossa, he in his turn bequeathed to his son bonifazio a power and jurisdiction increased by his own abilities. bonifazio held the state of a sovereign at canossa, adding the duchy of tuscany to his father's fiefs, and meeting the allied forces of the lombard barons in the field of coviolo like an independent potentate. his power and splendour were great enough to rouse the jealousy of the emperor; but henry iii. seems to have thought it more prudent to propitiate this proud vassal, and to secure his kindness, than to attempt his humiliation. bonifazio married beatrice, daughter of frederick, duke of lorraine--her whose marble sarcophagus in the campo santo at pisa is said to have inspired niccola pisano with his new style of sculpture. their only child, matilda, was born, probably at lucca, in ; and six years after her birth, bonifazio, who had swayed his subjects like an iron-handed tyrant, was murdered. to the great house of canossa, the rulers of one-third of italy, there now remained only two women, bonifazio's widow beatrice, and his daughter matilda. beatrice married godfrey, duke of lorraine, who was recognised by henry iv. as her husband and as feudatory of the empire in the full place of boniface. he died about ; and in this year matilda was married by proxy to his son, godfrey the hunchback, whom, however, she did not see till the year . the marriage was not a happy one; and the question has even been disputed among matilda's biographers whether it was ever consummated. at any rate it did not last long; for godfrey was killed at antwerp in . in this year matilda also lost her mother, beatrice, who died at pisa, and was buried in the cathedral. by this rapid enumeration of events it will be seen how the power and honours of the house of canossa, including tuscany, spoleto, and the fairest portions of lombardy, had devolved upon a single woman of the age of thirty at the moment when the fierce quarrel between pope and emperor began in the year . matilda was destined to play a great, a striking, and a tragic part in the opening drama of italian history. her decided character and uncompromising course of action have won for her the name of 'la gran donna d'italia,' and have caused her memory to be blessed or execrated, according as the temporal pretensions and spiritual tyranny of the papacy may have found supporters or opponents in posterity. she was reared from childhood in habits of austerity and unquestioning piety. submission to the church became for her not merely a rule of conduct, but a passionate enthusiasm. she identified herself with the cause of four successive popes, protected her idol, the terrible and iron-hearted hildebrand, in the time of his adversity; remained faithful to his principles after his death; and having served the holy see with all her force and all that she possessed through all her lifetime, she bequeathed her vast dominions to it on her deathbed. like some of the greatest mediaeval characters--like hildebrand himself--matilda was so thoroughly of one piece, that she towers above the mists of ages with the massive grandeur of an incarnated idea. she is for us the living statue of a single thought, an undivided impulse, the more than woman born to represent her age. nor was it without reason that dante symbolised in her the love of holy church; though students of the 'purgatory' will hardly recognise the lovely maiden, singing and plucking flowers beside the stream of lethe, in the stern and warlike chatelaine of canossa. unfortunately we know but little of matilda's personal appearance. her health was not strong; and it is said to have been weakened, especially in her last illness, by ascetic observances. yet she headed her own troops, armed with sword and cuirass, avoiding neither peril nor fatigue in the quarrels of her master gregory. up to the year two strong suits of mail were preserved at quattro castelli, which were said to have been worn by her in battle, and which were afterwards sold on the market-place at reggio. this habit of donning armour does not, however, prove that matilda was exceptionally vigorous; for in those savage times she could hardly have played the part of heroine without participating personally in the dangers of warfare. no less monumental in the plastic unity of his character was the monk hildebrand, who for twenty years before his elevation to the papacy had been the maker of popes and the creator of the policy of rome. when he was himself elected in the year , and had assumed the name of gregory vii., he immediately began to put in practice the plans for church aggrandisement he had slowly matured during the previous quarter of a century. to free the church from its subservience to the empire, to assert the pope's right to ratify the election of the emperor and to exercise the right of jurisdiction over him, to place ecclesiastical appointments in the sole power of the roman see, and to render the celibacy of the clergy obligatory, were the points he had resolved to carry. taken singly and together, these chief aims of hildebrand's policy had but one object--the magnification of the church at the expense both of the people and of secular authorities, and the further separation of the church from the ties and sympathies of common life that bound it to humanity. to accuse hildebrand of personal ambition would be but shallow criticism, though it is clear that his inflexible and puissant nature found a savage selfish pleasure in trampling upon power and humbling pride at warfare with his own. yet his was in no sense an egotistic purpose like that which moved the popes of the renaissance to dismember italy for their bastards. hildebrand, like matilda, was himself the creature of a great idea. these two potent personalities completely understood each other, and worked towards a single end. tho mythopoeic fancy might conceive of them as the male and female manifestations of one dominant faculty, the spirit of ecclesiastical dominion incarnate in a man and woman of almost super-human mould. opposed to them, as the third actor in the drama of canossa, was a man of feebler mould. henry iv., king of italy, but not yet crowned emperor, had none of his opponents' unity of purpose or monumental dignity of character. at war with his german feudatories, browbeaten by rebellious sons, unfaithful and cruel to his wife, vacillating in the measures he adopted to meet his divers difficulties, at one time tormented by his conscience into cowardly submission, and at another treasonably neglectful of the most solemn obligations, henry was no match for the stern wills against which he was destined to break in unavailing passion. early disagreements with gregory had culminated in his excommunication. the german nobles abandoned his cause; and henry found it expedient to summon a council in augsburg for the settlement of matters in dispute between the empire and the papacy. gregory expressed his willingness to attend this council, and set forth from rome accompanied by the countess matilda in december . he did not, however, travel further than vercelli, for news here reached him that henry was about to enter italy at the head of a powerful army. matilda hereupon persuaded the holy father to place himself in safety among her strongholds of canossa. thither accordingly gregory retired before the ending of that year; and bitter were the sarcasms uttered by the imperial partisans in italy upon this protection offered by a fair countess to the monk who had been made a pope. the foul calumnies of that bygone age would be unworthy of even so much as this notice, if we did not trace in them the ineradicable italian tendency to cynical insinuation--a tendency which has involved the history of the renaissance popes in an almost impenetrable mist of lies and exaggerations. henry was in truth upon his road to italy, but with a very different attendance from that which gregory expected. accompanied by bertha, his wife, and his boy son conrad, the emperor elect left spires in the condition of a fugitive, crossed burgundy, spent christmas at besançon, and journeyed to the foot of mont cenis. it is said that he was followed by a single male servant of mean birth; and if the tale of his adventures during the passage of the alps can be credited, history presents fewer spectacles more picturesque than the straits to which this representative of the cæsars, this supreme chief of feudal civility, this ruler destined still to be the leader of mighty armies and the father of a line of monarchs, was exposed. concealing his real name and state, he induced some shepherds to lead him and his escort through the thick snows to the summit of mont cenis; and by the help of these men the imperial party were afterwards let down the snow-slopes on the further side by means of ropes. bertha and her women were sewn up in hides and dragged across the frozen surface of the winter drifts. it was a year memorable for its severity. heavy snow had fallen in october, which continued ice-bound and unyielding till the following april. no sooner had henry reached turin, than he set forward again in the direction of canossa. the fame of his arrival had preceded him, and he found that his party was far stronger in italy than he had ventured to expect. proximity to the church of rome divests its fulminations of half their terrors. the italian bishops and barons, less superstitious than the germans, and with greater reason to resent the domineering graspingness of gregory, were ready to espouse the emperor's cause. henry gathered a formidable force as he marched onward across lombardy; and some of the most illustrious prelates and nobles of the south were in his suite. a more determined leader than henry proved himself to be, might possibly have forced gregory to some accommodation, in spite of the strength of canossa and the pope's invincible obstinacy, by proper use of these supporters. meanwhile the adherents of the church were mustered in matilda's fortress; among whom may be mentioned azzo, the progenitor of este and brunswick; hugh, abbot of clugny; and the princely family of piedmont. 'i am become a second rome,' exclaims canossa, in the language of matilda's rhyming chronicler; 'all honours are mine; i hold at once both pope and king, the princes of italy and those of gaul, those of rome, and those from far beyond the alps.' the stage was ready; the audience had assembled; and now the three great actors were about to meet. immediately upon his arrival at canossa, henry sent for his cousin, the countess matilda, and besought her to intercede for him with gregory. he was prepared to make any concessions or to undergo any humiliations, if only the ban of excommunication might be removed; nor, cowed as he was by his own superstitious conscience, and by the memory of the opposition he had met with from his german vassals, does he seem to have once thought of meeting force with force, and of returning to his northern kingdom triumphant in the overthrow of gregory's pride. matilda undertook to plead his cause before the pontiff. but gregory was not to be moved so soon to mercy. 'if henry has in truth repented,' he replied, 'let him lay down crown and sceptre, and declare himself unworthy of the name of king.' the only point conceded to the suppliant was that he should be admitted in the garb of a penitent within the precincts of the castle. leaving his retinue outside the walls, henry entered the first series of outworks, and was thence conducted to the second, so that between him and the citadel itself there still remained the third of the surrounding bastions. here he was bidden to wait the pope's pleasure; and here, in the midst of that bitter winter weather, while the fierce winds of the apennines were sweeping sleet upon him in their passage from monte pellegrino to the plain, he knelt barefoot, clothed in sackcloth, fasting from dawn till eve, for three whole days. on the morning of the fourth day, judging that gregory was inexorable, and that his suit would not be granted, henry retired to the chapel of s. nicholas, which stood within this second precinct. there he called to his aid the abbot of clugny and the countess, both of whom were his relations, and who, much as they might sympathise with gregory, could hardly be supposed to look with satisfaction on their royal kinsman's outrage. the abbot told henry that nothing in the world could move the pope; but matilda, when in turn he fell before her knees and wept, engaged to do for him the utmost. she probably knew that the moment for unbending had arrived, and that her imperious guest could not with either decency or prudence prolong the outrage offered to the civil chief of christendom. it was the th of january when the emperor elect was brought, half dead with cold and misery, into the pope's presence. there he prostrated himself in the dust, crying aloud for pardon. it is said that gregory first placed his foot upon henry's neck, uttering these words of scripture: 'super aspidem et basiliscum ambulabis, et conculcabis leonem et draconem,' and that then he raised him from the earth and formally pronounced his pardon. the prelates and nobles who took part in this scene were compelled to guarantee with their own oaths the vows of obedience pronounced by henry; so that in the very act of reconciliation a new insult was offered to him. after this gregory said mass, and permitted henry to communicate; and at the close of the day a banquet was served, at which the king sat down to meat with the pope and the countess. it is probable that, while henry's penance was performed in the castle courts beneath the rock, his reception by the pope, and all that subsequently happened, took place in the citadel itself. but of this we have no positive information. indeed the silence of the chronicles as to the topography of canossa is peculiarly unfortunate for lovers of the picturesque in historic detail, now that there is no possibility of tracing the outlines of the ancient building. had the author of the 'vita mathildis' (muratori, vol. v.) foreseen that his beloved canossa would one day be nothing but a mass of native rock, he would undoubtedly have been more explicit on these points; and much that is vague about an event only paralleled by our henry ii.'s penance before becket's shrine at canterbury, might now be clear. very little remains to be told about canossa. during the same year, , matilda made the celebrated donation of her fiefs to holy church. this was accepted by gregory in the name of s. peter, and it was confirmed by a second deed during the pontificate of urban iv. in . though matilda subsequently married guelfo d'este, son of the duke of bavaria, she was speedily divorced from him; nor was there any heir to a marriage ridiculous by reason of disparity of age, the bridegroom being but eighteen, while the bride was forty-three in the year of her second nuptials. during one of henry's descents into italy, he made an unsuccessful attack upon canossa, assailing it at the head of a considerable force one october morning in . matilda's biographer informs us that the mists of autumn veiled his beloved fortress from the eyes of the beleaguerers. they had not even the satisfaction of beholding the unvanquished citadel; and, what was more, the banner of the emperor was seized and dedicated as a trophy in the church of s. apollonio. in the following year the countess opened her gates of canossa to an illustrious fugitive, adelaide, the wife of her old foeman, henry, who had escaped with difficulty from the insults and the cruelty of her husband. after henry's death, his son, the emperor henry v., paid matilda a visit in her castle of bianello, addressed her by the name of mother, and conferred upon her the vice-regency of liguria. at the age of sixty-nine she died, in , at bondeno de' roncori, and was buried, not among her kinsmen at canossa, but in an abbey of s. benedict near mantua. with her expired the main line of the noble house she represented; though canossa, now made a fief of the empire in spite of matilda's donation, was given to a family which claimed descent from bonifazio's brother conrad--a young man killed in the battle of coviolo. this family, in its turn, was extinguished in the year ; but a junior branch still exists at verona. it will be remembered that michelangelo buonarroti claimed kinship with the count of canossa; and a letter from the count is extant acknowledging the validity of his pretension. as far back as the people of reggio destroyed the castle; nor did the nobles of canossa distinguish themselves in subsequent history among those families who based their despotisms on the _débris_ of the imperial power in lombardy. it seemed destined that canossa and all belonging to it should remain as a mere name and memory of the outgrown middle ages. estensi, carraresi, visconti, bentivogli, and gonzaghi belong to a later period of lombard history, and mark the dawn of the renaissance. as i lay and mused that afternoon of may upon the short grass, cropped by two grey goats, whom a little boy was tending, it occurred to me to ask the woman who had served me as guide, whether any legend remained in the country concerning the countess matilda. she had often, probably, been asked this question by other travellers. therefore she was more than usually ready with an answer, which, as far as i could understand her dialect, was this. matilda was a great and potent witch, whose summons the devil was bound to obey. one day she aspired, alone of all her sex, to say mass; but when the moment came for sacring the elements, a thunderbolt fell from the clear sky, and reduced her to ashes.[ ] that the most single-hearted handmaid of the holy church, whose life was one long devotion to its ordinances, should survive in this grotesque myth, might serve to point a satire upon the vanity of earthly fame. the legend in its very extravagance is a fanciful distortion of the truth. * * * * * _fornovo_ in the town of parma there is one surpassingly strange relic of the past. the palace of the farnesi, like many a haunt of upstart tyranny and beggared pride on these italian plains, rises misshapen and disconsolate above the stream that bears the city's name. the squalor of this grey-brown edifice of formless brick, left naked like the palace of the same farnesi at piacenza, has something even horrid in it now that only vague memory survives of its former uses. the princely _sprezzatura_ of its ancient occupants, careless of these unfinished courts and unroofed galleries amid the splendour of their purfled silks and the glitter of their torchlight pageantry, has yielded to sullen cynicism--the cynicism of arrested ruin and unreverend age. all that was satisfying to the senses and distracting to the eyesight in their transitory pomp has passed away, leaving a sinister and naked shell. remembrance can but summon up the crimes, the madness, the trivialities of those dead palace-builders. an atmosphere of evil clings to the dilapidated walls, as though the tainted spirit of the infamous pier luigi still possessed the spot, on which his toadstool brood of princelings sprouted in the mud of their misdeeds. enclosed in this huge labyrinth of brickwork is the relic of which i spoke. it is the once world-famous teatro farnese, raised in the year by ranunzio farnese for the marriage of odoardo farnese with margaret of austria. giambattista aleotti, a native of pageant-loving ferrara, traced the stately curves and noble orders of the galleries, designed the columns that support the raftered roof, marked out the orchestra, arranged the stage, and breathed into the whole the spirit of palladio's most heroic neo-latin style. vast, built of wood, dishevelled, with broken statues and blurred coats of arms, with its empty scene, its uncurling frescoes, its hangings all in rags, its cobwebs of two centuries, its dust and mildew and discoloured gold--this theatre, a sham in its best days, and now that ugliest of things, a sham unmasked and naked to the light of day, is yet sublime, because of its proportioned harmony, because of its grand roman manner. the sight and feeling of it fasten upon the mind and abide in the memory like a nightmare,--like one of piranesi's weirdest and most passion-haunted etchings for the _carceri_. idling there at noon in the twilight of the dust-bedarkened windows, we fill the tiers of those high galleries with ladies, the space below with grooms and pages; the stage is ablaze with torches, and an italian masque, such as our marlowe dreamed of, fills the scene. but it is impossible to dower these fancies with even such life as in healthier, happier ruins phantasy may lend to imagination's figments. this theatre is like a maniac's skull, empty of all but unrealities and mockeries of things that are. the ghosts we raise here could never have been living men and women: _questi sciaurati non fur mai vivi._ so clinging is the sense of instability that appertains to every fragment of that dry-rot tyranny which seized by evil fortune in the sunset of her golden day on italy. in this theatre i mused one morning after visiting fornovo; and the thoughts suggested by the battlefield found their proper atmosphere in the dilapidated place. what, indeed, is the teatro farnese but a symbol of those hollow principalities which the despot and the stranger built in italy after the fatal date of , when national enthusiasm and political energy were expiring in a blaze of art, and when the italians as a people had ceased to be; but when the phantom of their former life, surviving in high works of beauty, was still superb by reason of imperishable style! how much in italy of the renaissance was, like this plank-built plastered theatre, a glorious sham! the sham was seen through then; and now it stands unmasked: and yet, strange to say, so perfect is its form that we respect the sham and yield our spirits to the incantation of its music. the battle of fornovo, as modern battles go, was a paltry affair; and even at the time it seemed sufficiently without result. yet the trumpets which rang on july , , for the onset, sounded the _réveil_ of the modern world; and in the inconclusive termination of the struggle of that day, the italians were already judged and sentenced as a nation. the armies who met that morning represented italy and france,--italy, the sibyl of renaissance; france, the sibyl of revolution. at the fall of evening europe was already looking northward; and the last years of the fifteenth century were opening an act which closed in blood at paris on the ending of the eighteenth. if it were not for thoughts like these, no one, i suppose, would take the trouble to drive for two hours out of parma to the little village of fornovo--a score of bare grey hovels on the margin of a pebbly river-bed beneath the apennines. the fields on either side, as far as eye can see, are beautiful indeed in may sunlight, painted here with flax, like shallow sheets of water reflecting a pale sky, and there with clover red as blood. scarce unfolded leaves sparkle like flamelets of bright green upon the knotted vines, and the young corn is bending all one way beneath a western breeze. but not less beautiful than this is the whole broad plain of lombardy; nor are the nightingales louder here than in the acacia trees around pavia. as we drive, the fields become less fertile, and the hills encroach upon the level, sending down their spurs upon that waveless plain like blunt rocks jutting out into a tranquil sea. when we reach the bed of the taro, these hills begin to narrow on either hand, and the road rises. soon they open out again with gradual curving lines, forming a kind of amphitheatre filled up from flank to flank with the _ghiara_ or pebbly bottom of the taro. the taro is not less wasteful than any other of the brotherhood of streams that pour from alp or apennine to swell the po. it wanders, an impatient rivulet, through a wilderness of boulders, uncertain of its aim, shifting its course with the season of the year, unless the jaws of some deep-cloven gully hold it tight and show how insignificant it is. as we advance, the hills approach again; between their skirts there is nothing but the river-bed; and now on rising ground above the stream, at the point of juncture between the ceno and the taro, we find fornovo. beyond the village the valley broadens out once more, disclosing apennines capped with winter snow. to the right descends the ceno. to the left foams the taro, following whose rocky channel we should come at last to pontremoli and the tyrrhenian sea beside sarzana. on a may-day of sunshine like the present, the taro is a gentle stream. a waggon drawn by two white oxen has just entered its channel, guided by a contadino with goat-skin leggings, wielding a long goad. the patient creatures stem the water, which rises to the peasant's thighs and ripples round the creaking wheels. swaying to and fro, as the shingles shift upon the river-bed, they make their way across; and now they have emerged upon the stones; and now we lose them in a flood of sunlight. it was by this pass that charles viii. in returned from tuscany, when the army of the league was drawn up waiting to intercept and crush him in the mousetrap of fornovo. no road remained for charles and his troops but the rocky bed of the taro, running, as i have described it, between the spurs of steep hills. it is true that the valley of the baganza leads, from a little higher up among the mountains, into lombardy. but this pass runs straight to parma; and to follow it would have brought the french upon the walls of a strong city. charles could not do otherwise than descend upon the village of fornovo, and cut his way thence in the teeth of the italian army over stream and boulder between the gorges of throttling mountain. the failure of the italians to achieve what here upon the ground appears so simple, delivered italy hand-bound to strangers. had they but succeeded in arresting charles and destroying his forces at fornovo, it is just possible that then--even then, at the eleventh hour--italy might have gained the sense of national coherence, or at least have proved herself capable of holding by her leagues the foreigner at bay. as it was, the battle of fornovo, in spite of venetian bonfires and mantuan madonnas of victory, made her conscious of incompetence and convicted her of cowardice. after fornovo, her sons scarcely dared to hold their heads up in the field against invaders; and the battles fought upon her soil were duels among aliens for the prize of italy. in order to comprehend the battle of fornovo in its bearings on italian history, we must go back to the year , and understand the conditions of the various states of italy at that date. on april in that year, lorenzo de' medici, who had succeeded in maintaining a political equilibrium in the peninsula, expired, and was succeeded by his son piero, a vain and foolhardy young man, from whom no guidance could be expected. on july , innocent viii. died, and was succeeded by the very worst pope who has ever occupied s. peter's chair, roderigo borgia, alexander vi. it was felt at once that the old order of things had somehow ended, and that a new era, the destinies of which as yet remained incalculable, was opening for italy. the chief italian powers, hitherto kept in equipoise by the diplomacy of lorenzo de' medici, were these--the duchy of milan, the republic of venice, the republic of florence, the papacy, and the kingdom of naples. minor states, such as the republics of genoa and siena, the duchies of urbino and ferrara, the marquisate of mantua, the petty tyrannies of romagna, and the wealthy city of bologna, were sufficiently important to affect the balance of power, and to produce new combinations. for the present purpose it is, however, enough to consider the five great powers. after the peace of constance, which freed the lombard communes from imperial interference in the year , milan, by her geographical position, rose rapidly to be the first city of north italy. without narrating the changes by which she lost her freedom as a commune, it is enough to state that, earliest of all italian cities, milan passed into the hands of a single family. the visconti managed to convert this flourishing commonwealth, with all its dependencies, into their private property, ruling it exclusively for their own profit, using its municipal institutions as the machinery of administration, and employing the taxes which they raised upon its wealth for purely selfish ends. when the line of the visconti ended in the year , their tyranny was continued by francesco sforza, the son of a poor soldier of adventure, who had raised himself by his military genius, and had married bianca, the illegitimate daughter of the last visconti. on the death of francesco sforza in , he left two sons, galeazzo maria and lodovico, surnamed il moro, both of whom were destined to play a prominent part in history. galeazzo maria, dissolute, vicious, and cruel to the core, was murdered by his injured subjects in the year . his son, giovanni galeazzo, aged eight, would in course of time have succeeded to the duchy, had it not been for the ambition of his uncle lodovico. lodovico contrived to name himself as regent for his nephew, whom he kept, long after he had come of age, in a kind of honourable prison. virtual master in milan, but without a legal title to the throne, unrecognised in his authority by the italian powers, and holding it from day to day by craft and fraud, lodovico at last found his situation untenable; and it was this difficulty of an usurper to maintain himself in his despotism which, as we shall see, brought the french into italy. venice, the neighbour and constant foe of milan, had become a close oligarchy by a process of gradual constitutional development, which threw her government into the hands of a few nobles. she was practically ruled by the hereditary members of the grand council. ever since the year , when constantinople fell beneath the turk, the venetians had been more and more straitened in their oriental commerce, and were thrown back upon the policy of territorial aggrandisement in italy, from which they had hitherto refrained as alien to the temperament of the republic. at the end of the fifteenth century venice therefore became an object of envy and terror to the italian states. they envied her because she alone was tranquil, wealthy, powerful, and free. they feared her because they had good reason to suspect her of encroachment; and it was foreseen that if she got the upper hand in italy, all italy would be the property of the families inscribed upon the golden book. it was thus alone that the italians comprehended government. the principle of representation being utterly unknown, and the privileged burghers in each city being regarded as absolute and lawful owners of the city and of everything belonging to it, the conquest of a town by a republic implied the political extinction of that town and the disfranchisement of its inhabitants in favour of the conquerors. florence at this epoch still called itself a republic; and of all italian commonwealths it was by far the most democratic. its history, unlike that of venice, had been the history of continual and brusque changes, resulting in the destruction of the old nobility, in the equalisation of the burghers, and in the formation of a new aristocracy of wealth. prom this class of _bourgeois_ nobles sprang the medici, who, by careful manipulation of the state machinery, by the creation of a powerful party devoted to their interests, by flattery of the people, by corruption, by taxation, and by constant scheming, raised themselves to the first place in the commonwealth, and became its virtual masters. in the year lorenzo de' medici, the most remarkable chief of this despotic family, died, bequeathing his supremacy in the republic to a son of marked incompetence. since the pontificate of nicholas v. the see of rome had entered upon a new period of existence. the popes no longer dreaded to reside in rome, but were bent upon making the metropolis of christendom both splendid as a seat of art and learning, and also potent as the capital of a secular kingdom. though their fiefs in romagna and the march were still held but loosely, though their provinces swarmed with petty despots who defied the papal authority, and though the princely roman houses of colonna and orsini were still strong enough to terrorise the holy father in the vatican, it was now clear that the papal see must in the end get the better of its adversaries, and consolidate itself into a first-rate power. the internal spirit of the papacy at this time corresponded to its external policy. it was thoroughly secularised by a series of worldly and vicious pontiffs, who had clean forgotten what their title, vicar of christ, implied. they consistently used their religious prestige to enforce their secular authority, while by their temporal power they caused their religious claims to be respected. corrupt and shameless, they indulged themselves in every vice, openly acknowledged their children, and turned italy upside down in order to establish favourites and bastards in the principalities they seized as spoils of war. the kingdom of naples differed from any other state of italy. subject continually to foreign rulers since the decay of the greek empire, governed in succession by the normans, the hohenstauffens, and the house of anjou, it had never enjoyed the real independence, or the free institutions, of the northern provinces; nor had it been italianised in the same sense as the rest of the peninsula. despotism, which assumed so many forms in italy, was here neither the tyranny of a noble house, nor the masked autocracy of a burgher, nor yet the forceful sway of a condottiere. it had a dynastic character, resembling the monarchy of one of the great european nations, but modified by the peculiar conditions of italian statecraft. owing to this dynastic and monarchical complexion of the neapolitan kingdom, semi-feudal customs flourished in the south far more than in the north of italy. the barons were more powerful; and the destinies of the regno often turned upon their feuds and quarrels with the crown. at the same time the neapolitan despots shared the uneasy circumstances of all italian potentates, owing to the uncertainty of their tenure, both as conquerors and aliens, and also as the nominal vassals of the holy see. the rights of suzerainty which the normans had yielded to the papacy over their southern conquests, and which the popes had arbitrarily exercised in favour of the angevine princes, proved a constant source of peril to the rest of italy by rendering the succession to the crown of naples doubtful. on the extinction of the angevine line, however, the throne was occupied by a prince who had no valid title but that of the sword to its possession. alfonso of aragon conquered naples in , and neglecting his hereditary dominion, settled in his italian capital. possessed with the enthusiasm for literature which was then the ruling passion of the italians, and very liberal to men of learning, alfonso won for himself the surname of magnanimous. on his death, in , he bequeathed his spanish kingdom, together with sicily and sardinia, to his brother, and left the fruits of his italian conquest to his bastard, ferdinand. this ferdinand, whose birth was buried in profound obscurity, was the reigning sovereign in the year . of a cruel and sombre temperament, traitorous and tyrannical, ferdinand was hated by his subjects as much as alfonso had been loved. he possessed, however, to a remarkable degree, the qualities which at that epoch constituted a consummate statesman; and though the history of his reign is the history of plots and conspiracies, of judicial murders and forcible assassinations, of famines produced by iniquitous taxation, and of every kind of diabolical tyranny, ferdinand contrived to hold his own, in the teeth of a rebellious baronage or a maddened population. his political sagacity amounted almost to a prophetic instinct in the last years of his life, when he became aware that the old order was breaking up in italy, and had cause to dread that charles viii. of france would prove his title to the kingdom of naples by force of arms.[ ] such were the component parts of the italian body politic, with the addition of numerous petty principalities and powers, adhering more or less consistently to one or other of the greater states. the whole complex machine was bound together by no sense of common interest, animated by no common purpose, amenable to no central authority. even such community of feeling as one spoken language gives, was lacking. and yet italy distinguished herself clearly from the rest of europe, not merely as a geographical fact, but also as a people intellectually and spiritually one. the rapid rise of humanism had aided in producing this national self-consciousness. every state and every city was absorbed in the recovery of culture and in the development of art and literature. far in advance of the other european nations, the italians regarded the rest of the world as barbarous, priding themselves the while, in spite of mutual jealousies and hatreds, on their italic civilisation. they were enormously wealthy. the resources of the papal treasury, the private fortunes of the florentine bankers, the riches of the venetian merchants might have purchased all that france or germany possessed of value. the single duchy of milan yielded to its masters , golden florins of revenue, according to the computation of de comines. in default of a confederative system, the several states were held in equilibrium by diplomacy. by far the most important people, next to the despots and the captains of adventure, were ambassadors and orators. war itself had become a matter of arrangement, bargain, and diplomacy. the game of stratagem was played by generals who had been friends yesterday and might be friends again to-morrow, with troops who felt no loyalty whatever for the standards under which they listed. to avoid slaughter and to achieve the ends of warfare by parade and demonstration was the interest of every one concerned. looking back upon italy of the fifteenth century, taking account of her religious deadness and moral corruption, estimating the absence of political vigour in the republics and the noxious tyranny of the despots, analysing her lack of national spirit, and comparing her splendid life of cultivated ease with the want of martial energy, we can see but too plainly that contact with a simpler and stronger people could not but produce a terrible catastrophe. the italians themselves, however, were far from comprehending this. centuries of undisturbed internal intrigue had accustomed them to play the game of forfeits with each other, and nothing warned them that the time was come at which diplomacy, finesse, and craft would stand them in ill stead against rapacious conquerors. the storm which began to gather over italy in the year had its first beginning in the north. lodovico sforza's position in the duchy of milan was becoming every day more difficult, when a slight and to all appearances insignificant incident converted his apprehension of danger into panic. it was customary for the states of italy to congratulate a new pope on his election by their ambassadors; and this ceremony had now to be performed for roderigo borgia. lodovico proposed that his envoys should go to rome together with those of venice, naples, and florence; but piero de' medici, whose vanity made him wish to send an embassy in his own name, contrived that lodovico's proposal should be rejected both by florence and the king of naples. so strained was the situation of italian affairs that lodovico saw in this repulse a menace to his own usurped authority. feeling himself isolated among the princes of his country, rebuffed by the medici, and coldly treated by the king of naples, he turned in his anxiety to france, and advised the young king, charles viii., to make good his claim upon the regno. it was a bold move to bring the foreigner thus into italy; and even lodovico, who prided himself upon his sagacity, could not see how things would end. he thought his situation so hazardous, however, that any change must be for the better. moreover, a french invasion of naples would tie the hands of his natural foe, king ferdinand, whose granddaughter, isabella of aragon, had married giovanni galeazzo sforza, and was now the rightful duchess of milan. when the florentine ambassador at milan asked him how he had the courage to expose italy to such peril, his reply betrayed the egotism of his policy: 'you talk to me of italy; but when have i looked italy in the face? no one ever gave a thought to my affairs. i have, therefore, had to give them such security as i could.' charles viii. was young, light-brained, romantic, and ruled by _parvenus_, who had an interest in disturbing the old order of the monarchy. he lent a willing ear to lodovico's invitation, backed as this was by the eloquence and passion of numerous italian refugees and exiles. against the advice of his more prudent counsellors, he taxed all the resources of his kingdom, and concluded treaties on disadvantageous terms with england, germany, and spain, in order that he might be able to concentrate all his attention upon the italian expedition. at the end of the year , it was known that the invasion was resolved upon. gentile becchi, the florentine envoy at the court of france, wrote to piero de' medici: 'if the king succeeds, it is all over with italy--_tutta a bordello._' the extraordinary selfishness of the several italian states at this critical moment deserves to be noticed. the venetians, as paolo antonio soderini described them to piero de' medici, 'are of opinion that to keep quiet, and to see other potentates of italy spending and suffering, cannot but be to their advantage. they trust no one, and feel sure they have enough money to be able at any moment to raise sufficient troops, and so to guide events according to their inclinations.' as the invasion was directed against naples, ferdinand of aragon displayed the acutest sense of the situation. 'frenchmen,' he exclaimed, in what appears like a prophetic passion when contrasted with the cold indifference of others no less really menaced, 'have never come into italy without inflicting ruin; and this invasion, if rightly considered, cannot but bring universal ruin, although it seems to menace us alone.' in his agony ferdinand applied to alexander vi. but the pope looked coldly upon him, because the king of naples, with rare perspicacity, had predicted that his elevation to the papacy would prove disastrous to christendom. alexander preferred to ally himself with venice and milan. upon this ferdinand wrote as follows: 'it seems fated that the popes should leave no peace in italy. we are compelled to fight; but the duke of bari (_i.e._ lodovico sforza) should think what may ensue from the tumult he is stirring up. he who raises this wind will not be able to lay the tempest when he likes. let him look to the past, and he will see how every time that our internal quarrels have brought powers from beyond the alps into italy, these have oppressed and lorded over her.' terribly verified as these words were destined to be,--and they were no less prophetic in their political sagacity than savonarola's prediction of the sword and bloody scourge,--it was now too late to avert the coming ruin. on march , , charles was with his army at lyons. early in september he had crossed the pass of mont genêvre and taken up his quarters in the town of asti. there is no need to describe in detail the holiday march of the french troops through lombardy, tuscany, and rome, until, without having struck a blow of consequence, the gates of naples opened to receive the conqueror upon february , . philippe de comines, who parted from the king at asti and passed the winter as his envoy at venice, has more than once recorded his belief that nothing but the direct interposition of providence could have brought so mad an expedition to so successful a conclusion. 'dieu monstroit conduire l'entreprise,' no sooner, however, was charles installed in naples than the states of italy began to combine against him. lodovico sforza had availed himself of the general confusion consequent upon the first appearance of the french, to poison his nephew. he was, therefore, now the titular, as well as virtual, lord of milan. so far, he had achieved what he desired, and had no further need of charles. the overtures he now made to the venetians and the pope terminated in a league between these powers for the expulsion of the french from italy. germany and spain entered into the same alliance; and de comines, finding himself treated with marked coldness by the signory of venice, despatched a courier to warn charles in naples of the coming danger. after a stay of only fifty days in his new capital, the french king hurried northward. moving quickly through the papal states and tuscany, he engaged his troops in the passes of the apennines near pontremoli, and on july , , took up his quarters in the village of fornovo. de comines reckons that his whole fighting force at this time did not exceed , men, with fourteen pieces of artillery. against him at the opening of the valley was the army of the league, numbering some , men, of whom three-fourths were supplied by venice, the rest by lodovico sforza and the german emperor. francesco gonzaga, marquis of mantua, was the general of the venetian forces; and on him, therefore, fell the real responsibility of the battle. de comines remarks on the imprudence of the allies, who allowed charles to advance as far as fornovo, when it was their obvious policy to have established themselves in the village and so have caught the french troops in a trap. it was a sunday when the french marched down upon fornovo. before them spread the plain of lombardy, and beyond it the white crests of the alps. 'we were,' says de comines, 'in a valley between two little mountain flanks, and in that valley ran a river which could easily be forded on foot, except when it is swelled with sudden rains. the whole valley was a bed of gravel and big stones, very difficult for horses, about a quarter of a league in breadth, and on the right bank lodged our enemies.' any one who has visited fornovo can understand the situation of the two armies. charles occupied the village on the right bank of the taro. on the same bank, extending downward toward the plain, lay the host of the allies; and in order that charles should escape them, it was necessary that he should cross the taro, just below its junction with the ceno, and reach lombardy by marching in a parallel line with his foes. all through the night of sunday it thundered and rained incessantly; so that on the monday morning the taro was considerably swollen. at seven o'clock the king sent for de comines, who found him already armed and mounted on the finest horse he had ever seen. the name of this charger was _savoy_. he was black, one-eyed, and of middling height; and to his great courage, as we shall see, charles owed life upon that day. the french army, ready for the march, now took to the gravelly bed of the taro, passing the river at a distance of about a quarter of a league from the allies. as the french left fornovo, the light cavalry of their enemies entered the village and began to attack the baggage. at the same time the marquis of mantua, with the flower of his men-at-arms, crossed the taro and harassed the rear of the french host; while raids from the right bank to the left were constantly being made by sharpshooters and flying squadrons. 'at this moment,' says de comines, 'not a single man of us could have escaped if our ranks had once been broken.' the french army was divided into three main bodies. the vanguard consisted of some men-at-arms, switzers, archers of the guard, a few mounted crossbow-men, and the artillery. next came the battle, and after this the rearguard. at the time when the marquis of mantua made his attack, the french rearguard had not yet crossed the river. charles quitted the van, put himself at the head of his chivalry, and charged the italian horsemen, driving them back, some to the village and others to their camp. de comines observes, that had the italian knights been supported in this passage of arms by the light cavalry of the venetian force, called stradiots, the french must have been outnumbered, thrown into confusion, and defeated. as it was, these stradiots were engaged in plundering the baggage of the french; and the italians, accustomed to bloodless encounters, did not venture, in spite of their immense superiority of numbers, to renew the charge. in the pursuit of gonzaga's horsemen charles outstripped his staff, and was left almost alone to grapple with a little band of mounted foemen. it was here that his noble horse, savoy, saved his person by plunging and charging till assistance came up from the french, and enabled the king to regain his van. it is incredible, considering the nature of the ground and the number of the troops engaged, that the allies should not have returned to the attack and have made the passage of the french into the plain impossible. de comines, however, assures us that the actual engagement only lasted a quarter of an hour, and the pursuit of the italians three quarters of an hour. after they had once resolved to fly, they threw away their lances and betook themselves to reggio and parma. so complete was their discomfiture, that de comines gravely blames the want of military genius and adventure in the french host. if, instead of advancing along the left bank of the taro and there taking up his quarters for the night, charles had recrossed the stream and pursued the army of the allies, he would have had the whole of lombardy at his discretion. as it was, the french army encamped not far from the scene of the action in great discomfort and anxiety. de comines had to bivouac in a vineyard, without even a mantle to wrap round him, having lent his cloak to the king in the morning; and as it had been pouring all day, the ground could not have afforded very luxurious quarters. the same extraordinary luck which had attended the french in their whole expedition, now favoured their retreat; and the same pusillanimity which the allies had shown at fornovo, prevented them from re-forming and engaging with the army of charles upon the plain. one hour before daybreak on tuesday morning, the french broke up their camp and succeeded in clearing the valley. that night they lodged at fiorenzuola, the next at piacenza, and so on; till on the eighth day they arrived at asti without having been so much as incommoded by the army of the allies in their rear. although the field of fornovo was in reality so disgraceful to the italians, they reckoned it a victory upon the technical pretence that the camp and baggage of the french had been seized. illuminations and rejoicings made the piazza of s. mark in venice gay, and francesco da gonzaga had the glorious madonna della vittoria painted for him by mantegna, in commemoration of what ought only to have been remembered with shame. a fitting conclusion to this sketch, connecting its close with the commencement, may be found in some remarks upon the manner of warfare to which the italians of the renaissance had become accustomed, and which proved so futile on the field of fornovo. during the middle ages, and in the days of the communes, the whole male population of italy had fought light-armed on foot. merchant and artisan left the counting-house and the workshop, took shield and pike, and sallied forth to attack the barons in their castles, or to meet the emperor's troops upon the field. it was with this national militia that the citizens of florence freed their _contado_ of the nobles, and the burghers of lombardy gained the battle of legnano. in course of time, by a process of change which it is not very easy to trace, heavily armed cavalry began to take the place of infantry in mediæval warfare. men-at-arms, as they were called, encased from head to foot in iron, and mounted upon chargers no less solidly caparisoned, drove the foot-soldiers before them at the points of their long lances. nowhere in italy do they seem to have met with the fierce resistance which the bears of the swiss oberland and the bulls of uri offered to the knights of burgundy. no tuscan arnold von winkelried clasped a dozen lances to his bosom that the foeman's ranks might thus be broken at the cost of his own life; nor did it occur to the italian burghers to meet the charge of the horsemen with squares protected by bristling spears. they seem, on the contrary, to have abandoned military service with the readiness of men whose energies were already absorbed in the affairs of peace. to become a practised and efficient man-at-arms required long training and a life's devotion. so much time the burghers of the free towns could not spare to military service, while the petty nobles were only too glad to devote themselves to so honourable a calling. thus it came to pass that a class of professional fighting-men was gradually formed in italy, whose services the burghers and the princes bought, and by whom the wars of the peninsula were regularly farmed by contract. wealth and luxury in the great cities continued to increase; and as the burghers grew more comfortable, they were less inclined to take the field in their own persons, and more disposed to vote large sums of money for the purchase of necessary aid. at the same time this system suited the despots, since it spared them the peril of arming their own subjects, while they taxed them to pay the services of foreign captains. war thus became a commerce. romagna, the marches of ancona, and other parts of the papal dominions, supplied a number of petty nobles whose whole business in life it was to form companies of trained horsemen, and with these bands to hire themselves out to the republics and the despots. gain was the sole purpose of these captains. they sold their service to the highest bidder, fighting irrespectively of principle or patriotism, and passing with the coldest equanimity from the camp of one master to that of his worst foe. it was impossible that true military spirit should survive this prostitution of the art of war. a species of mock warfare prevailed in italy. battles were fought with a view to booty more than victory; prisoners were taken for the sake of ransom; bloodshed was carefully avoided, for the men who fought on either side in any pitched field had been comrades with their present foemen in the last encounter, and who could tell how soon the general of the one host might not need his rival's troops to recruit his own ranks? like every genuine institution of the italian renaissance, warfare was thus a work of fine art, a masterpiece of intellectual subtlety; and like the renaissance itself, this peculiar form of warfare was essentially transitional. the cannon and the musket were already in use; and it only required one blast of gunpowder to turn the sham-fight of courtly, traitorous, finessing captains of adventure into something terribly more real. to men like the marquis of mantua war had been a highly profitable game of skill; to men like the maréchal de gié it was a murderous horseplay; and this difference the italians were not slow to perceive. when they cast away their lances at fornovo, and fled--in spite of their superior numbers--never to return, one fair-seeming sham of the fifteenth century became a vision of the past. * * * * * _florence and the medici_ di firenze in prima si divisono intra loro i nobili, dipoi i nobili e il popolo, e in ultimo il popolo e la plebe; e molte volte occorse che una di queste parti rimasa superiore, si divise in due.--machiavelli. i florence, like all italian cities, owed her independence to the duel of the papacy and empire. the transference of the imperial authority beyond the alps had enabled the burghs of lombardy and tuscany to establish a form of self-government. this government was based upon the old municipal organisation of duumvirs and decemvirs. it was, in fact, nothing more or less than a survival from the ancient roman system. the proof of this was, that while vindicating their rights as towns, the free cities never questioned the validity of the imperial title. even after the peace of constance in , when frederick barbarossa acknowledged their autonomy, they received within their walls a supreme magistrate, with power of life and death and ultimate appeal in all decisive questions, whose title of potestà indicated that he represented the imperial power--potestas. it was not by the assertion of any right, so much as by the growth of custom, and by the weakness of the emperors, that in course of time each city became a sovereign state. the theoretical supremacy of the empire prevented any other authority from taking the first place in italy. on the other hand, the practical inefficiency of the emperors to play their part encouraged the establishment of numerous minor powers amenable to no controlling discipline. the free cities derived their strength from industry, and had nothing in common with the nobles of the surrounding country. broadly speaking, the population of the towns included what remained in italy of the old roman people. this roman stock was nowhere stronger than in florence and venice--florence defended from barbarian incursions by her mountains and marshes, venice by the isolation of her lagoons. the nobles, on the contrary, were mostly of foreign origin--germans, franks, and lombards, who had established themselves as feudal lords in castles apart from the cities. the force which the burghs acquired as industrial communities was soon turned against these nobles. the larger cities, like milan and florence, began to make war upon the lords of castles, and to absorb into their own territory the small towns and villages around them. thus in the social economy of the italians there were two antagonistic elements ready to range themselves beneath any banners that should give the form of legitimate warfare to their mutual hostility. it was the policy of the church in the twelfth century to support the cause of the cities, using them as a weapon against the empire, and stimulating the growing ambition of the burghers. in this way italy came to be divided into the two world-famous factions known as guelf and ghibelline. the struggle between guelf and ghibelline was the struggle of the papacy for the depression of the empire, the struggle of the great burghs face to face with feudalism, the struggle of the old italie stock enclosed in cities with the foreign nobles established in fortresses. when the church had finally triumphed by the extirpation of the house of hohenstaufen, this conflict of guelf and ghibelline was really ended. until the reign of charles v. no emperor interfered to any purpose in italian affairs. at the same time the popes ceased to wield a formidable power. having won the battle by calling in the french, they suffered the consequences of this policy by losing their hold on italy during the long period of their exile at avignon. the italians, left without either pope or emperor, were free to pursue their course of internal development, and to prosecute their quarrels among themselves. but though the names of guelf and ghibelline lost their old significance after the year (the date of king manfred's death), these two factions had so divided italy that they continued to play a prominent part in her annals. guelf still meant constitutional autonomy, meant the burgher as against the noble, meant industry as opposed to feudal lordship. ghibelline meant the rule of the few over the many, meant tyranny, meant the interest of the noble as against the merchant and the citizen. these broad distinctions must be borne in mind, if we seek to understand how it was that a city like florence continued to be governed by parties, the european force of which had passed away. ii florence first rose into importance during the papacy of innocent iii. up to this date she had been a town of second-rate distinction even in tuscany. pisa was more powerful by arms and commerce. lucca was the old seat of the dukes and marquises of tuscany. but between the years and florence assumed the place she was to hold thenceforward, by heading the league of tuscan cities formed to support the guelf party against the ghibellines. formally adopting the guelf cause, the florentines made themselves the champions of municipal liberty in central italy; and while they declared war against the ghibelline cities, they endeavoured to stamp out the very name of noble in their state. it is not needful to describe the varying fortunes of the guelfs and ghibellines, the burghers and the nobles, during the thirteenth and the first half of the fourteenth centuries. suffice it to say that through all the vicissitudes of that stormy period the name guelf became more and more associated with republican freedom in florence. at last, after the final triumph of that party in , the guelfs remained victors in the city. associating the glory of their independence with guelf principles, the citizens of florence perpetuated within their state a faction that, in its turn, was destined to prove perilous to liberty. when it became clear that the republic was to rule itself henceforth untrammelled by imperial interference, the people divided themselves into six districts, and chose for each district two ancients, who administered the government in concert with the potestà and the captain of the people. the ancients were a relic of the old roman municipal organisation. the potestà who was invariably a noble foreigner selected by the people, represented the extinct imperial right, and exercised the power of life and death within the city. the captain of the people, who was also a foreigner, headed the burghers in their military capacity, for at that period the troops were levied from the citizens themselves in twenty companies. the body of the citizens, or the _popolo_, were ultimately sovereigns in the state. assembled under the banners of their several companies, they formed a _parlamento_ for delegating their own power to each successive government. their representatives, again, arranged in two councils, called the council of the people and the council of the commune, under the presidency of the captain of the people and the potestà, ratified the measures which had previously been proposed and carried by the executive authority or signoria. under this simple state system the florentines placed themselves at the head of the tuscan league, fought the battles of the church, asserted their sovereignty by issuing the golden florin of the republic, and flourished until . iii in that year an important change was effected in the constitution. the whole population of florence consisted, on the one hand, of nobles or grandi, as they were called in tuscany, and on the other hand of working people. the latter, divided into traders and handicraftsmen, were distributed in guilds called arti; and at that time there were seven greater and five lesser arti, the most influential of all being the guild of the wool merchants. these guilds had their halls for meeting, their colleges of chief officers, their heads, called consoli or priors, and their flags. in it was decided that the administration of the commonwealth should be placed simply and wholly in the hands of the arti, and the priors of these industrial companies became the lords or signory of florence. no inhabitant of the city who had not enrolled himself as a craftsman in one of the guilds could exercise any function of burghership. to be _scioperato_, or without industry, was to be without power, without rank or place of honour in the state. the revolution which placed the arts at the head of the republic had the practical effect of excluding the grandi altogether from the government. violent efforts were made by these noble families, potent through their territorial possessions and foreign connections, and trained from boyhood in the use of arms, to recover the place from which the new laws thrust them: but their menacing attitude, instead of intimidating the burghers, roused their anger and drove them to the passing of still more stringent laws. in , after the ghibellines had been defeated in the great battle of campaldino, a series of severe enactments, called the ordinances of justice, were decreed against the unruly grandi. all civic rights were taken from them; the severest penalties were attached to their slightest infringement of municipal law; their titles to land were limited; the privilege of living within the city walls was allowed them only under galling restrictions; and, last not least, a supreme magistrate, named the gonfalonier of justice, was created for the special purpose of watching them and carrying out the penal code against them. henceforward florence was governed exclusively by merchants and artisans. the grandi hastened to enrol themselves in the guilds, exchanging their former titles and dignities for the solid privilege of burghership. the exact parallel to this industrial constitution for a commonwealth, carrying on wars with emperors and princes, holding haughty captains in its pay, and dictating laws to subject cities, cannot, i think, be elsewhere found in history. it is as unique as the florence of dante and giotto is unique. while the people was guarding itself thus stringently against the grandi, a separate body was created for the special purpose of extirpating the ghibellines. a permanent committee of vigilance, called the college or the captains of the guelf party, was established. it was their function to administer the forfeited possessions of ghibelline rebels, to hunt out suspected citizens, to prosecute them for ghibellinism, to judge them, and to punish them as traitors to the commonwealth. this body, like a little state within the state, proved formidable to the republic itself through the unlimited and undefined sway it exercised over burghers whom it chose to tax with treason. in course of time it became the oligarchical element within the florentine democracy, and threatened to change the free constitution of the city into a government conducted by a few powerful families. there is no need to dwell in detail on the internal difficulties of florence during the first half of the fourteenth century. two main circumstances, however, require to be briefly noticed. these are (i) the contest of the blacks and whites, so famous through the part played in it by dante; and (ii) the tyranny of the duke[ ] of athens, walter de brienne. the feuds of the blacks and whites broke up the city into factions, and produced such anarchy that at last it was found necessary to place the republic under the protection of foreign potentates. charles of valois was first chosen, and after him the duke of athens, who took up his residence in the city. entrusted with dictatorial authority, he used his power to form a military despotism. though his reign of violence lasted rather less than a year, it bore important fruits; for the tyrant, seeking to support himself upon the favour of the common people, gave political power to the lesser arts at the expense of the greater, and confused the old state-system by enlarging the democracy. the net result of these events for florence was, first, that the city became habituated to rancorous party-strife, involving exiles and proscriptions; and, secondly, that it lost its primitive social hierarchy of classes. iv after the guelfs had conquered the ghibellines, and the people had absorbed the grandi in their guilds, the next chapter in the troubled history of florence was the division of the popolo against itself. civil strife now declared itself as a conflict between labour and capital. the members of the lesser arts, craftsmen who plied trades subordinate to those of the greater arts, rose up against their social and political superiors, demanding a larger share in the government, a more equal distribution of profits, higher wages, and privileges that should place them on an absolute equality with the wealthy merchants. it was in the year that the proletariate broke out into rebellion. previous events had prepared the way for this revolt. first of all, the republic had been democratised through the destruction of the grandi and through the popular policy pursued to gain his own ends by the duke of athens. secondly, society had been shaken to its very foundation by the great plague of . both boccaccio and matteo villani draw lively pictures of the relaxed morality and loss of order consequent upon this terrible disaster; nor had thirty years sufficed to restore their relative position to grades and ranks confounded by an overwhelming calamity. we may therefore reckon the great plague of among the causes which produced the anarchy of . rising in a mass to claim their privileges, the artisans ejected the signory from the public palace, and for awhile florence was at the mercy of the mob. it is worthy of notice that the medici, whose name is scarcely known before this epoch, now came for one moment to the front. salvestro de' medici was gonfalonier of justice at the time when the tumult first broke out. he followed the faction of the handicraftsmen, and became the hero of the day. i cannot discover that he did more than extend a sort of passive protection to their cause. yet there is no doubt that the attachment of the working classes to the house of medici dates from this period. the rebellion of is known in florentine history as the tumult of the ciompi. the name ciompi strictly means the wool-carders. one set of operatives in the city, and that the largest, gave its title to the whole body of the labourers. for some months these craftsmen governed the republic, appointing their own signory and passing laws in their own interest; but, as is usual, the proletariate found itself incapable of sustained government. the ambition and discontent of the ciompi foamed themselves away, and industrious working men began to see that trade was languishing and credit on the wane. by their own act at last they restored the government to the priors of the greater arti. still the movement had not been without grave consequences. it completed the levelling of classes, which had been steadily advancing from the first in florence. after the ciompi riot there was no longer not only any distinction between noble and burgher, but the distinction between greater and lesser guilds was practically swept away. the classes, parties, and degrees in the republic were so broken up, ground down, and mingled, that thenceforth the true source of power in the state was wealth combined with personal ability. in other words, the proper political conditions had been formed for unscrupulous adventurers. florence had become a democracy without social organisation, which might fall a prey to oligarchs or despots. what remained of deeply rooted feuds or factions--animosities against the grandi, hatred for the ghibellines, jealousy of labour and capital--offered so many points of leverage for stirring the passions of the people and for covering personal ambition with a cloak of public zeal. the time was come for the albizzi to attempt an oligarchy, and for the medici to begin the enslavement of the state. v the constitution of florence offered many points of weakness to the attacks of such intriguers. in the first place it was in its origin not a political but an industrial organisation--a simple group of guilds invested with the sovereign authority. its two most powerful engines, the gonfalonier of justice and the guelf college, had been formed, not with a view to the preservation of the government, but with the purpose of quelling the nobles and excluding a detested faction. it had no permanent head, like the doge of venice; no fixed senate like the venetian grand council; its chief magistrates, the signory, were elected for short periods of two months, and their mode of election was open to the gravest criticism. supposed to be chosen by lot, they were really selected from lists drawn up by the factions in power from time to time. these factions contrived to exclude the names of all but their adherents from the bags, or _borse_, in which the burghers eligible for election had to be inscribed. furthermore, it was not possible for this shifting signory to conduct affairs requiring sustained effort and secret deliberation; therefore recourse was being continually had to dictatorial commissions. the people, summoned in parliament upon the great square, were asked to confer plenipotentiary authority upon a committee called _balia_, who proceeded to do what they chose in the state, and who retained power after the emergency for which they were created passed away. the same instability in the supreme magistracy led to the appointment of special commissioners for war, and special councils, or _pratiche_, for the management of each department. such supplementary commissions not only proved the weakness of the central authority, but they were always liable to be made the instruments of party warfare. the guelf college was another and a different source of danger to the state. not acting under the control of the signory, but using its own initiative, this powerful body could proscribe and punish burghers on the mere suspicion of ghibellinism. though the ghibelline faction had become an empty name, the guelf college excluded from the franchise all and every whom they chose on any pretext to admonish. under this mild phrase, _to admonish_, was concealed a cruel exercise of tyranny--it meant to warn a man that he was suspected of treason, and that he had better relinquish the exercise of his burghership. by free use of this engine of admonition, the guelf college rendered their enemies voiceless in the state, and were able to pack the signory and the councils with their own creatures. another important defect in the florentine constitution was the method of imposing taxes. this was done by no regular system. the party in power made what estimate it chose of a man's capacity to bear taxation, and called upon him for extraordinary loans. in this way citizens were frequently driven into bankruptcy and exile; and since to be a debtor to the state deprived a burgher of his civic rights, severe taxation was one of the best ways of silencing and neutralising a dissentient. i have enumerated these several causes of weakness in the florentine state-system, partly because they show how irregularly the constitution had been formed by the patching and extension of a simple industrial machine to suit the needs of a great commonwealth; partly because it was through these defects that the democracy merged gradually into a despotism. the art of the medici consisted in a scientific comprehension of these very imperfections, a methodic use of them for their own purposes, and a steady opposition to any attempts made to substitute a stricter system. the florentines had determined to be an industrial community, governing themselves on the co-operative principle, dividing profits, sharing losses, and exposing their magistrates to rigid scrutiny. all this in theory was excellent. had they remained an unambitious and peaceful commonwealth, engaged in the wool and silk trade, it might have answered. modern europe might have admired the model of a communistic and commercial democracy. but when they engaged in aggressive wars, and sought to enslave sister-cities like pisa and lucca, it was soon found that their simple trading constitution would not serve. they had to piece it out with subordinate machinery, cumbrous, difficult to manage, ill-adapted to the original structure. each limb of this subordinate machinery, moreover, was a _point d'appui_ for insidious and self-seeking party leaders. florence, in the middle of the fourteenth century, was a vast beehive of industry. distinctions of rank among burghers, qualified to vote and hold office, were theoretically unknown. highly educated men, of more than princely wealth, spent their time in shops and counting-houses, and trained their sons to follow trades. military service at this period was abandoned by the citizens; they preferred to pay mercenary troops for the conduct of their wars. nor was there, as in venice, any outlet for their energies upon the seas. florence had no navy, no great port--she only kept a small fleet for the protection of her commerce. thus the vigour of the commonwealth was concentrated on itself; while the influence of the citizens, through their affiliated trading-houses, correspondents, and agents, extended like a network over europe. in a community of this kind it was natural that wealth--rank and titles being absent--should alone confer distinction. accordingly we find that out of the very bosom of the people a new plutocratic aristocracy begins to rise. the grandi are no more; but certain families achieve distinction by their riches, their numbers, their high spirit, and their ancient place of honour in the state. these nobles of the purse obtained the name of _popolani nobili_; and it was they who now began to play at high stakes for the supreme power. in all the subsequent vicissitudes of florence every change takes place by intrigue and by clever manipulation of the political machine. recourse is rarely had to violence of any kind, and the leaders of revolutions are men of the yard-measure, never of the sword. the despotism to which the republic eventually succumbed was no less commercial than the democracy had been. florence in the days of her slavery remained a _popolo_. vi the opening of the second half of the fourteenth century had been signalised by the feuds of two great houses, both risen from the people. these were the albizzi and the ricci. at this epoch there had been a formal closing of the lists of burghers;--henceforth no new families who might settle in the city could claim the franchise, vote in the assemblies, or hold magistracies. the guelf college used their old engine of admonition to persecute _novi homines_, whom they dreaded as opponents. at the head of this formidable organisation the albizzi placed themselves, and worked it with such skill that they succeeded in driving the ricci out of all participation in the government. the tumult of the ciompi formed but an episode in their career toward oligarchy; indeed, that revolution only rendered the political material of the florentine republic more plastic in the hands of intriguers, by removing the last vestiges of class distinctions and by confusing the old parties of the state. when the florentines in engaged in their long duel with gian galeazzo visconti, the difficulty of conducting this war without some permanent central authority still further confirmed the power of the rising oligarchs. the albizzi became daily more autocratic, until in their chief, maso degli albizzi, a man of strong will and prudent policy, was chosen gonfalonier of justice. assuming the sway of a dictator he revised the list of burghers capable of holding office, struck out the private opponents of his house, and excluded all names but those of powerful families who were well affected towards an aristocratic government. the great house of the alberti were exiled in a body, declared rebels, and deprived of their possessions, for no reason except that they seemed dangerous to the albizzi. it was in vain that the people murmured against these arbitrary acts. the new rulers were omnipotent in the signory, which they packed with their own men, in the great guilds, and in the guelf college. all the machinery invented by the industrial community for its self-management and self-defence was controlled and manipulated by a close body of aristocrats, with the albizzi at their head. it seemed as though florence, without any visible alteration in her forms of government, was rapidly becoming an oligarchy even less open than the venetian republic. meanwhile the affairs of the state were most flourishing. the strong-handed masters of the city not only held the duke of milan in check, and prevented him from turning italy into a kingdom; they furthermore acquired the cities of pisa, livorno, arezzo, montepulciano, and cortona, for florence, making her the mistress of all tuscany, with the exception of siena, lucca, and volterra. maso degli albizzi was the ruling spirit of the commonwealth, spending the enormous sum of , , golden florins on war, raising sumptuous edifices, protecting the arts, and acting in general like a powerful and irresponsible prince. in spite of public prosperity there were signs, however, that this rule of a few families could not last. their government was only maintained by continual revision of the lists of burghers, by elimination of the disaffected, and by unremitting personal industry. they introduced no new machinery into the constitution whereby the people might be deprived of its titular sovereignty, or their own dictatorship might be continued with a semblance of legality. again, they neglected to win over the new nobles (_nobili popolani_) in a body to their cause; and thus they were surrounded by rivals ready to spring upon them when a false step should be made. the albizzi oligarchy was a masterpiece of art, without any force to sustain it but the craft and energy of its constructors. it had not grown up, like the venetian oligarchy, by the gradual assimilation to itself of all the vigour in the state. it was bound, sooner or later, to yield to the renascent impulse of democracy inherent in florentine institutions. vii maso degli albizzi died in . he was succeeded in the government by his old friend, niccolo da uzzano, a man of great eloquence and wisdom, whose single word swayed the councils of the people as he listed. together with him acted maso's son, rinaldo, a youth of even more brilliant talents than his father, frank, noble, and high-spirited, but far less cautious. the oligarchy, which these two men undertook to manage, had accumulated against itself the discontent of overtaxed, disfranchised, jealous burghers. the times, too, were bad. pursuing the policy of maso, the albizzi engaged the city in a tedious and unsuccessful war with filippo maria visconti, which cost , golden florins, and brought no credit. in order to meet extraordinary expenses they raised new public loans, thereby depreciating the value of the old florentine funds. "what was worse, they imposed forced subsidies with grievous inequality upon the burghers, passing over their friends and adherents, and burdening their opponents with more than could be borne. this imprudent financial policy began the ruin of the albizzi. it caused a clamour in the city for a new system of more just taxation, which was too powerful to be resisted. the voice of the people made itself loudly heard; and with the people on this occasion sided giovanni de' medici. this was in . it is here that the medici appear upon that memorable scene where in the future they are to play the first part. giovanni de' medici did not belong to the same branch of his family as the salvestro who favoured the people at the time of the ciompi tumult. but he adopted the same popular policy. to his sons cosimo and lorenzo he bequeathed on his deathbed the rule that they should invariably adhere to the cause of the multitude, found their influence on that, and avoid the arts of factious and ambitious leaders. in his own life he had pursued this course of conduct, acquiring a reputation for civic moderation and impartiality that endeared him to the people and stood his children in good stead. early in his youth giovanni found himself almost destitute by reason of the imposts charged upon him by the oligarchs. he possessed, however, the genius for money-making to a rare degree, and passed his manhood as a banker, amassing the largest fortune of any private citizen in italy. in his old age he devoted himself to the organisation of his colossal trading business, and abstained, as far as possible, from political intrigues. men observed that they rarely met him in the public palace or on the great square. cosimo de' medici was thirty years old when his father giovanni died, in . during his youth he had devoted all his time and energy to business, mastering the complicated affairs of giovanni's banking-house, and travelling far and wide through europe to extend its connections. this education made him a consummate financier; and those who knew him best were convinced that his ambition was set on great things. however quietly he might begin, it was clear that he intended to match himself, as a leader of the plebeians, against the albizzi. the foundations he prepared for future action were equally characteristic of the man, of florence, and of the age. commanding the enormous capital of the medicean bank he contrived, at any sacrifice of temporary convenience, to lend money to the state for war expenses, engrossing in his own hands a large portion of the public debt of florence. at the same time his agencies in various european capitals enabled him to keep his own wealth floating far beyond the reach of foes within the city. a few years of this system ended in so complete a confusion between cosimo's trade and the finances of florence that the bankruptcy of the medici, however caused, would have compromised the credit of the state and the fortunes of the fund-holders. cosimo, in a word, made himself necessary to florence by the wise use of his riches. furthermore, he kept his eye upon the list of burghers, lending money to needy citizens, putting good things in the way of struggling traders, building up the fortunes of men who were disposed to favour his party in the state, ruining his opponents by the legitimate process of commercial competition, and, when occasion offered, introducing new voters into the florentine council by paying off the debts of those who were disqualified by poverty from using the franchise. while his capital was continually increasing he lived frugally, and employed his wealth solely for the consolidation of his political influence. by these arts cosimo became formidable to the oligarchs and beloved by the people. his supporters were numerous, and held together by the bonds of immediate necessity or personal cupidity. the plebeians and the merchants were all on his side. the grandi and the ammoniti, excluded from the state by the practices of the albizzi, had more to hope from the medicean party than from the few families who still contrived to hold the reins of government. it was clear that a conflict to the death must soon commence between the oligarchy and this new faction. viii at last, in , war was declared. the first blow was struck by rinaldo degli albizzi, who put himself in the wrong by attacking a citizen indispensable to the people at large, and guilty of no unconstitutional act. on september th of that year, a year decisive for the future destinies of florence, he summoned cosimo to the public palace, which he had previously occupied with troops at his command. there he declared him a rebel to the state, and had him imprisoned in a little square room in the central tower. the tocsin was sounded; the people were assembled in parliament upon the piazza. the albizzi held the main streets with armed men, and forced the florentines to place plenipotentiary power for the administration of the commonwealth at this crisis in the hands of a balia, or committee selected by themselves. it was always thus that acts of high tyranny were effected in florence. a show of legality was secured by gaining the compulsory sanction of the people, driven by soldiery into the public square, and hastily ordered to recognise the authority of their oppressors. the bill of indictment against the medici accused them of sedition in the year --that is, in the year of the ciompi tumult--and of treasonable practice during the whole course of the albizzi administration. it also strove to fix upon them the odium of the unsuccessful war against the town of lucca. as soon as the albizzi had unmasked their batteries, lorenzo de' medici managed to escape from the city, and took with him his brother cosimo's children to venice. cosimo remained shut up within the little room called barberia in arnolfo's tower. from that high eagle's nest the sight can range valdarno far and wide. florence with her towers and domes lies below; and the blue peaks of carrara close a prospect westward than which, with its villa-jewelled slopes and fertile gardens, there is nought more beautiful upon the face of earth. the prisoner can have paid but little heed to this fair landscape. he heard the frequent ringing of the great bell that called the florentines to council, the tramp of armed men on the piazza, the coming and going of the burghers in the palace halls beneath. on all sides lurked anxiety and fear of death. each mouthful he tasted might be poisoned. for many days he partook of only bread and water, till his gaoler restored his confidence by sharing all his meals. in this peril he abode twenty-four days. the albizzi, in concert with the balia they had formed, were consulting what they might venture to do with him. some voted for his execution. others feared the popular favour, and thought that if they killed cosimo this act would ruin their own power. the nobler natures among them determined to proceed by constitutional measures. at last, upon september th, it was settled that cosimo should be exiled to padua for ten years. the medici were declared grandi, by way of excluding them from political rights. but their property remained untouched; and on october rd, cosimo was released. on the same day cosimo took his departure. his journey northward resembled a triumphant progress. he left florence a simple burgher; he entered venice a powerful prince. though the albizzi seemed to have gained the day, they had really cut away the ground beneath their feet. they committed the fatal mistake of doing both too much and too little--too much because they declared war against an innocent man, and roused the sympathies of the whole people in his behalf; too little, because they had not the nerve to complete their act by killing him outright and extirpating his party. machiavelli, in one of his profoundest and most cynical critiques, remarks that few men know how to be thoroughly bad with honour to themselves. their will is evil; but the grain of good in them--some fear of public opinion, some repugnance to committing a signal crime--paralyses their arm at the moment when it ought to have been raised to strike. he instances gian paolo baglioni's omission to murder julius ii., when that pope placed himself within his clutches at perugia. he might also have instanced rinaldo degli albizzi's refusal to push things to extremities by murdering cosimo. it was the combination of despotic violence in the exile of cosimo with constitutional moderation in the preservation of his life, that betrayed the weakness of the oligarchs and restored confidence to the medicean party. ix in the course of the year this party began to hold up its head. powerful as the albizzi were, they only retained the government by artifice; and now they had done a deed which put at nought their former arts and intrigues. a signory favourable to the medici came into office, and on september th, , rinaldo in his turn was summoned to the palace and declared a rebel. he strove to raise the forces of his party, and entered the piazza at the head of eight hundred men. the menacing attitude of the people, however, made resistance perilous. rinaldo disbanded his troops, and placed himself under the protection of pope eugenius iv., who was then resident in florence. this act of submission proved that rinaldo had not the courage or the cruelty to try the chance of civil war. whatever his motives may have been, he lost his hold upon the state beyond recovery. on september th, a new parliament was summoned; on october nd, cosimo was recalled from exile and the albizzi were banished. the intercession of the pope procured for them nothing but the liberty to leave florence unmolested. einaldo turned his back upon the city he had governed, never to set foot in it again. on october th, cosimo, having passed through padua, ferrara, and modena like a conqueror, reentered the town amid the plaudits of the people, and took up his dwelling as an honoured guest in the palace of the republic. the subsequent history of florence is the history of his family. in after years the medici loved to remember this return of cosimo. his triumphal reception was painted in fresco on the walls of their villa at cajano under the transparent allegory of cicero's entrance into rome. x by their brief exile the medici had gained the credit of injured innocence, the fame of martyrdom in the popular cause. their foes had struck the first blow, and in striking at them had seemed to aim against the liberties of the republic. the mere failure of their adversaries to hold the power they had acquired, handed over this power to the medici; and the reprisals which the medici began to take had the show of justice, not of personal hatred, or petty vengeance. cosimo was a true florentine. he disliked violence, because he knew that blood spilt cries for blood. his passions, too, were cool and temperate. no gust of anger, no intoxication of success, destroyed his balance. his one object, the consolidation of power for his family on the basis of popular favour, was kept steadily in view; and he would do nothing that might compromise that end. yet he was neither generous nor merciful. we therefore find that from the first moment of his return to florence he instituted a system of pitiless and unforgiving persecution against his old opponents. the albizzi were banished, root and branch, with all their followers, consigned to lonely and often to unwholesome stations through the length and breadth of italy. if they broke the bonds assigned them, they were forthwith declared traitors and their property was confiscated. after a long series of years, by merely keeping in force the first sentence pronounced upon them, cosimo had the cruel satisfaction of seeing the whole of that proud oligarchy die out by slow degrees in the insufferable tedium of solitude and exile. even the high-souled palla degli strozzi, who had striven to remain neutral, and whose wealth and talents were devoted to the revival of classical studies, was proscribed because to cosimo he seemed too powerful. separated from his children, he died in banishment at padua. in this way the return of the medici involved the loss to florence of some noble citizens, who might perchance have checked the medicean tyranny if they had stayed to guide the state. the plebeians, raised to wealth and influence by cosimo before his exile, now took the lead in the republic. he used these men as catspaws, rarely putting himself forward or allowing his own name to appear, but pulling the wires of government in privacy by means of intermediate agents. the medicean party was called at first _puccini_ from a certain puccio, whose name was better known in caucus or committee than that of his real master. to rule through these creatures of his own making taxed all the ingenuity of cosimo; but his profound and subtle intellect was suited to the task, and he found unlimited pleasure in the exercise of his consummate craft. we have already seen to what extent he used his riches for the acquisition of political influence. now that he had come to power, he continued the same method, packing the signory and the councils with men whom he could hold by debt between his thumb and finger. his command of the public moneys enabled him to wink at peculation in state offices; it was part of his system to bind magistrates and secretaries to his interest by their consciousness of guilt condoned but not forgotten. not a few, moreover, owed their living to the appointments he procured for them. while he thus controlled the wheel-work of the commonwealth by means of organised corruption, he borrowed the arts of his old enemies to oppress dissentient citizens. if a man took an independent line in voting, and refused allegiance to the medicean party, he was marked out for persecution. no violence was used; but he found himself hampered in his commerce--money, plentiful for others, became scarce for him; his competitors in trade were subsidised to undersell him. and while the avenues of industry were closed, his fortune was taxed above its value, until he had to sell at a loss in order to discharge his public obligations. in the first twenty years of the medicean rule, seventy families had to pay , , golden florins of extraordinary imposts, fixed by arbitrary assessment. the more patriotic members of his party looked with dread and loathing on this system of corruption and exclusion. to their remonstrances cosimo replied in four memorable sayings: 'better the state spoiled than the state not ours.' 'governments cannot be carried on with paternosters.' 'an ell of scarlet makes a burgher.' 'i aim at finite ends.' these maxims represent the whole man,--first, in his egotism, eager to gain florence for his family, at any risk of her ruin; secondly, in his cynical acceptance of base means to selfish ends; thirdly, in his bourgeois belief that money makes a man, and fine clothes suffice for a citizen; fourthly, in his worldly ambition bent on positive success. it was, in fact, his policy to reduce florence to the condition of a rotten borough: nor did this policy fail. one notable sign of the influence he exercised was the change which now came over the foreign relations of the republic. up to the date of his dictatorship florence had uniformly fought the battle of freedom in italy. it was the chief merit of the albizzi oligarchy that they continued the traditions of the mediæval state, and by their vigorous action checked the growth of the visconti. though they engrossed the government they never forgot that they were first of all things florentines, and only in the second place men who owed their power and influence to office. in a word, they acted like patriotic tories, like republican patricians. therefore they would not ally themselves with tyrants or countenance the enslavement of free cities by armed despots. their subjugation of the tuscan burghs to florence was itself part of a grand republican policy. cosimo changed all this. when the visconti dynasty ended by the death of filippo maria in , there was a chance of restoring the independence of lombardy. milan in effect declared herself a republic, and by the aid of florence she might at this moment have maintained her liberty. cosimo, however, entered into treaty with francesco sforza, supplied him with money, guaranteed him against florentine interference, and saw with satisfaction how he reduced the duchy to his military tyranny. the medici were conscious that they, selfishly, had most to gain by supporting despots who in time of need might help them to confirm their own authority. with the same end in view, when the legitimate line of the bentivogli was extinguished, cosimo hunted out a bastard pretender of that family, presented him to the chiefs of the bentivogli faction, and had him placed upon the seat of his supposed ancestors at bologna. this young man, a certain santi da cascese, presumed to be the son of ercole de' bentivogli, was an artisan in a wool factory when cosimo set eyes upon him. at first santi refused the dangerous honour of governing a proud republic; but the intrigues of cosimo prevailed, and the obscure craftsman ended his days a powerful prince. by the arts i have attempted to describe, cosimo in the course of his long life absorbed the forces of the republic into himself. while he shunned the external signs of despotic power he made himself the master of the state. his complexion was of a pale olive; his stature short; abstemious and simple in his habits, affable in conversation, sparing of speech, he knew how to combine that burgher-like civility for which the romans praised augustus, with the reality of a despotism all the more difficult to combat because it seemed nowhere and was everywhere. when he died, at the age of seventy-five, in , the people whom he had enslaved, but whom he had neither injured nor insulted, honoured him with the title of _pater patriæ_. this was inscribed upon his tomb in s. lorenzo. he left to posterity the fame of a great and generous patron,[ ] the infamy of a cynical, self-seeking, bourgeois tyrant. such combinations of contradictory qualities were common enough at the time of the renaissance. did not machiavelli spend his days in tavern-brawls and low amours, his nights among the mighty spirits of the dead, with whom, when he had changed his country suit of homespun for the habit of the court, he found himself an honoured equal? xi cosimo had shown consummate skill by governing florence through a party created and raised to influence by himself. the jealousy of these adherents formed the chief difficulty with which his son piero had to contend. unless the medici could manage to kick down the ladder whereby they had risen, they ran the risk of losing all. as on a former occasion, so now they profited by the mistakes of their antagonists. three chief men of their own party, diotisalvi neroni, agnolo acciaiuoli, and luca pitti, determined to shake off the yoke of their masters, and to repay the medici for what they owed by leading them to ruin. niccolo soderini, a patriot, indignant at the slow enslavement of his country, joined them. at first they strove to undermine the credit of the medici with the florentines by inducing piero to call in the moneys placed at interest by his father in the hands of private citizens. this act was unpopular; but it did not suffice to move a revolution. to proceed by constitutional measures against the medici was judged impolitic. therefore the conspirators decided to take, if possible, piero's life. the plot failed, chiefly owing to the coolness and the cunning of the young lorenzo, piero's eldest son. public sympathy was strongly excited against the aggressors. neroni, acciaiuoli, and soderini were exiled. pitti was allowed to stay, dishonoured, powerless, and penniless, in florence. meanwhile, the failure of their foes had only served to strengthen the position of the medici. the ladder had saved them the trouble of kicking it down. the congratulations addressed on this occasion to piero and lorenzo by the ruling powers of italy show that the medici were already regarded as princes outside florence. lorenzo and giuliano, the two sons of piero, travelled abroad to the courts of milan and ferrara with the style and state of more than simple citizens. at home they occupied the first place on all occasions of public ceremony, receiving royal visitors on terms of equality, and performing the hospitalities of the republic like men who had been born to represent its dignities. lorenzo's marriage to clarice orsini, of the noble roman house, was another sign that the medici were advancing on the way toward despotism. cosimo had avoided foreign alliances for his children. his descendants now judged themselves firmly planted enough to risk the odium of a princely match for the sake of the support outside the city they might win. xii piero de' medici died in december . his son lorenzo was then barely twenty-two years of age. the chiefs of the medicean party, all-powerful in the state, held a council, in which they resolved to place him in the same position as his father and grandfather. this resolve seems to have been formed after mature deliberation, on the ground that the existing conditions of italian politics rendered it impossible to conduct the government without a presidential head. florence, though still a democracy, required a permanent chief to treat on an equality with the princes of the leading cities. here we may note the prudence of cosimo's foreign policy. when he helped to establish despots in milan and bologna he was rendering the presidency of his own family in florence necessary. lorenzo, having received this invitation, called attention to his youth and inexperience. yet he did not refuse it; and, after a graceful display of diffidence, he accepted the charge, entering thus upon that famous political career, in the course of which he not only established and maintained a balance of power in italy, with florence for the central city, but also contrived to remodel the government of the republic in the interest of his own family and to strengthen the medici by relations with the papal see. the extraordinary versatility of this man's intellectual and social gifts, his participation in all the literary and philosophical interests of his century, his large and liberal patronage of art, and the gaiety with which he joined the people of florence in their pastimes--mayday games and carnival festivities--strengthened his hold upon the city in an age devoted to culture and refined pleasure. whatever was most brilliant in the spirit of the italian benaissance seemed to be incarnate in lorenzo. not merely as a patron and a dilettante, but as a poet and a critic, a philosopher and scholar, he proved himself adequate to the varied intellectual ambitions of his country. penetrated with the passion for erudition which distinguished florence in the fifteenth century, familiar with her painters and her sculptors, deeply read in the works of her great poets, he conceived the ideal of infusing the spirit of antique civility into modern life, and of effecting for society what the artists were performing in their own sphere. to preserve the native character of the florentine genius, while he added the grace of classic form, was the aim to which his tastes and instincts led him. at the same time, while he made himself the master of florentine revels and the augustus of renaissance literature, he took care that beneath his carnival masks and ball-dress should be concealed the chains which he was forging for the republic. what he lacked, with so much mental brilliancy, was moral greatness. the age he lived in was an age of selfish despots, treacherous generals, godless priests. it was an age of intellectual vigour and artistic creativeness; but it was also an age of mean ambition, sordid policy, and vitiated principles. lorenzo remained true in all respects to the genius of this age: true to its enthusiasm for antique culture, true to its passion for art, true to its refined love of pleasure; but true also to its petty political intrigues, to its cynical selfishness, to its lack of heroism. for florence he looked no higher and saw no further than cosimo had done. if culture was his pastime, the enslavement of the city by bribery and corruption was the hard work of his manhood. as is the case with much renaissance art, his life was worth more for its decorative detail than for its constructive design. in richness, versatility, variety, and exquisiteness of execution, it left little to be desired; yet, viewed at a distance, and as a whole, it does not inspire us with a sense of architectonic majesty. xiii lorenzo's chief difficulties arose from the necessity under which, like cosimo, he laboured of governing the city through its old institutions by means of a party. to keep the members of this party in good temper, and to gain their approval for the alterations he effected in the state machinery of florence, was the problem of his life. the successful solution of this problem was easier now, after two generations of the medicean ascendency, than it had been at first. meanwhile the people were maintained in good humour by public shows, ease, plenty, and a general laxity of discipline. the splendour of lorenzo's foreign alliances and the consideration he received from all the courts of italy contributed in no small measure to his popularity and security at home. by using his authority over florence to inspire respect abroad, and by using his foreign credit to impose upon the burghers, lorenzo displayed the tact of a true italian diplomatist. his genius for statecraft, as then understood, was indeed of a rare order, equally adapted to the conduct of a complicated foreign policy and to the control of a suspicious and variable commonwealth. in one point alone he was inferior to his grandfather. he neglected commerce, and allowed his banking business to fall into disorder so hopeless that in course of time he ceased to be solvent. meanwhile his personal expenses, both as a prince in his own palace, and as the representative of majesty in florence, continually increased. the bankruptcy of the medici, it had long been foreseen, would involve the public finances in serious confusion. and now, in order to retrieve his fortunes, lorenzo was not only obliged to repudiate his debts to the exchequer, but had also to gain complete disposal of the state purse. it was this necessity that drove him to effect the constitutional revolution of , by which he substituted a privy council of seventy members for the old councils of the state, absorbing the chief functions of the commonwealth into this single body, whom he practically nominated at pleasure. the same want of money led to the great scandal of his reign--the plundering of the monte delle doti, or state insurance office fund for securing dowers to the children of its creditors. xiv while tracing the salient points of lorenzo de' medici's administration i have omitted to mention the important events which followed shortly after his accession to power in . what happened between that date and was not only decisive for the future fortunes of the casa medici, but it was also eminently characteristic of the perils and the difficulties which beset italian despots. the year was signalised by a visit by the duke galeazzo maria sforza of milan, and his wife bona of savoy, to the medici in florence. they came attended by their whole court--body guards on horse and foot, ushers, pages, falconers, grooms, kennel-varlets, and huntsmen. omitting the mere baggage service, their train counted two thousand horses. to mention this incident would be superfluous, had not so acute an observer as machiavelli marked it out as a turning-point in florentine history. now, for the first time, the democratic commonwealth saw its streets filled with a mob of courtiers. masques, balls, and tournaments succeeded each other with magnificent variety; and all the arts of florence were pressed into the service of these festivals. machiavelli says that the burghers lost the last remnant of their old austerity of manners, and became, like the degenerate romans, ready to obey the masters who provided them with brilliant spectacles. they gazed with admiration on the pomp of italian princes, their dissolute and godless living, their luxury and prodigal expenditure; and when the medici affected similar habits in the next generation, the people had no courage to resist the invasion of their pleasant vices. in the same year, , volterra was reconquered for the florentines by frederick of urbino. the honours of this victory, disgraced by a brutal sack of the conquered city, in violation of its articles of capitulation, were reserved for lorenzo, who returned in triumph to florence. more than ever he assumed the prince, and in his person undertook to represent the state. in the same year, , francesco della rovere was raised to the papacy with the memorable name of sixtus iv. sixtus was a man of violent temper and fierce passions, restless and impatiently ambitious, bent on the aggrandisement of the beautiful and wanton youths, his nephews. of these the most aspiring was girolamo riario, for whom sixtus bought the town of imola from taddeo manfredi, in order that he might possess the title of count and the nucleus of a tyranny in the romagna. this purchase thwarted the plans of lorenzo, who wished to secure the same advantages for florence. smarting with the sense of disappointment, he forbade the roman banker, francesco pazzi, to guarantee the purchase-money. by this act lorenzo made two mortal foes--the pope and francesco pazzi. francesco was a thin, pale, atrabilious fanatic, all nerve and passion, with a monomaniac intensity of purpose, and a will inflamed and guided by imagination--a man formed by nature for conspiracy, such a man, in fact, as shakspere drew in cassius. maddened by lorenzo's prohibition, he conceived the notion of overthrowing the medici in florence by a violent blow. girolamo riario entered into his views. so did francesco salviati, archbishop of pisa, who had private reasons for hostility. these men found no difficulty in winning over sixtus to their plot; nor is it possible to purge the pope of participation in what followed. i need not describe by what means francesco drew the other members of his family into the scheme, and how he secured the assistance of armed cut-throats. suffice it to say that the chief conspirators, with the exception of the count girolamo, betook themselves to florence, and there, after the failure of other attempts, decided to murder lorenzo and his brother giuliano in the cathedral on sunday, april th, . the moment when the priest at the high altar finished the mass, was fixed for the assassination. everything was ready. the conspirators, by judas kisses and embracements, had discovered that the young men wore no protective armour under their silken doublets. pacing the aisle behind the choir, they feared no treason. and now the lives of both might easily have been secured, if at the last moment the courage of the hired assassins had not failed them. murder, they said, was well enough; but they could not bring themselves to stab men before the newly consecrated body of christ. in this extremity a priest was found who, 'being accustomed to churches,' had no scruples. he and another reprobate were told off to lorenzo. francesco de' pazzi himself undertook giuliano. the moment for attack arrived. francesco plunged his dagger into the heart of giuliano. then, not satisfied with this death-blow, he struck again, and in his heat of passion wounded his own thigh. lorenzo escaped with a flesh-wound from the poniard of the priest, and rushed into the sacristy, where his friend poliziano shut and held the brazen door. the plot had failed; for giuliano, of the two brothers, was the one whom the conspirators would the more willingly have spared. the whole church was in an uproar. the city rose in tumult. rage and horror took possession of the people. they flew to the palazzo pubblico and to the houses of the pazzi, hunted the conspirators from place to place, hung the archbishop by the neck from the palace windows, and, as they found fresh victims for their fury, strung them one by one in a ghastly row at his side above the square. about one hundred in all were killed. none who had joined in the plot escaped; for lorenzo had long arms, and one man, who fled to constantinople, was delivered over to his agents by the sultan. out of the whole pazzi family only guglielmo, the husband of bianca de' medici, was spared. when the tumult was over, andrea del castagno painted the portraits of the traitors head-downwards upon the walls of the bargello palace, in order that all men might know what fate awaited the foes of the medici and of the state of florence.[ ] meanwhile a bastard son of giuliano's was received into the medicean household, to perpetuate his lineage. this child, named giulio, was destined to be famous in the annals of italy and florence under the title of pope clement vii. xv as is usual when such plots miss their mark, the passions excited redounded to the profit of the injured party. the commonwealth felt that the blow struck at lorenzo had been aimed at their majesty. sixtus, on the other hand, could not contain his rage at the failure of so ably planned a _coup de main_. ignoring that he had sanctioned the treason, that a priest had put his hand to the dagger, that the impious deed had been attempted in a church before the very sacrament of christ, whose vicar on earth he was, the pope now excommunicated the republic. the reason he alleged was, that the florentines had dared to hang an archbishop. thus began a war to the death between sixtus and florence. the pope inflamed the whole of italy, and carried on a ruinous campaign in tuscany. it seemed as though the republic might lose her subject cities, always ready to revolt when danger threatened the sovereign state. lorenzo's position became critical. sixtus made no secret of the hatred he bore him personally, declaring that he fought less with florence than with the medici. to support the odium of this long war and this heavy interdict alone, was more than he could do. his allies forsook him. naples was enlisted on the pope's side. milan and the other states of lombardy were occupied with their own affairs, and held aloof. in this extremity he saw that nothing but a bold step could save him. the league formed by sixtus must be broken up at any risk, and, if possible, by his own ability. on december th, , lorenzo left florence, unarmed and unattended, took ship at leghorn, and proceeded to the court of the enemy, king ferdinand, at naples. ferdinand was a cruel and treacherous sovereign, who had murdered his guest, jacopo piccinino, at a banquet given in his honour. but ferdinand was the son of alfonso, who, by address and eloquence, had gained a kingdom from his foe and jailor, filippo maria visconti. lorenzo calculated that he too, following alfonso's policy, might prove to ferdinand how little there was to gain from an alliance with rome, how much naples and florence, firmly united together for offence and defence, might effect in italy. only a student of those perilous times can appreciate the courage and the genius, the audacity combined with diplomatic penetration, displayed by lorenzo at this crisis. he calmly walked into the lion's den, trusting he could tame the lion and teach it, and all in a few days. nor did his expectation fail. though lorenzo was rather ugly than handsome, with a dark skin, heavy brows, powerful jaws, and nose sharp in the bridge and broad at the nostrils, without grace of carriage or melody of voice, he possessed what makes up for personal defects--the winning charm of eloquence in conversation, a subtle wit, profound knowledge of men, and tact allied to sympathy, which placed him always at the centre of the situation. ferdinand received him kindly. the neapolitan nobles admired his courage and were fascinated by his social talents. on march st, , he left naples again, having won over the king by his arguments. when he reached florence he was able to declare that he brought home a treaty of peace and alliance signed by the most powerful foe of the republic. the success of this bold enterprise endeared lorenzo more than ever to his countrymen. in the same year they concluded a treaty with sixtus, who was forced against his will to lay down arms by the capture of otranto and the extreme peril of turkish invasion. after the year lorenzo remained sole master in florence, the arbiter and peacemaker of the rest of italy. xvi the conjuration of the pazzi was only one in a long series of similar conspiracies. italian despots gained their power by violence and wielded it with craft. violence and craft were therefore used against them. when the study of the classics had penetrated the nation with antique ideas of heroism, tyrannicide became a virtue. princes were murdered with frightful frequency. thus gian maria visconti was put to death at milan in ; galeazzo maria sforza in ; the chiarelli of fabriano were massacred in ; the baglioni of perugia in ; girolamo gentile planned the assassination of galeazzo sforza at genoa in ; niccolo d'este conspired against his uncle ercole in ; stefano porcari attempted the life of nicholas v. at rome in ; lodovico sforza narrowly escaped a violent death in . i might multiply these instances beyond satiety. as it is, i have selected but a few examples falling, all but one, within the second half of the fifteenth century. nearly all these attempts upon the lives of princes were made in church during the celebration of sacred offices. there was no superfluity of naughtiness, no wilful sacrilege, in this choice of an occasion. it only testified to the continual suspicion and guarded watchfulness maintained by tyrants. to strike at them except in church was almost impossible. meanwhile the fate of the tyrannicides was uniform. successful or not, they perished. yet so grievous was the pressure of italian despotism, so glorious was the ideal of greek and roman heroism, so passionate the temper of the people, that to kill a prince at any cost to self appeared the crown of manliness. this bloodshed exercised a delirious fascination: pure and base, personal and patriotic motives combined to add intensity of fixed and fiery purpose to the murderous impulse. those then who, like the medici, aspired to tyranny and sought to found a dynasty of princes, entered the arena against a host of unknown and unseen gladiators. xvii on his deathbed, in , lorenzo lay between two men--angelo poliziano and girolamo savonarola. poliziano incarnated the genial, radiant, godless spirit of fifteenth-century humanism. savonarola represented the conscience of italy, self-convicted, amid all her greatness, of crimes that called for punishment. it is said that when lorenzo asked the monk for absolution, savonarola bade him first restore freedom to florence. lorenzo, turned his face to the wall and was silent. how indeed could he make this city in a moment free, after sixty years of slow and systematic corruption? savonarola left him, and he died unshriven. this legend is doubtful, though it rests on excellent if somewhat partial authority. it has, at any rate, the value of a mythus, since it epitomises the attitude assumed by the great preacher to the prince. florence enslaved, the soul of lorenzo cannot lay its burden down, but must go with all its sins upon it to the throne of god. the year was a memorable year for italy. in this year lorenzo's death removed the keystone of the arch that had sustained the fabric of italian federation. in this year roderigo borgia was elected pope. in this year columbus discovered america; vasco de gama soon after opened a new way to the indies, and thus the commerce of the world passed from italy to other nations. in this year the conquest of granada gave unity to the spanish nation. in this year france, through the lifelong craft of louis xi., was for the first time united under a young hot-headed sovereign. on every side of the political horizon storms threatened. it was clear that a new chapter of european history had been opened. then savonarola raised his voice, and cried that the crimes of italy, the abominations of the church, would speedily be punished. events led rapidly to the fulfilment of this prophecy. lorenzo's successor, piero de' medici, was a vain, irresolute, and hasty princeling, fond of display, proud of his skill in fencing and football-playing, with too much of the orsini blood in his hot veins, with too little of the medicean craft in his weak head. the italian despots felt they could not trust piero, and this want of confidence was probably the first motive that impelled lodovico sforza to call charles viii. into italy in . it will not be necessary to dwell upon this invasion of the french, except in so far as it affected florence. charles passed rapidly through lombardy, engaged his army in the passes of the apennines, and debouched upon the coast where the magra divided tuscany from liguria. here the fortresses of sarzana and pietra santa, between the marble bulwark of carrara and the tuscan sea, stopped his further progress. the keys were held by the florentines. to force these strong positions and to pass beyond them seemed impossible. it might have been impossible if piero de' medici had possessed a firmer will. as it was, he rode off to the french camp, delivered up the forts to charles, bound the king by no engagements, and returned not otherwise than proud of his folly to florence. a terrible reception awaited him. the florentines, in their fury, had risen and sacked the medicean palace. it was as much as piero, with his brothers, could do to escape beyond the hills to venice. the despotism of the medici, so carefully built up, so artfully sustained and strengthened, was overthrown in a single day. xviii before considering what happened in florence after the expulsion of the medici, it will be well to pause a moment and review the state in which lorenzo had left his family. piero, his eldest son, recognised as chief of the republic after his father's death, was married to alfonsina orsini, and was in his twenty-second year. giovanni, his second son, a youth of seventeen, had just been made cardinal. this honour, of vast importance for the casa medici in the future, he owed to his sister maddalena's marriage to franceschetto cybo, son of innocent viii. the third of lorenzo's sons, named giuliano, was a boy of thirteen. giulio, the bastard son of the elder giuliano, was fourteen. these four princes formed the efficient strength of the medici, the hope of the house; and for each of them, with the exception of piero, who died in exile, and of whom no more notice need be taken, a brilliant destiny was still in store. in the year , however, they now wandered, homeless and helpless, through the cities of italy, each of which was shaken to its foundations by the french invasion. xix florence, left without the medici, deprived of pisa and other subject cities by the passage of the french army, with no leader but the monk savonarola, now sought to reconstitute her liberties. during the domination of the albizzi and the medici the old order of the commonwealth had been completely broken up. the arti had lost their primitive importance. the distinctions between the grandi and the popolani had practically passed away. in a democracy that has submitted to a lengthened course of tyranny, such extinction of its old life is inevitable. yet the passion for liberty was still powerful; and the busy brains of the florentines were stored with experience gained from their previous vicissitudes, from \ the study of antique history, and from the observation of existing constitutions in the towns of italy. they now determined to reorganise the state upon the model of the venetian republic. the signory was to remain, with its old institution of priors, gonfalonier, and college, elected for brief periods. these magistrates were to take the initiative in debate, to propose measures, and to consider plans of action. the real power of the state, for voting supplies and ratifying the measures of the signory, was vested in a senate of one thousand members, called the grand council, from whom a smaller body of forty, acting as intermediates between the council and the signory, were elected. it is said that the plan of this constitution originated with savonarola; nor is there any doubt that he used all his influence in the pulpit of the duomo to render it acceptable to the people. whoever may have been responsible for its formation, the new government was carried in , and a large hall for the assembly of the grand council was opened in the public palace. savonarola, meanwhile, had become the ruling spirit of florence. he gained his great power as a preacher: he used it like a monk. the motive principle of his action was the passion for reform. to bring the church back to its pristine state of purity, without altering its doctrine or suggesting any new form of creed; to purge italy of ungodly customs; to overthrow the tyrants who encouraged evil living, and to place the power of the state in the hands of sober citizens: these were his objects. though he set himself in bold opposition to the reigning pope, he had no desire to destroy the spiritual supremacy of s. peter's see. though he burned with an enthusiastic zeal for liberty, and displayed rare genius for administration, he had no ambition to rule florence like a dictator. savonarola was neither a reformer in the northern sense of the word, nor yet a political demagogue. his sole wish was to see purity of manners and freedom of self-government re-established. with this end in view he bade the florentines elect christ as their supreme chief; and they did so. for the same end he abstained from appearing in the state councils, and left the constitution to work by its own laws. his personal influence he reserved for the pulpit; and here he was omnipotent. the people believed in him as a prophet. they turned to him as the man who knew what he wanted--as the voice of liberty, the soul of the new régime, the genius who could breathe into the commonwealth a breath of fresh vitality. when, therefore, savonarola preached a reform of manners, he was at once obeyed. strict laws were passed enforcing sobriety, condemning trades of pleasure, reducing the gay customs of florence to puritanical austerity. great stress has been laid upon this reaction of the monk-led populace against the vices of the past. yet the historian is bound to pronounce that the reform effected by savonarola was rather picturesque than vital. like all violent revivals of pietism, it produced a no less violent reaction. the parties within the city who resented the interference of a preaching friar, joined with the pope in rome, who hated a contumacious schismatic in savonarola. assailed by these two forces at the same moment, and driven upon perilous ground by his own febrile enthusiasm, savonarola succumbed. he was imprisoned, tortured, and burned upon the public square in . what savonarola really achieved for florence was not a permanent reform of morality, but a resuscitation of the spirit of freedom. his followers, called in contempt _i piagnoni_, or the weepers, formed the path of the commonwealth in future; and the memory of their martyr served as a common bond of sympathy to unite them in times of trial. it was a necessary consequence of the peculiar part he played that the city was henceforth divided into factions representing mutually antagonistic principles. these factions were not created by savonarola; but his extraordinary influence accentuated, as it were, the humours that lay dormant in the state. families favourable to the medici took the name of _palleschi_. men who chafed against puritanical reform, and who were eager for any government that should secure them their old licence, were known as _compagnacci_. meanwhile the oligarchs, who disliked a democratic constitution, and thought it possible to found an aristocracy without the intervention of the medici, came to be known as _gli ottimati_. florence held within itself, from this epoch forward to the final extinction of liberty, four great parties: the _piagnoni_, passionate for political freedom and austerity of life; the _palleschi_, favourable to the medicean cause, and regretful of lorenzo's pleasant rule; the _compagnacci_, intolerant of the reformed republic, neither hostile nor loyal to the medici, but desirous of personal licence; the _ottimati_, astute and selfish, watching their own advantage, ever-mindful to form a narrow government of privileged families, disinclined to the medici, except when they thought the medici might be employed as instruments in their intrigues. xx during the short period of savonarola's ascendency, florence was in form at least a theocracy, without any titular head but christ; and as long as the enthusiasm inspired by the monk lasted, as long as his personal influence endured, the constitution of the grand council worked well. after his death it was found that the machinery was too cumbrous. while adopting the venetian form of government, the florentines had omitted one essential element--the doge. by referring measures of immediate necessity to the grand council, the republic lost precious time. dangerous publicity, moreover, was incurred; and so large a body often came to no firm resolution. there was no permanent authority in the state; no security that what had been deliberated would be carried out with energy; no titular chief, who could transact affairs with foreign potentates and their ambassadors. accordingly, in , it was decreed that the gonfalonier should hold office for life--should be in fact a doge. to this important post of permanent president piero soderini was appointed; and in his hands were placed the chief affairs of the republic. at this point florence, after all her vicissitudes, had won her way to something really similar to the venetian constitution. yet the similarity existed more in form than in fact. the government of burghers in a grand council, with a senate of forty, and a gonfalonier for life, had not grown up gradually and absorbed into itself the vital forces of the commonwealth. it was a creation of inventive intelligence, not of national development, in florence. it had against it the jealousy of the ottimati, who felt themselves overshadowed by the gonfalonier; the hatred of the palleschi, who yearned for the medici; the discontent of the working classes, who thought the presence of a court in florence would improve trade; last, but not least, the disaffection of the compagnacci, who felt they could not flourish to their heart's content in a free commonwealth. moreover, though the name of liberty was on every lip, though the florentines talked, wrote, and speculated more about constitutional independence than they had ever done, the true energy of free institutions had passed from the city. the corrupt government of cosimo and lorenzo bore its natural fruit now. egotistic ambition and avarice supplanted patriotism and industry. it is necessary to comprehend these circumstances, in order that the next revolution may be clearly understood. xxi during the ten years which elapsed between and , piero soderini administered florence with an outward show of great prosperity. he regained pisa, and maintained an honourable foreign policy in the midst of the wars stirred up by the league of cambray. meanwhile the young princes of the house of medici had grown to manhood in exile. the cardinal giovanni was thirty-seven in . his brother giuliano was thirty-three. both of these men were better fitted than their brother piero to fight the battles of the family. giovanni, in particular, had inherited no small portion of the medicean craft. during the troubled reign of julius ii. he kept very quiet, cementing his connections with powerful men in rome, but making no effort to regain his hold on florence. now the moment for striking a decisive blow had come. after the battle of ravenna in , the french were driven out of italy, and the sforzas returned to milan; the spanish troops, under the viceroy cardona, remained masters of the country. following the camp of these spaniards, giovanni de' medici entered tuscany in august, and caused the restoration of the medici to be announced in florence. the people, assembled by soderini, resolved to resist to the uttermost. no foreign army should force them to receive the masters whom they had expelled. yet their courage failed on august th, when news reached them of the capture and the sack of prato. prato is a sunny little city a few miles distant from the walls of florence, famous for the beauty of its women, the richness of its gardens, and the grace of its buildings. into this gem of cities the savage soldiery of spain marched in the bright autumnal weather, and turned the paradise into a hell. it is even now impossible to read of what they did in prato without shuddering.[ ] cruelty and lust, sordid greed for gold, and cold delight in bloodshed, could go no further. giovanni de' medici, by nature mild and voluptuous, averse to violence of all kinds, had to smile approval, while the spanish viceroy knocked thus with mailed hand for him at the door of florence. the florentines were paralysed with terror. they deposed soderini and received the medici. giovanni and giuliano entered their devastated palace in the via larga, abolished the grand council, and dealt with the republic as they listed. xxii there was no longer any medium in florence possible between either tyranny or some such government as the medici had now destroyed. the state was too rotten to recover even the modified despotism of lorenzo's days. each transformation had impaired some portion of its framework, broken down some of its traditions, and sowed new seeds of egotism in citizens who saw all things round them change but self-advantage. therefore giovanni and giuliano felt themselves secure in flattering the popular vanity by an empty parade of the old institutions. they restored the signory and the gonfalonier, elected for intervals of two months by officers appointed for this purpose by the medici. florence had the show of a free government. but the medici managed all things; and soldiers, commanded by their creature, paolo vettori, held the palace and the public square. the tyranny thus established was less secure, inasmuch as it openly rested upon violence, than lorenzo's power had been; nor were there signs wanting that the burghers could ill brook their servitude. the conspiracy of pietro paolo boscoli and agostino capponi proved that the medicean brothers ran daily risk of life. indeed, it is not likely that they would have succeeded in maintaining their authority--for they were poor and ill-supported by friends outside the city--except for one most lucky circumstance: that was the election of giovanni de' medici to the papacy in . the creation of leo x. spread satisfaction throughout italy. politicians trusted that he would display some portion of his father's ability, and restore peace to the nation. men of arts and letters expected everything from a medicean pope, who had already acquired the reputation of polite culture and open-handed generosity. they at any rate were not deceived. leo's first words on taking his place in the vatican were addressed to his brother giuliano: 'let us enjoy the papacy, now that god has given it to us;' and his notion of enjoyment was to surround himself with court-poets, jesters, and musicians, to adorn his roman palaces with frescoes, to collect statues and inscriptions, to listen to latin speeches, and to pass judgment upon scholarly compositions. any one and every one who gave him sensual or intellectual pleasure, found his purse always open. he lived in the utmost magnificence, and made rome the paris of the renaissance for brilliance, immorality, and self-indulgent ease. the politicians had less reason to be satisfied. instead of uniting the italians and keeping the great powers of europe in check, leo carried on a series of disastrous petty wars, chiefly with the purpose of establishing the medici as princes. he squandered the revenues of the church, and left enormous debts behind him--an exchequer ruined and a foreign policy so confused that peace for italy could only be obtained by servitude. florence shared in the general rejoicing which greeted leo's accession to the papacy. he was the first florentine citizen who had received the tiara, and the popular vanity was flattered by this honour to the republic. political theorists, meanwhile, began to speculate what greatness florence, in combination with rome, might rise to. the pope was young; he ruled a large territory, reduced to order by his warlike predecessors. it seemed as though the republic, swayed by him, might make herself the first city in italy, and restore the glories of her guelf ascendency upon the platform of renaissance statecraft. there was now no overt opposition to the medici in florence. how to govern the city from rome, and how to advance the fortunes of his brother giuliano and his nephew lorenzo (piero's son, a young man of twenty-one), occupied the pope's most serious attention. for lorenzo leo obtained the duchy of urbino and the hand of a french princess. giuliano was named gonfalonier of the church. he also received the french title of duke of nemours and the hand of filiberta, princess of savoy. leo entertained a further project of acquiring the crown of southern italy for his brother, and thus of uniting rome, florence, and naples under the headship of his house. nor were the medicean interests neglected in the church. giulio, the pope's bastard cousin, was made cardinal. he remained in rome, acting as vice-chancellor and doing the hard work of the papal government for the pleasure-loving pontiff. to lorenzo, duke of urbino, the titular head of the family, was committed the government of florence. during their exile, wandering from court to court in italy, the medici had forgotten what it was to be burghers, and had acquired the manners of princes. leo alone retained enough of caution to warn his nephew that the florentines must still be treated as free people. he confirmed the constitution of the signory and the privy council of seventy established by his father, bidding lorenzo, while he ruled this sham republic, to avoid the outer signs of tyranny. the young duke at first behaved with moderation, but he could not cast aside his habits of a great lord. florence now for the first time saw a regular court established in her midst, with a prince, who, though he bore a foreign title, was in fact her master. the joyous days of lorenzo the magnificent returned. masquerades and triumphs filled the public squares. two clubs of pleasure, called the diamond and the branch--badges adopted by the medici to signify their firmness in disaster and their power of self-recovery--were formed to lead the revels. the best sculptors and painters devoted their genius to the invention of costumes and cars. the city affected to believe that the age of gold had come again. xxiii fortune had been very favourable to the medici. they had returned as princes to florence. giovanni was pope. giuliano was gonfalonier of the church. giulio was cardinal and archbishop of florence. lorenzo ruled the city like a sovereign. but this prosperity was no less brief than it was brilliant. a few years sufficed to sweep off all the chiefs of the great house. giuliano died in , leaving only a bastard son ippolito. lorenzo died in , leaving a bastard son alessandro, and a daughter, six days old, who lived to be the queen of france. leo died in . there remained now no legitimate male descendants from the stock of cosimo. the honours and pretensions of the medici devolved upon three bastards--on the cardinal giulio, and the two boys, alessandro and ippolito. of these, alessandro was a mulatto, his mother having been a moorish slave in the palace of urbino; and whether his father was giulio, or giuliano, or a base groom, was not known for certain. to such extremities were the medici reduced. in order to keep their house alive, they were obliged to adopt this foundling. it is true that the younger branch of the family, descended from lorenzo, the brother of cosimo, still flourished. at this epoch it was represented by giovanni, the great general known as the invincible, whose bust so strikingly resembles that of napoleon. but between this line of the medici and the elder branch there had never been true cordiality. the cardinal mistrusted giovanni. it may, moreover, be added, that giovanni was himself doomed to death in the year . giulio de' medici was left in to administer the state of florence single-handed. he was archbishop, and he resided in the city, holding it with the grasp of an absolute ruler. yet he felt his position insecure. the republic had no longer any forms of self-government; nor was there a magistracy to whom the despot could delegate his power in his absence. giulio's ambition was fixed upon the papal crown. the bastards he was rearing were but children. florence had therefore to be furnished with some political machinery that should work of itself. the cardinal did not wish to give freedom to the city, but clockwork. he was in the perilous situation of having to rule a commonwealth without life, without elasticity, without capacity of self-movement, yet full of such material as, left alone, might ferment, and breed a revolution. in this perplexity, he had recourse to advisers. the most experienced politicians, philosophical theorists, practical diplomatists, and students of antique history were requested to furnish him with plans for a new constitution, just as you ask an architect to give you the plan of a new house. this was the field-day of the doctrinaires. now was seen how much political sagacity the florentines had gained while they were losing liberty. we possess these several drafts of constitutions. some recommend tyranny; some incline to aristocracy, or what italians called _governo stretto_; some to democracy, or _governo largo_; some to an eclectic compound of the other forms, or _governo misto_. more consummate masterpieces of constructive ingenuity can hardly be imagined. what is omitted in all, is just what no doctrinaire, no nostrum can communicate--the breath of life, the principle of organic growth. things had come, indeed, to a melancholy pass for florence when her tyrant, in order to confirm his hold upon her, had to devise these springs and irons to support her tottering limbs. xxiv while the archbishop and the doctors were debating, a plot was hatching in the rucellai gardens. it was here that the florentine academy now held their meetings. for this society machiavelli wrote his 'treatise on the art of war,' and his 'discourses upon livy.' the former was an exposition of machiavelli's scheme for creating a national militia, as the only safeguard for italy, exposed at this period to the invasions of great foreign armies. the latter is one of the three or four masterpieces produced by the florentine school of critical historians. stimulated by the daring speculations of machiavelli, and fired to enthusiasm by their study of antiquity, the younger academicians formed a conspiracy for murdering giulio de' medici, and restoring the republic on a roman model. an intercepted letter betrayed their plans. two of the conspirators were taken and beheaded. others escaped. but the discovery of this conjuration put a stop to giulio's scheme of reforming the state. henceforth he ruled florence like a despot, mild in manners, cautious in the exercise of arbitrary power, but firm in his autocracy. the condottiere. alessandro vitelli, with a company of soldiers, was taken into service for the protection of his person and the intimidation of the citizens. in , the pope, adrian vi., expired after a short papacy, from which he gained no honour and italy no profit. giulio hurried to rome, and, by the clever use of his large influence, caused himself to be elected with the title of clement vii. in florence he left silvio passerini, cardinal of cortona, as his vicegerent and the guardian of the two boys alessandro and ippolito. the discipline of many years had accustomed the florentines to a government of priests. still the burghers, mindful of their ancient liberties, were galled by the yoke of a cortonese, sprung up from one of their subject cities; nor could they bear the bastards who were being reared to rule them. foreigners threw it in their teeth that florence, the city glorious of art and freedom, was become a stable for mules--_stalla da muli_, in the expressive language of popular sarcasm. bastardy, it may be said in passing, carried with it small dishonour among the italians. the estensi were all illegitimate; the aragonese house in naples sprang from alfonso's natural son; and children of popes ranked among the princes. yet the uncertainty of alessandro's birth and the base condition of his mother made the prospect of this tyrant peculiarly odious; while the primacy of a foreign cardinal in the midst of citizens whose spirit was still unbroken, embittered the cup of humiliation. the casa medici held its authority by a slender thread, and depended more upon the disunion of the burghers than on any power of its own. it could always reckon on the favour of the lower populace, who gained profit and amusement from the presence of a court. the ottimati again hoped more from a weak despotism than from a commonwealth, where their privileges would have been merged in the mass of the grand council. thus the sympathies of the plebeians and the selfishness of the rich patricians prevented the republic from asserting itself. on this meagre basis of personal cupidity the medici sustained themselves. what made the situation still more delicate, and at the same time protracted the feeble rule of clement, was that neither the florentines nor the medici had any army. face to face with a potentate so considerable as the pope, a free state could not be established without military force. on the other hand, the medici, supported by a mere handful of mercenaries, had no power to resist a popular rising if any external event should inspire the middle classes with a hope of liberty. xxv clement assumed the tiara at a moment of great difficulty. leo had ruined the finance of rome. france and spain were still contending for the possession of italy. while acting as vice-chancellor, giulio de' medici had seemed to hold the reins with a firm grasp, and men expected that he would prove a powerful pope; but in those days he had leo to help him; and leo, though indolent, was an abler man than his cousin. he planned, and giulio executed. obliged to act now for himself, clement revealed the weakness of his nature. that weakness was irresolution, craft without wisdom, diplomacy without knowledge of men. he raised the storm, and showed himself incapable of guiding it. this is not the place to tell by what a series of crooked schemes and cross purposes he brought upon himself the ruin of the church and rome, to relate his disagreement with the emperor, or to describe again the sack of the eternal city by the rabble of the constable de bourbon's army. that wreck of rome in was the closing scene of the italian renaissance--the last of the apocalyptic tragedies foretold by savonarola--the death of the old age. when the florentines knew what was happening in rome, they rose and forced the cardinal passerini to depart with the medicean bastards from the city. the youth demanded arms for the defence of the town, and they received them. the whole male population was enrolled in a militia. the grand council was reformed, and the republic was restored upon the basis of . niccolo capponi was elected gonfalonier. the name of christ was again registered as chief of the commonwealth--to such an extent did the memory of savonarola still sway the popular imagination. the new state hastened to form an alliance with france, and malatesta baglioni was chosen as military commander-in-chief. meanwhile the city armed itself for siege--michel angelo buonarroti and francesco da san gallo undertaking the construction of new forts and ramparts. these measures were adopted with sudden decision, because it was soon known that clement had made peace with the emperor, and that the army which had sacked rome was going to be marched on florence. xxvi in the month of august the prince of orange assembled his forces at terni, and thence advanced by easy stages into tuscany. as he approached, the florentines laid waste their suburbs, and threw down their wreath of towers, in order that the enemy might have no harbourage or points of vantage for attack. their troops were concentrated within the city, where a new gonfalonier, francesco carducci, furiously opposed to the medici, and attached to the piagnoni party, now ruled. on september th the prince of orange appeared before the walls, and opened the memorable siege. it lasted eight months, at the end of which time, betrayed by their generals, divided among themselves, and worn out with delays, the florentines capitulated. florence was paid as compensation for the insult offered to the pontiff in the sack of rome. the long yoke of the medici had undermined the character of the florentines. this, their last glorious struggle for liberty, was but a flash in the pan--a final flare-up of the dying lamp. the city was not satisfied with slavery; but it had no capacity for united action. the ottimati were egotistic and jealous of the people. the palleschi desired to restore the medici at any price--some of them frankly wishing for a principality, others trusting that the old quasi-republican government might still be reinstated. the red republicans, styled libertini and arrabbiati, clung together in blind hatred of the medicean party; but they had no further policy to guide them. the piagnoni, or frateschi, stuck to the memory of savonarola, and believed that angels would descend to guard the battlements when human help had failed. these enthusiasts still formed the true nerve of the nation--the class that might have saved the state, if salvation had been possible. even as it was, the energy of their fanaticism prolonged the siege until resistance seemed no longer physically possible. the hero developed by the crisis was francesco ferrucci, a plebeian who had passed his youth in manual labour, and who now displayed rare military genius. he fell fighting outside the walls of florence. had he commanded the troops from the beginning, and remained inside the city, it is just possible that the fate of the war might have been less disastrous. as it was, malatesta baglioni, the commander-in-chief, turned out an arrant scoundrel. he held secret correspondence with clement and the prince of orange. it was he who finally sold florence to her foes, 'putting on his head,' as the doge of venice said before the senate, 'the cap of the biggest traitor upon record.' xxvii what remains of florentine history may be briefly told. clement, now the undisputed arbiter of power and honour in the city, chose alessandro de' medici to be prince. alessandro was created duke of cività di penna, and married to a natural daughter of charles v. ippolito was made a cardinal. ippolito would have preferred a secular to a priestly kingdom; nor did he conceal his jealousy for his cousin. therefore alessandro had him poisoned. alessandro in his turn was murdered by his kinsman, lorenzino de' medici. lorenzino paid the usual penalty of tyrannicide some years later. when alessandro was killed in , clement had himself been dead five years. thus the whole posterity of cosimo de' medici, with the exception of catherine, queen of france, was utterly extinguished. but the medici had struck root so firmly in the state, and had so remodelled it upon the type of tyranny, that the florentines were no longer able to do without them. the chiefs of the ottimati selected cosimo, the representative of giovanni the invincible, for their prince, and thus the line of the elder lorenzo came at last to power. this cosimo was a boy of eighteen, fond of field-sports, and unused to party intrigues. when francesco guicciardini offered him a privy purse of one hundred and twenty thousand ducats annually, together with the presidency of florence, this wily politician hoped that he would rule the state through cosimo, and realise at last that dream of the ottimati, a _governo stretto_ or _di pochi_. he was notably mistaken in his calculations. the first days of cosimo's administration showed that he possessed the craft of his family and the vigour of his immediate progenitors, and that he meant to be sole master in florence. he it was who obtained the title of grand duke of tuscany from the pope--a title confirmed by the emperor, fortified by austrian alliances, and transmitted through his heirs to the present century. xxviii in this sketch of florentine history, i have purposely omitted all details that did not bear upon the constitutional history of the republic, or on the growth of the medici as despots; because i wanted to present a picture of the process whereby that family contrived to fasten itself upon the freest and most cultivated state in italy. this success the medici owed mainly to their own obstinacy, and to the weakness of republican institutions in florence. their power was founded upon wealth in the first instance, and upon the ingenuity with which they turned the favour of the proletariate to use. it was confirmed by the mistakes and failures of their enemies, by rinaldo degli albizzi's attack on cosimo, by the conspiracy of neroni and pitti against piero, and by francesco de' pazzi's attempt to assassinate lorenzo. it was still further strengthened by the medicean sympathy for arts and letters--a sympathy which placed both cosimo and lorenzo at the head of the renaissance movement, and made them worthy to represent florence, the city of genius, in the fifteenth century. while thus founding and cementing their dynastic influence upon the basis of a widespread popularity, the medici employed persistent cunning in the enfeeblement of the republic. it was their policy not to plant themselves by force or acts of overt tyranny, but to corrupt ambitious citizens, to secure the patronage of public officers, and to render the spontaneous working of the state machinery impossible. by pursuing this policy over a long series of years they made the revival of liberty in , and again in , ineffectual. while exiled from florence, they never lost the hope of returning as masters, so long as the passions they had excited, and they alone could gratify, remained in full activity. these passions were avarice and egotism, the greed of the grasping ottimati, the jealousy of the nobles, the self-indulgence of the proletariate. yet it is probable they might have failed to recover florence, on one or other of these two occasions, but for the accident which placed giovanni de' medici on the papal chair, and enabled him to put giulio in the way of the same dignity. from the accession of leo in to the year the medici ruled florence from rome, and brought the power of the church into the service of their despotism. after that date they were still further aided by the imperial policy of charles v., who chose to govern italy through subject princes, bound to himself by domestic alliances and powerful interests. one of these was cosimo, the first grand duke of tuscany. * * * * * _the debt of english to italian literature_ to an englishman one of the chief interests of the study of italian literature is derived from the fact that, between england and italy, an almost uninterrupted current of intellectual intercourse has been maintained throughout the last five centuries. the english have never, indeed, at any time been slavish imitators of the italians; but italy has formed the dreamland of the english fancy, inspiring poets with their most delightful thoughts, supplying them with subjects, and implanting in their minds that sentiment of southern beauty which, engrafted on our more passionately imaginative northern nature, has borne rich fruit in the works of chaucer, spenser, marlowe, shakspere, milton, and the poets of this century. it is not strange that italy should thus in matters of culture have been the guide and mistress of england. italy, of all the european nations, was the first to produce high art and literature in the dawn of modern civilisation. italy was the first to display refinement in domestic life, polish of manners, civilities of intercourse. in italy the commerce of courts first developed a society of men and women, educated by the same traditions of humanistic culture. in italy the principles of government were first discussed and reduced to theory. in italy the zeal for the classics took its origin; and scholarship, to which we owe our mental training, was at first the possession of none almost but italians. it therefore followed that during the age of the renaissance any man of taste or genius, who desired to share the newly discovered privileges of learning, had to seek italy. every one who wished to be initiated into the secrets of science or philosophy, had to converse with italians in person or through books. every one who was eager to polish his native language, and to render it the proper vehicle of poetic thought, had to consult the masterpieces of italian literature. to italians the courtier, the diplomatist, the artist, the student of statecraft and of military tactics, the political theorist, the merchant, the man of laws, the man of arms, and the churchman turned for precedents and precepts. the nations of the north, still torpid and somnolent in their semi-barbarism, needed the magnetic touch of italy before they could awake to intellectual life. nor was this all. long before the thirst for culture possessed the english mind, italy had appropriated and assimilated all that latin literature contained of strong or splendid to arouse the thought and fancy of the modern world; greek, too, was rapidly becoming the possession of the scholars of florence and rome; so that english men of letters found the spirit of the ancients infused into a modern literature; models of correct and elegant composition existed for them in a language easy, harmonious, and not dissimilar in usage to their own. the importance of this service, rendered by italians to the rest of europe, cannot be exaggerated. by exploring, digesting, and reproducing the classics, italy made the labour of scholarship comparatively light for the northern nations, and extended to us the privilege of culture without the peril of losing originality in the enthusiasm for erudition. our great poets could handle lightly, and yet profitably, those masterpieces of greece and rome, beneath the weight of which, when first discovered, the genius of the italians had wavered. to the originality of shakspere an accession of wealth without weakness was brought by the perusal of italian works, in which the spirit of the antique was seen as in a modern mirror. then, in addition to this benefit of instruction, italy gave to england a gift of pure beauty, the influence of which, in refining our national taste, harmonising the roughness of our manners and our language, and stimulating our imagination, has been incalculable. it was a not unfrequent custom for young men of ability to study at the italian universities, or at least to undertake a journey to the principal italian cities. from their sojourn in that land of loveliness and intellectual life they returned with their northern brains most powerfully stimulated. to produce, by masterpieces of the imagination, some work of style that should remain as a memento of that glorious country, and should vie on english soil with the art of italy, was their generous ambition. consequently the substance of the stories versified by our poets, the forms of our metres, and the cadences of our prose periods reveal a close attention to italian originals. this debt of england to italy in the matter of our literature began with chaucer. truly original and national as was the framework of the 'canterbury tales,' we can hardly doubt but that chaucer was determined in the form adopted for his poem by the example of boccaccio. the subject-matter, also, of many of his tales was taken from boccaccio's prose or verse. for example, the story of patient grizzel is founded upon one of the legends of the 'decameron,' while the knight's tale is almost translated from the 'teseide' of boccaccio, and troilus and creseide is derived from the 'filostrato' of the same author. the franklin's tale and the reeve's tale are also based either on stories of boccaccio or else on french 'fabliaux,' to which chaucer, as well as boccaccio, had access. i do not wish to lay too much stress upon chaucer's direct obligations to boccaccio, because it is incontestable that the french 'fabliaux,' which supplied them both with subjects, were the common property of the mediæval nations. but his indirect debt in all that concerns elegant handling of material, and in the fusion of the romantic with the classic spirit, which forms the chief charm of such tales as the palamon and arcite, can hardly be exaggerated. lastly, the seven-lined stanza, called _rime royal_, which chaucer used with so much effect in narrative poetry, was probably borrowed from the earlier florentine 'ballata,' the last line rhyming with its predecessor being substituted for the recurrent refrain. indeed, the stanza itself, as used by our earliest poets, may be found in guido cavalcanti's 'ballatetta,' beginning, _posso degli occhi miei_. between chaucer and surrey the muse of england fell asleep; but when in the latter half of the reign of henry viii. she awoke again, it was as a conscious pupil of the italian that she attempted new strains and essayed fresh metres. 'in the latter end of henry viii.'s reign,' says puttenham, 'sprang up a new company of courtly makers, of whom sir t. wyatt the elder, and henry earl of surrey, were the two chieftains, who, having travelled into italy, and there tasted the sweet and stately measures and style of the italian poesy, as novices newly crept out of the schools of dante, ariosto, and petrarch, they greatly polished our rude and homely manner of vulgar poesy, from that it had been before, and for that cause may justly be said the first reformers of our english metre and style.' the chief point in which surrey imitated his 'master, francis petrarcha,' was in the use of the sonnet. he introduced this elaborate form of poetry into our literature; and how it has thriven with us, the masterpieces of spenser, shakspere, milton, wordsworth, keats, rossetti attest. as practised by dante and petrarch, the sonnet is a poem of fourteen lines, divided into two quatrains and two triplets, so arranged that the two quatrains repeat one pair of rhymes, while the two triplets repeat another pair. thus an italian sonnet of the strictest form is composed upon four rhymes, interlaced with great art. but much divergence from this rigid scheme of rhyming was admitted even by petrarch, who not unfrequently divided the six final lines of the sonnet into three couplets, interwoven in such a way that the two last lines never rhymed.[ ] it has been necessary to say thus much about the structure of the italian sonnet, in order to make clear the task which lay before surrey and wyatt, when they sought to transplant it into english. surrey did not adhere to the strict fashion of petrarch: his sonnets consist either of three regular quatrains concluded with a couplet, or else of twelve lines rhyming alternately and concluded with a couplet. wyatt attempted to follow the order and interlacement of the italian rhymes more closely, but he too concluded his sonnet with a couplet. this introduction of the final couplet was a violation of the italian rule, which may be fairly considered as prejudicial to the harmony of the whole structure, and which has insensibly caused the english sonnet to terminate in an epigram. the famous sonnet of surrey on his love, geraldine, is an excellent example of the metrical structure as adapted to the supposed necessities of english rhyming, and as afterwards adhered to by shakspere in his long series of love-poems. surrey, while adopting the form of the sonnet, kept quite clear of the petrarchist's mannerism. his language is simple and direct: there is no subtilising upon far-fetched conceits, no wire-drawing of exquisite sentimentalism, although he celebrates in this, as in his other sonnets, a lady for whom he appears to have entertained no more than a platonic or imaginary passion. surrey was a great experimentalist in metre. besides the sonnet, he introduced into england blank verse, which he borrowed from the italian _versi sciolti_, fixing that decasyllable iambic rhythm for english versification in which our greatest poetical triumphs have been achieved. before quitting the subject of the sonnet it would, however, be well to mention the changes which were wrought in its structure by early poets desirous of emulating the italians. shakspere, as already hinted, adhered to the simple form introduced by surrey: his stanzas invariably consist of three separate quatrains followed by a couplet. but sir philip sidney, whose familiarity with italian literature was intimate, and who had resided long in italy, perceived that without a greater complexity and interweaving of rhymes the beauty of the poem was considerably impaired. he therefore combined the rhymes of the two quatrains, as the italians had done, leaving himself free to follow the italian fashion in the conclusion, or else to wind up after english usage with a couplet. spenser and drummond follow the rule of sidney; drayton and daniel, that of surrey and shakspere. it was not until milton that an english poet preserved the form of the italian sonnet in its strictness; but, after milton, the greatest sonnet-writers--wordsworth, keats, and rossetti--have aimed at producing stanzas as regular as those of petrarch. the great age of our literature--the age of elizabeth--was essentially one of italian influence. in italy the renaissance had reached its height: england, feeling the new life which had been infused into arts and letters, turned instinctively to italy, and adopted her canons of taste. 'euphues' has a distinct connection with the italian discourses of polite culture. sidney's 'arcadia' is a copy of what boccaccio had attempted in his classical romances, and sanazzaro in his pastorals.[ ] spenser approached the subject of the 'faery queen' with his head full of ariosto and the romantic poets of italy. his sonnets are italian; his odes embody the platonic philosophy of the italians.[ ] the extent of spenser's deference to the italians in matters of poetic art may be gathered from this passage in the dedication to sir walter raleigh of the 'faery queen:' i have followed all the antique poets historical: first homer, who in the persons of agamemnon and ulysses hath ensampled a good governor and a virtuous man, the one in his ilias, the other in his odysseis; then virgil, whose like intention was to do in the person of Æneas; after him ariosto comprised them both in his orlando; and lately tasso dissevered them again, and formed both parts in two persons, namely, that part which they in philosophy call ethice, or virtues of a private man, coloured in his rinaldo, the other named politico in his goffredo. from this it is clear that, to the mind of spenser, both ariosto and tasso were authorities of hardly less gravity than homer and virgil. raleigh, in the splendid sonnet with which he responds to this dedication, enhances the fame of spenser by affecting to believe that the great italian, petrarch, will be jealous of him in the grave. to such an extent were the thoughts of the english poets occupied with their italian masters in the art of song. it was at this time, again, that english literature was enriched by translations of ariosto and tasso--the one from the pen of sir john harrington, the other from that of fairfax. both were produced in the metre of the original--the octave stanza, which, however, did not at that period take root in england. at the same period the works of many of the italian novelists, especially bandello and cinthio and boccaccio, were translated into english; painter's 'palace of pleasure' being a treasure-house of italian works of fiction. thomas hoby translated castiglione's 'courtier' in . as a proof of the extent to which italian books were read in england at the end of the sixteenth century, we may take a stray sentence from a letter of harvey, in which he disparages the works of robert greene:--'even guicciardine's silver histories and ariosto's golden cantos grow out of request: and the countess of pembroke's "arcadia" is not green enough for queasy stomachs; but they must have seen greene's "arcadia," and i believe most eagerly longed for greene's "faery queen."' still more may be gathered on the same topic from the indignant protest uttered by roger ascham in his 'schoolmaster' (pp. - , date ) against the prevalence of italian customs, the habit of italian travel, and the reading of italian books translated into english. selections of italian stories rendered into english were extremely popular; and greene's tales, which had such vogue that nash says of them, 'glad was that printer that might be so blest to pay him dear for the very dregs of his wit,' were all modelled on the italian. the education of a young man of good family was not thought complete unless he had spent some time in italy, studied its literature, admired its arts, and caught at least some tincture of its manners. our rude ancestors brought back with them from these journeys many southern vices, together with the culture they had gone to seek. the contrast between the plain dealing of the north and the refined machiavellism of the south, between protestant earnestness in religion and popish scepticism, between the homely virtues of england and the courtly libertinism of venice or florence, blunted the moral sense, while it stimulated the intellectual activity of the english travellers, and too often communicated a fatal shock to their principles. _inglese italianato è un diavolo incarnato_ passed into a proverb: we find it on the lips of parker, of howell, of sidney, of greene, and of ascham; while italy itself was styled by severe moralists the court of circe. in james howell's 'instructions for forreine travell' we find this pregnant sentence: 'and being now in italy, that great limbique of working braines, he must be very circumspect in his carriage, for she is able to turne a saint into a devill, and deprave the best natures, if one will abandon himselfe, and become a prey to dissolut courses and wantonesse.' italy, in truth, had already become corrupt, and the fruit of her contact with the nations of the north was seen in the lives of such scholars as robert greene, who confessed that he returned from his travels instructed 'in all the villanies under the sun.' many of the scandals of the court of james might be ascribed to this aping of southern manners. yet, together with the evil of depraved morality, the advantage of improved culture was imported from italy into england; and the constitution of the english genius was young and healthy enough to purge off the mischief, while it assimilated what was beneficial. this is very manifest in the history of our drama, which, taking it altogether, is at the same time the purest and the most varied that exists in literature; while it may be affirmed without exaggeration that one of the main impulses to free dramatic composition in england was communicated by the attraction everything italian possessed for the english fancy. it was in the drama that the english displayed the richness and the splendour of the renaissance, which had blazed so gorgeously and at times so balefully below the alps. the italy of the renaissance fascinated our dramatists with a strange wild glamour--the contrast of external pageant and internal tragedy, the alternations of radiance and gloom, the terrible examples of bloodshed, treason, and heroism emergent from ghastly crimes. our drama began with a translation of ariosto's 'suppositi' and ended with davenant's 'just italian.' in the very dawn of tragic composition greene versified a portion of the 'orlando furioso,' and marlowe devoted one of his most brilliant studies to the villanies of a maltese jew. of shakspere's plays five are incontestably italian: several of the rest are furnished with italian names to suit the popular taste. ben jonson laid the scene of his most subtle comedy of manners, 'volpone,' in venice, and sketched the first cast of 'every man in his humour' for italian characters. tourneur, ford, and webster were so dazzled by the tragic lustre of the wickedness of italy that their finest dramas, without exception, are minute and carefully studied psychological analyses of great italian tales of crime. the same, in a less degree, is true of middleton and dekker. massinger makes a story of the sforza family the subject of one of his best plays. beaumont and fletcher draw the subjects of comedies and tragedies alike from the italian novelists. fletcher in his 'faithful shepherdess' transfers the pastoral style of tasso and guarini to the north. so close is the connection between our tragedy and italian novels that marston and ford think fit to introduce passages of italian dialogue into the plays of 'giovanni and annabella' and 'antonio and mellida.' but the best proof of the extent to which italian life and literature had influenced our dramatists, may be easily obtained by taking down halliwell's 'dictionary of old plays,' and noticing that about every third drama has an italian title. meanwhile the poems composed by the chief dramatists--shakspere's 'venus and adonis,' marlowe's 'hero and leander,' marston's 'pygmalion,' and beaumont's 'hermaphrodite'--are all of them conceived in the italian style, by men who had either studied southern literature, or had submitted to its powerful æsthetic influences. the masques, moreover, of jonson, of lyly, of fletcher, and of chapman are exact reproductions upon the english court theatres of such festival pageants as were presented to the medici at florence or to the este family at ferrara.[ ] throughout our drama the influence of italy, direct or indirect, either as supplying our playwrights with subjects or as stimulating their imagination, may thus be traced. yet the elizabethan drama is in the highest sense original. as a work of art pregnant with deepest wisdom, and splendidly illustrative of the age which gave it birth, it far transcends anything that italy produced in the same department. our poets have a more masculine judgment, more fiery fancy, nobler sentiment, than the italians of any age but that of dante. what italy gave, was the impulse toward creation, not patterns to be imitated--the excitement of the imagination by a spectacle of so much grandeur, not rules and precepts for production--the keen sense of tragic beauty, not any tradition of accomplished art. the elizabethan period of our literature was, in fact, the period during which we derived most from the italian nation. the study of the italian language went hand in hand with the study of greek and latin, so that the three together contributed to form the english taste. between us and the ancient world stood the genius of italy as an interpreter. nor was this connection broken until far on into the reign of charles ii. what milton owed to italy is clear not only from his italian sonnets, but also from the frequent mention of dante and petrarch in his prose works, from his allusions to boiardo and ariosto in the 'paradise lost,' and from the hints which he probably derived from pulci, tasso and andreini. it would, indeed, be easy throughout his works to trace a continuous vein of italian influence in detail. but, more than this, milton's poetical taste in general seems to have been formed and ripened by familiarity with the harmonies of the italian language. in his tractate on education addressed to mr. hartlib, he recommends that boys should be instructed in the italian pronunciation of vowel sounds, in order to give sonorousness and dignity to elocution. this slight indication supplies us with a key to the method of melodious structure employed by milton in his blank verse. those who have carefully studied the harmonies of the 'paradise lost,' know how all-important are the assonances of the vowel sounds of _o_ and _a_ in its most musical passages. it is just this attention to the liquid and sonorous recurrences of open vowels that we should expect from a poet who proposed to assimilate his diction to that of the italians. after the age of milton the connection between italy and england is interrupted. in the seventeenth century italy herself had sunk into comparative stupor, and her literature was trivial. france not only swayed the political destinies of europe, but also took the lead in intellectual culture. consequently, our poets turned from italy to france, and the french spirit pervaded english literature throughout the period of the restoration and the reigns of william and queen anne. yet during this prolonged reaction against the earlier movement of english literature, as manifested in elizabethanism, the influence of italy was not wholly extinct. dryden's 'tales from boccaccio' are no insignificant contribution to our poetry, and his 'palamon and arcite,' through chaucer, returns to the same source. but when, at the beginning of this century, the elizabethan tradition was revived, then the italian influence reappeared more vigorous than ever. the metre of 'don juan,' first practised by frere and then adopted by lord byron, is pulci's octave stanza; the manner is that of berni, folengo, and the abbé casti, fused and heightened by the brilliance of byron's genius into a new form. the subject of shelley's strongest work of art is beatrice cenci. rogers's poem is styled 'italy.' byron's dramas are chiefly italian. leigh hunt repeats the tale of francesca da rimini. keats versifies boccaccio's 'isabella.' passing to contemporary poets, rossetti has acclimatised in english the metres and the manner of the earliest italian lyrists. swinburne dedicates his noblest song to the spirit of liberty in italy. even george eliot and tennyson have each of them turned stories of boccaccio into verse. the best of mrs. browning's poems, 'casa guidi windows' and 'aurora leigh,' are steeped in italian thought and italian imagery. browning's longest poem is a tale of italian crime; his finest studies in the 'men and women' are portraits of italian character of the renaissance period. but there is more than any mere enumeration of poets and their work can set forth, in the connection between italy and england. that connection, so far as the poetical imagination is concerned, is vital. as poets in the truest sense of the word, we english live and breathe through sympathy with the italians. the magnetic touch which is required to inflame the imagination of the north, is derived from italy. the nightingales of english song who make our oak and beech copses resonant in spring with purest melody, are migratory birds, who have charged their souls in the south with the spirit of beauty, and who return to warble native wood-notes in a tongue which is their own. what has hitherto been said about the debt of the english poets to italy, may seem to imply that our literature can be regarded as to some extent a parasite on that of the italians. against such a conclusion no protest too energetic could be uttered. what we have derived directly from the italian poets are, first, some metres--especially the sonnet and the octave stanza, though the latter has never taken firm root in england. 'terza rima,' attempted by shelley, byron, morris, and mrs. browning, has not yet become acclimatised. blank verse, although originally remodelled by surrey upon the _versi sciolti_ of the italians, has departed widely from italian precedent, first by its decasyllabic structure, whereas italian verse consists of hendecasyllables; and, secondly, by its greater force, plasticity, and freedom. the spenserian stanza, again, is a new and original metre peculiar to our literature; though it is possible that but for the complex structures of italian lyric verse, it might not have been fashioned for the 'faery queen.' lastly, the so-called heroic couplet is native to england; at any rate, it is in no way related to italian metre. therefore the only true italian exotic adopted without modification into our literature is the sonnet. in the next place, we owe to the italians the subject-matter of many of our most famous dramas and our most delightful tales in verse. but the english treatment of these histories and fables has been uniformly independent and original. comparing shakspere's 'romeo and juliet' with bandello's tale, webster's 'duchess of malfy' with the version given from the italian in painter's 'palace of pleasure,' and chaucer's knight's tale with the 'teseide' of boccaccio, we perceive at once that the english poets have used their italian models merely as outlines to be filled in with freedom, as the canvas to be embroidered with a tapestry of vivid groups. nothing is more manifest than the superiority of the english genius over the italian in all dramatic qualities of intense passion, profound analysis, and living portrayal of character in action. the mere rough detail of shakspere's 'othello' is to be found in cinthio's collection of novelle; but let an unprejudiced reader peruse the original, and he will be no more deeply affected by it than by any touching story of treachery, jealousy, and hapless innocence. the wily subtleties of iago, the soldierly frankness of cassio, the turbulent and volcanic passions of othello, the charm of desdemona, and the whole tissue of vivid incidents which make 'othello' one of the most tremendous extant tragedies of characters in combat, are shakspere's, and only shakspere's. this instance, indeed, enables us exactly to indicate what the english owed to italy and what was essentially their own. from that southern land of circe about which they dreamed, and which now and then they visited, came to their imaginations a spirit-stirring breath of inspiration. it was to them the country of marvels, of mysterious crimes, of luxurious gardens and splendid skies, where love was more passionate and life more picturesque, and hate more bloody and treachery more black, than in our northern climes. italy was a spacious grove of wizardry, which mighty poets, on the quest of fanciful adventure, trod with fascinated senses and quickened pulses. but the strong brain which converted what they heard and read and saw of that charmed land into the stuff of golden romance or sable tragedy, was their own. english literature has been defined a literature of genius. our greatest work in art has been achieved not so much by inspiration, subordinate to sentiments of exquisite good taste or guided by observance of classical models, as by audacious sallies of pure inventive power. this is true as a judgment of that constellation which we call our drama, of the meteor byron, of milton and dryden, who are the jupiter and mars of our poetic system, and of the stars which stud our literary firmament under the names of shelley, keats, wordsworth, chatterton, scott, coleridge, clough, blake, browning, swinburne, tennyson. there are only a very few of the english poets, pope and gray, for example, in whom the free instincts of genius are kept systematically in check by the laws of the reflective understanding. now italian literature is in this respect all unlike our own. it began, indeed, with dante, as a literature pre-eminently of genius; but the spirit of scholarship assumed the sway as early as the days of petrarch and boccaccio, and after them italian has been consistently a literature of taste. by this i mean that even the greatest italian poets have sought to render their style correct, have endeavoured to subordinate their inspiration to what they considered the rules of sound criticism, and have paid serious attention to their manner as independent of the matter they wished to express. the passion for antiquity, so early developed in italy, delivered the later italian poets bound hand and foot into the hands of horace. poliziano was content to reproduce the classic authors in a mosaic work of exquisite translations. tasso was essentially a man of talent, producing work of chastened beauty by diligent attention to the rule and method of his art. even ariosto submitted the liberty of his swift spirit to canons of prescribed elegance. while our english poets have conceived and executed without regard for the opinion of the learned and without obedience to the usages of language--shakspere, for example, producing tragedies which set aristotle at defiance, and milton engrafting latinisms on the native idiom--the italian poets thought and wrote with the fear of academies before their eyes, and studied before all things to maintain the purity of the tuscan tongue. the consequence is that the italian and english literatures are eminent for very different excellences. all that is forcible in the dramatic presentation of life and character and action, all that is audacious in imagination and capricious in fancy, whatever strength style can gain from the sallies of original and untrammelled eloquence, whatever beauty is derived from spontaneity and native grace, belong in abundant richness to the english. on the other hand, the italian poets present us with masterpieces of correct and studied diction, with carefully elaborated machinery, and with a style maintained at a uniform level of dignified correctness. the weakness of the english proceeds from inequality and extravagance; it is the weakness of self-confident vigour, intolerant of rule, rejoicing in its own exuberant resources. the weakness of the italian is due to timidity and moderation; it is the weakness that springs not so much from a lack of native strength as from the over-anxious expenditure of strength upon the attainment of finish, polish, and correctness. hence the two nations have everything to learn from one another. modern italian poets may seek by contact with shakspere and milton to gain a freedom from the trammels imposed upon them by the slavish followers of petrarch; while the attentive perusal of tasso should be recommended to all english people who have no ready access to the masterpieces of greek and latin literature. another point of view may be gained by noticing the pre-dominant tone of the two literatures. whenever english poetry is really great, it approximates to the tragic and the stately; whereas the italians are peculiarly felicitous in the smooth and pleasant style, which combines pathos with amusement, and which does not trespass beyond the region of beauty into the domain of sublimity or terror. italian poetry is analogous to italian painting and italian music: it bathes the soul in a plenitude of charms, investing even the most solemn subjects with loveliness. rembrandt and albert dürer depict the tragedies of the sacred history with a serious and awful reality: italian painters, with a few rare but illustrious exceptions, shrink from approaching them from any point of view but that of harmonious melancholy. even so the english poets stir the soul to its very depths by their profound and earnest delineations of the stern and bitter truths of the world: italian poets environ all things with the golden haze of an artistic harmony; so that the soul is agitated by no pain at strife with the persuasions of pure beauty. * * * * * _popular songs of tuscany_ it is a noticeable fact about the popular songs of tuscany that they are almost exclusively devoted to love. the italians in general have no ballad literature resembling that of our border or that of spain. the tragic histories of their noble families, the great deeds of their national heroes, and the sufferings of their country during centuries of warfare, have left but few traces in their rustic poetry. it is true that some districts are less utterly barren than others in these records of the past. the sicilian people's poetry, for example, preserves a memory of the famous vespers; and one or two terrible stories of domestic tragedy, like the tale of rosmunda in 'la donna lombarda,' the romance of the baronessa di carini, and the so-called caso di sciacca, may still be heard upon the lips of the people. but these exceptions are insignificant in comparison with the vast mass of songs which deal with love; and i cannot find that tuscany, where the language of this minstrelsy is purest, and where the artistic instincts of the race are strongest, has anything at all approaching to our ballads.[ ] though the tuscan contadini are always singing, it rarely happens that the plaintive numbers flow for old, unhappy, far-off things, and battles long ago. on the contrary, we may be sure, when we hear their voices ringing through the olive-groves or macchi, that they are chanting some more humble lay, familiar matter of to-day,-- some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, that has been, and may be again; or else, since their melodies are by no means uniformly sad, some ditty of the joyousness of springtime or the ecstasy of love. this defect of anything corresponding to our ballads of 'chevy chase,' or 'sir patrick spens,' or 'gil morrice,' in a poetry which is still so vital with the life of past centuries, is all the more remarkable because italian history is distinguished above that of other nations by tragic episodes peculiarly suited to poetic treatment. many of these received commemoration in the fourteenth century from dante; others were embodied in the _novelle_ of boccaccio and cinthio and bandello, whence they passed into the dramas of shakspere, webster, ford, and their contemporaries. but scarcely an echo can be traced through all the volumes of the recently collected popular songs. we must seek for an explanation of this fact partly in the conditions of italian life, and partly in the nature of the italian imagination. nowhere in italy do we observe that intimate connection between the people at large and the great nobles which generates the sympathy of clanship. politics in most parts of the peninsula fell at a very early period into the hands either of irresponsible princes, who ruled like despots, or else of burghers, who administered the state within the walls of their palazzo pubblico. the people remained passive spectators of contemporary history. the loyalty of subjects to their sovereign which animates the spanish ballads, the loyalty of retainers to their chief which gives life to the tragic ballads of the border, did not exist in italy. country-folk felt no interest in the doings of visconti or medici or malatesti sufficient to arouse the enthusiasm of local bards or to call forth the celebration of their princely tragedies in verse. amid the miseries of foreign wars and home oppression, it seemed better to demand from verse and song some mitigation of the woes of life, some expression of personal emotion, than to record the disasters which to us at a distance appear poetic in their grandeur. these conditions of popular life, although unfavourable to the production of ballad poetry, would not, however, have been sufficient by themselves to check its growth, if the italians had been strongly impelled to literature of this type by their nature. the real reason why their _volkslieder_ are amorous and personal is to be found in the quality of their imagination. the italian genius is not creatively imaginative in the highest sense. the italians have never, either in the ancient or the modern age, produced a great drama or a national epic, the 'Æneid' and the 'divine comedy' being obviously of different species from the 'iliad' or the 'nibelungen lied.' modern italians, again, are distinguished from the french, the germans, and the english in being the conscious inheritors of an older, august, and strictly classical civilisation. the great memories of rome weigh down their faculties of invention. it would also seem as though they shrank in their poetry from the representation of what is tragic and spirit-stirring. they incline to what is cheerful, brilliant, or pathetic. the dramatic element in human life, external to the personality of the poet, which exercised so strong a fascination over our ballad-bards and playwrights, has but little attraction for the italian. when he sings, he seeks to express his own individual emotions--his love, his joy, his jealousy, his anger, his despair. the language which he uses is at the same time direct in its intensity, and hyperbolical in its display of fancy; but it lacks those imaginative touches which exalt the poetry of personal passion into a sublimer region. again, the italians are deficient in a sense of the supernatural. the wraiths that cannot rest because their love is still unsatisfied, the voices which cry by night over field and fell, the water-spirits and forest fairies, the second-sight of coming woes, the presentiment of death, the warnings and the charms and spells, which fill the popular poetry of all northern nations, are absent in italian songs. in the whole of tigri's collection i only remember one mention of a ghost. it is not that the italians are deficient in superstitions of all kinds. every one has heard of their belief in the evil eye, for instance. but they do not connect this kind of fetichism with their poetry; and even their greatest poets, with the exception of dante, have shown no capacity or no inclination for enhancing the imaginative effect of their creations by an appeal to the instinct of mysterious awe. the truth is that the italians as a race are distinguished as much by a firm grasp upon the practical realities of existence as by powerful emotions. they have but little of that dreamy _schwärmerei_ with which the people of the north are largely gifted. the true sphere of their genius is painting. what appeals to the imagination through the eyes, they have expressed far better than any other modern nation. but their poetry, like their music, is deficient in tragic sublimity and in the higher qualities of imaginative creation. it may seem paradoxical to say this of the nation which produced dante. but we must remember not to judge races by single and exceptional men of genius. petrarch, the troubadour of exquisite emotions, boccaccio, who touches all the keys of life so lightly, ariosto, with the smile of everlasting april on his lips, and tasso, excellent alone when he confines himself to pathos or the picturesque, are no exceptions to what i have just said. yet these poets pursued their art with conscious purpose. the tragic splendour of greece, the majesty of rome, were not unknown to them. far more is it true that popular poetry in italy, proceeding from the hearts of uncultivated peasants and expressing the national character in its simplicity, displays none of the stuff from which the greatest works of art in verse, epics and dramas, can be wrought. but within its own sphere of personal emotion, this popular poetry is exquisitely melodious, inexhaustibly rich, unique in modern literature for the direct expression which it has given to every shade of passion. signor tigri's collection,[ ] to which i shall confine my attention in this paper, consists of eleven hundred and eighty-five _rispetti_, with the addition of four hundred and sixty-one _stornelli_. rispetto, it may be said in passing, is the name commonly given throughout italy to short poems, varying from six to twelve lines, constructed on the principle of the octave stanza. that is to say, the first part of the rispetto consists of four or six lines with alternate rhymes, while one or more couplets, called the _ripresa_, complete the poem.[ ] the stornello, or ritournelle, never exceeds three lines, and owes its name to the return which it makes at the end of the last line to the rhyme given by the emphatic word of the first. browning, in his poem of 'fra lippo lippi,' has accustomed english ears to one common species of the stornello,[ ] which sets out with the name of a flower, and rhymes with it, as thus: fior di narciso. prigionero d'amore mi son reso, nel rimirare il tuo leggiadro viso. the divisions of those two sorts of songs, to which tigri gives names like the beauty of women, the beauty of men, falling in love, serenades, happy love, unhappy love, parting, absence, letters, return to home, anger and jealousy, promises, entreaties and reproaches, indifference, treachery and abandonment, prove with what fulness the various phases of the tender passion are treated. through the whole fifteen hundred the one theme of love is never relinquished. only two persons, 'i' and 'thou,' appear upon the scene; yet so fresh and so various are the moods of feeling, that one can read them from first to last without too much satiety. to seek for the authors of these ditties would be useless. some of them may be as old as the fourteenth century; others may have been made yesterday. some are the native product of the tuscan mountain villages, especially of the regions round pistoja and siena, where on the spurs of the apennines the purest italian is vernacular. some, again, are importations from other provinces, especially from sicily and naples, caught up by the peasants of tuscany and adapted to their taste and style; for nothing travels faster than a _volkslied_. born some morning in a noisy street of naples, or on the solitary slopes of radicofani, before the week is out, a hundred voices are repeating it. waggoners and pedlars carry it across the hills to distant towns. it floats with the fishermen from bay to bay, and marches with the conscript to his barrack in a far-off province. who was the first to give it shape and form? no one asks, and no one cares. a student well acquainted with the habits of the people in these matters says, 'if they knew the author of a ditty, they would not learn it, far less if they discovered that it was a scholar's.' if the cadence takes their ear, they consecrate the song at once by placing it upon the honoured list of 'ancient lays.' passing from lip to lip and from district to district, it receives additions and alterations, and becomes the property of a score of provinces. meanwhile the poet from whose soul it blossomed that first morning like a flower, remains contented with obscurity. the wind has carried from his lips the thistledown of song, and sown it on a hundred hills and meadows, far and wide. after such wise is the birth of all truly popular compositions. who knows, for instance, the veritable author of many of those mighty german chorals which sprang into being at the period of the reformation? the first inspiration was given, probably, to a single mind; but the melody, as it has reached us, is the product of a thousand. this accounts for the variations which in different dialects and districts the same song presents. meanwhile, it is sometimes possible to trace the authorship of a ballad with marked local character to an improvisatore famous in his village, or to one of those professional rhymesters whom the country-folk employ in the composition of love-letters to their sweethearts at a distance.[ ] tommaseo, in the preface to his 'canti popolari,' mentions in particular a beatrice di pian degli ontani, whose poetry was famous through the mountains of pistoja; and tigri records by name a little girl called cherubina, who made rispetti by the dozen as she watched her sheep upon the hills. one of the songs in his collection (p. ) contains a direct reference to the village letter-writer:-- salutatemi, bella, lo scrivano; non lo conosco e non so chi si sia. a me mi pare un poeta sovrano, tanto gli è sperto nella poesia.[ ] while i am writing thus about the production and dissemination of these love-songs, i cannot help remembering three days and nights which i once spent at sea between genoa and palermo, in the company of some conscripts who were going to join their regiment in sicily. they were lads from the milanese and liguria, and they spent a great portion of their time in composing and singing poetry. one of them had a fine baritone voice; and when the sun had set, his comrades gathered round him and begged him to sing to them 'con quella patetica tua voce.' then followed hours of singing, the low monotonous melodies of his ditties harmonising wonderfully with the tranquillity of night, so clear and calm that the sky and all its stars were mirrored on the sea, through which we moved as if in a dream. sometimes the songs provoked conversation, which, as is usual in italy, turned mostly upon 'le bellezze delle donne.' i remember that once an animated discussion about the relative merits of blondes and brunettes nearly ended in a quarrel, when the youngest of the whole band, a boy of about seventeen, put a stop to the dispute by theatrically raising his eyes and arms to heaven and crying, 'tu sei innamorato d' una grande diana cacciatrice nera, ed io d' una bella venere bionda.' though they were but village lads, they supported their several opinions with arguments not unworthy of firenzuola, and showed the greatest delicacy of feeling in the treatment of a subject which could scarcely have failed to reveal any latent coarseness. the purity of all the italian love-songs collected by tigri is very remarkable.[ ] although the passion expressed in them is oriental in its vehemence, not a word falls which could offend a virgin's ear. the one desire of lovers is lifelong union in marriage. the _damo_--for so a sweetheart is termed in tuscany--trembles until he has gained the approval of his future mother-in-law, and forbids the girl he is courting to leave her house to talk to him at night:-- dice che tu tì affacci alia finestra; ma non tì dice che tu vada fuora, perchè, la notte, è cosa disonesta. all the language of his love is respectful. _signore_, or master of my soul, _madonna, anima mia, dolce mio ben, nobil persona,_ are the terms of adoration with which he approaches his mistress. the elevation of feeling and perfect breeding which manzoni has so well delineated in the loves of renzo and lucia are traditional among italian country-folk. they are conscious that true gentleness is no matter of birth or fortune:-- e tu non mi lasciar per poverezza, chè povertà non guasta gentilezza.[ ] this in itself constitutes an important element of culture, and explains to some extent the high romantic qualities of their impassioned poetry. the beauty of their land reveals still more. 'o fortunatos nimium sua si bona norint!' virgil's exclamation is as true now as it was when he sang the labours of italian country-folk some nineteen centuries ago. to a traveller from the north there is a pathos even in the contrast between the country in which these children of a happier climate toil, and those bleak, winter-beaten fields where our own peasants pass their lives. the cold nights and warm days of tuscan springtime are like a swiss summer. they make rich pasture and a hardy race of men. tracts of corn and oats and rye alternate with patches of flax in full flower, with meadows yellow with buttercups or pink with ragged robin; the young vines, running from bough to bough of elm and mulberry, are just coming into leaf. the poplars are fresh with bright green foliage. on the verge of this blooming plain stand ancient cities ringed with hills, some rising to snowy apennines, some covered with white convents and sparkling with villas. cypresses shoot, black and spirelike, amid grey clouds of olive-boughs upon the slopes; and above, where vegetation borders on the barren rock, are masses of ilex and arbutus interspersed with chestnut-trees not yet in leaf. men and women are everywhere at work, ploughing with great white oxen, or tilling the soil with spades six feet in length--sabellian ligones. the songs of nightingales among acacia-trees, and the sharp scream of swallows wheeling in air, mingle with the monotonous chant that always rises from the country-people at their toil. here and there on points of vantage, where the hill-slopes sink into the plain, cluster white villages with flower-like campanili. it is there that the veglia, or evening rendezvous of lovers, the serenades and balls and feste, of which one hears so much in the popular minstrelsy, take place. of course it would not be difficult to paint the darker shades of this picture. autumn comes, when the contadini of lucca and siena and pistoja go forth to work in the unwholesome marshes of the maremma, or of corsica and sardinia. dismal superstitions and hereditary hatreds cast their blight over a life externally so fair. the bad government of centuries has perverted in many ways the instincts of a people naturally mild and cheerful and peace-loving. but as far as nature can make men happy, these husbandmen are surely to be reckoned fortunate, and in their songs we find little to remind us of what is otherwise than sunny in their lot. a translator of these _volkslieder_ has to contend with difficulties of no ordinary kind. the freshness of their phrases, the spontaneity of their sentiments, and the melody of their unstudied cadences, are inimitable. so again is the peculiar effect of their frequent transitions from the most fanciful imagery to the language of prose. no mere student can hope to rival, far less to reproduce, in a foreign tongue, the charm of verse which sprang untaught from the hearts of simple folk, which lives unwritten on the lips of lovers, and which should never be dissociated from singing.[ ] there are, besides, peculiarities in the very structure of the popular rispetto. the constant repetition of the same phrase with slight variations, especially in the closing lines of the _ripresa_ of the tuscan rispetto, gives an antique force and flavour to these ditties, like that which we appreciate in our own ballads, but which may easily, in the translation, degenerate into weakness and insipidity. the tuscan rhymester, again, allows himself the utmost licence. it is usual to find mere assonances like _bene_ and _piacere, oro_ and _volo, ala_ and _alata_, in the place of rhymes; while such remote resemblances of sound as _colli_ and _poggi_, _lascia_ and _piazza_, are far from uncommon. to match these rhymes by joining 'home' and 'alone,' 'time' and 'shine,' &c, would of course be a matter of no difficulty; but it has seemed to me on the whole best to preserve, with some exceptions, such accuracy as the english ear requires. i fear, however, that, after all, these wild-flowers of song, transplanted to another climate and placed in a hothouse, will appear but pale and hectic by the side of their robuster brethren of the tuscan hills. in the following serenade many of the peculiarities which i have just noticed occur. i have also adhered to the irregularity of rhyme which may be usually observed about the middle of the poem (p. ):-- sleeping or waking, thou sweet face, lift up thy fair and tender brow: list to thy love in this still place; he calls thee to thy window now: but bids thee not the house to quit, since in the night this were not meet. come to thy window, stay within; i stand without, and sing and sing: come to thy window, stay at home; i stand without, and make my moan. here is a serenade of a more impassioned character (p. ):-- i come to visit thee, my beauteous queen, thee and the house where thou art harboured: all the long way upon my knees, my queen, i kiss the earth where'er thy footsteps tread. i kiss the earth, and gaze upon the wall, whereby thou goest, maid imperial! i kiss the earth, and gaze upon the house, whereby thou farest, queen most beauteous! in the next the lover, who has passed the whole night beneath his sweetheart's window, takes leave at the break of day. the feeling of the half-hour before dawn, when the sound of bells rises to meet the growing light, and both form a prelude to the glare and noise of day, is expressed with much unconscious poetry (p. ):-- i see the dawn e'en now begin to peer: therefore i take my leave, and cease to sing, see how the windows open far and near, and hear the bells of morning, how they ring! through heaven and earth the sounds of ringing swell; therefore, bright jasmine flower, sweet maid, farewell! through heaven and rome the sound of ringing goes; farewell, bright jasmine flower, sweet maiden rose! the next is more quaint (p. ):-- i come by night, i come, my soul aflame; i come in this fair hour of your sweet sleep; and should i wake you up, it were a shame. i cannot sleep, and lo! i break your sleep. to wake you were a shame from your deep rest; love never sleeps, nor they whom love hath blest. a very great many rispetti are simple panegyrics of the beloved, to find similitude for whose beauty heaven and earth are ransacked. the compliment of the first line in the following song is perfect (p. ):-- beauty was born with you, fair maid: the sun and moon inclined to you; on you the snow her whiteness laid the rose her rich and radiant hue: saint magdalen her hair unbound, and cupid taught you how to wound-- how to wound hearts dan cupid taught: your beauty drives me love-distraught. the lady in the next was december's child (p. ):-- o beauty, born in winter's night, born in the month of spotless snow: your face is like a rose so bright; your mother may be proud of you! she may be proud, lady of love, such sunlight shines her house above: she may be proud, lady of heaven, such sunlight to her home is given. the sea wind is the source of beauty to another (p. ):-- nay, marvel not you are so fair; for you beside the sea were born: the sea-waves keep you fresh and fair, like roses on their leafy thorn. if roses grow on the rose-bush, your roses through midwinter blush; if roses bloom on the rose-bed, your face can show both white and red. the eyes of a fourth are compared, after quite a new and original fashion, to stars (p. ):-- the moon hath risen her plaint to lay before the face of love divine. saying in heaven she will not stay, since you have stolen what made her shine: aloud she wails with sorrow wan,-- she told her stars and two are gone: they are not there; you have them now; they are the eyes in your bright brow. nor are girls less ready to praise their lovers, but that they do not dwell so much on physical perfection. here is a pleasant greeting (p. ):-- o welcome, welcome, lily white, thou fairest youth of all the valley! when i'm with you, my soul is light; i chase away dull melancholy. i chase all sadness from my heart: then welcome, dearest that thou art! i chase all sadness from my side: then welcome, o my love, my pride! i chase all sadness far away: then welcome, welcome, love, to-day! the image of a lily is very prettily treated in the next (p ):-- i planted a lily yestreen at my window; i set it yestreen, and to-day it sprang up: when i opened the latch and leaned out of my window, it shadowed my face with its beautiful cup. o lily, my lily, how tall you are grown! remember how dearly i loved you, my own. o lily, my lily, you'll grow to the sky! remember i love you for ever and aye. the same thought of love growing like a flower receives another turn (p. ):-- on yonder hill i saw a flower; and, could it thence be hither borne, i'd plant it here within my bower, and water it both eve and morn. small water wants the stem so straight; 'tis a love-lily stout as fate. small water wants the root so strong: 'tis a love-lily lasting long. small water wants the flower so sheen: 'tis a love-lily ever green. envious tongues have told a girl that her complexion is not good. she replies, with imagery like that of virgil's 'alba ligustra cadunt, vaccinia nigra leguntur' (p. ):-- think it no grief that i am brown, for all brunettes are born to reign: white is the snow, yet trodden down; black pepper kings need not disdain: white snow lies mounded on the vales black pepper's weighed in brazen scales. another song runs on the same subject (p. ):-- the whole world tells me that i'm brown, the brown earth gives us goodly corn: the clove-pink too, however brown, yet proudly in the hand 'tis borne. they say my love is black, but he shines like an angel-form to me: they say my love is dark as night; to me he seems a shape of light. the freshness of the following spring song recalls the ballads of the val de vire in normandy (p. ):-- it was the morning of the first of may, into the close i went to pluck a flower; and there i found a bird of woodland gay, who whiled with songs of love the silent hour. o bird, who fliest from fair florence, how dear love begins, i prithee teach me now!-- love it begins with music and with song, and ends with sorrow and with sighs ere long. love at first sight is described (p. ):-- the very moment that we met, that moment love began to beat: one glance of love we gave, and swore never to part for evermore; we swore together, sighing deep, never to part till death's long sleep. here too is a memory of the first days of love (p. ):-- if i remember, it was may when love began between us two: the roses in the close were gay, the cherries blackened on the bough. o cherries black and pears so green! of maidens fair you are the queen. fruit of black cherry and sweet pear! of sweethearts you're the queen, i swear. the troth is plighted with such promises as these (p. ):-- or ere i leave you, love divine, dead tongues shall stir and utter speech, and running rivers flow with wine, and fishes swim upon the beach; or ere i leave or shun you, these lemons shall grow on orange-trees. the girl confesses her love after this fashion (p. ):-- passing across the billowy sea, i let, alas, my poor heart fall; i bade the sailors bring it me; they said they had not seen it fall. i asked the sailors, one and two; they said that i had given it you. i asked the sailors, two and three; they said that i had given it thee. it is not uncommon to speak of love as a sea. here is a curious play upon this image (p. ):-- ho, cupid! sailor cupid, ho! lend me awhile that bark of thine; for on the billows i will go, to find my love who once was mine: and if i find her, she shall wear a chain around her neck so fair, around her neck a glittering bond, four stars, a lily, a diamond. it is also possible that the same thought may occur in the second line of the next ditty (p. ):-- beneath the earth i'll make a way to pass the sea and come to you. people will think i'm gone away; but, dear, i shall be seeing you. people will say that i am dead; but we'll pluck roses white and red: people will think i'm lost for aye; but we'll pluck roses, you and i. all the little daily incidents are beautified by love. here is a lover who thanks the mason for making his window so close upon the road that he can see his sweetheart as she passes (p. ):-- blest be the mason's hand who built this house of mine by the roadside, and made my window low and wide for me to watch my love go by. and if i knew when she went by, my window should be fairly gilt; and if i knew what time she went, my window should be flower-besprent. here is a conceit which reminds one of the pretty epistle of philostratus, in which the footsteps of the beloved are called _[greek: erêreismena philêmpta]_ (p. ):-- what time i see you passing by; i sit and count the steps you take: you take the steps; i sit and sigh: step after step, my sighs awake. tell me, dear love, which more abound, my sighs or your steps on the ground? tell me, dear love, which are the most, your light steps or the sighs they cost? a girl complains that she cannot see her lover's house (p. ):- i lean upon the lattice, and look forth to see the house where my lover dwells. there grows an envious tree that spoils my mirth: cursed be the man who set it on these hills! but when those jealous boughs are all unclad, i then shall see the cottage of my lad: when once that tree is rooted from the hills, i'll see the house wherein my lover dwells. in the same mood a girl who has just parted from her sweetheart is angry with the hill beyond which he is travelling (p. ):-- i see and see, yet see not what i would: i see the leaves atremble on the tree: i saw my love where on the hill he stood, yet see him not drop downward to the lea. o traitor hill, what will you do? i ask him, live or dead, from you. o traitor hill, what shall it be? i ask him, live or dead, from thee. all the songs of love in absence are very quaint. here is one which calls our nursery rhymes to mind (p. ):-- i would i were a bird so free, that i had wings to fly away: unto that window i would flee, where stands my love and grinds all day. grind, miller, grind; the water's deep! i cannot grind; love makes me weep. grind, miller, grind; the waters flow! i cannot grind; love wastes me so. the next begins after the same fashion, but breaks into a very shower of benedictions (p. ):-- would god i were a swallow free, that i had wings to fly away: upon the miller's door i'd be, where stands my love and grinds all day: upon the door, upon the sill, where stays my love;--god bless him still! god bless my love, and blessed be his house, and bless my house for me; yea, blest be both, and ever blest my lover's house, and all the rest! the girl alone at home in her garden sees a wood-dove flying by and calls to it (p. ):-- o dove, who fliest far to yonder hill, dear dove, who in the rock hast made thy nest, let me a feather from thy pinion pull, for i will write to him who loves me best. and when i've written it and made it clear, i'll give thee back thy feather, dove so dear: and when i've written it and sealed it, then i'll give thee back thy feather love-laden. a swallow is asked to lend the same kind service (p. ):-- o swallow, swallow, flying through the air, turn, turn, i prithee, from thy flight above! give me one feather from thy wing so fair, for i will write a letter to my love. when i have written it and made it clear, i'll give thee back thy feather, swallow dear; when i have written it on paper white, i'll make, i swear, thy missing feather right; when once 'tis written on fair leaves of gold, i'll give thee back thy wing and flight so bold. long before tennyson's song in the 'princess,' it would seem that swallows were favourite messengers of love. in the next song which i translate, the repetition of one thought with delicate variation is full of character (p. ):-- o swallow, flying over hill and plain, if thou shouldst find my love, oh bid him come! and tell him, on these mountains i remain even as a lamb who cannot find her home: and tell him, i am left all, all alone, even as a tree whose flowers are overblown: and tell him, i am left without a mate even as a tree whose boughs are desolate: and tell him, i am left uncomforted even as the grass upon the meadows dead. the following is spoken by a girl who has been watching the lads of the village returning from their autumn service in the plain, and whose damo comes the last of all (p. ):-- o dear my love, you come too late! what found you by the way to do? i saw your comrades pass the gate, but yet not you, dear heart, not you! if but a little more you'd stayed, with sighs you would have found me dead; if but a while you'd keep me crying, with sighs you would have found me dying. the _amantium irae_ find a place too in these rustic ditties. a girl explains to her sweetheart (p. ):-- 'twas told me and vouchsafed for true, your kin are wroth as wroth can be; for loving me they swear at you, they swear at you because of me; your father, mother, all your folk, because you love me, chafe and choke! then set your kith and kin at ease; set them at ease and let me die: set the whole clan of them at ease; set them at ease and see me die! another suspects that her damo has paid his suit to a rival (p. ):-- on sunday morning well i knew where gaily dressed you turned your feet; and there were many saw it too, and came to tell me through the street: and when they spoke, i smiled, ah me! but in my room wept privately; and when they spoke, i sang for pride, but in my room alone i sighed. then come reconciliations (p. ):-- let us make peace, my love, my bliss! for cruel strife can last no more. if you say nay, yet i say yes: 'twixt me and you there is no war. princes and mighty lords make peace; and so may lovers twain, i wis: princes and soldiers sign a truce; and so may two sweethearts like us: princes and potentates agree; and so may friends like you and me. there is much character about the following, which is spoken by the damo (p. ):-- as yonder mountain height i trod, i chanced to think of your dear name; i knelt with clasped hands on the sod, and thought of my neglect with shame: i knelt upon the stone, and swore our love should bloom as heretofore. sometimes the language of affection takes a more imaginative tone, as in the following (p. ):-- dearest, what time you mount to heaven above, i'll meet you holding in my hand my heart: you to your breast shall clasp me full of love, and i will lead you to our lord apart. our lord, when he our love so true hath known, shall make of our two hearts one heart alone; one heart shall make of our two hearts, to rest in heaven amid the splendours of the blest. this was the woman's. here is the man's (p. ):-- if i were master of all loveliness, i'd make thee still more lovely than thou art: if i were master of all wealthiness, much gold and silver should be thine, sweetheart: if i were master of the house of hell, i'd bar the brazen gates in thy sweet face; or ruled the place where purging spirits dwell, i'd free thee from that punishment apace. were i in paradise and thou shouldst come, i'd stand aside, my love, to make thee room; were i in paradise, well seated there, i'd quit my place to give it thee, my fair! sometimes, but very rarely, weird images are sought to clothe passion, as in the following (p. ):-- down into hell i went and thence returned: ah me! alas! the people that were there! i found a room where many candles burned, and saw within my love that languished there. when as she saw me, she was glad of cheer, and at the last she said: sweet soul of mine; dost thou recall the time long past, so dear, when thou didst say to me, sweet soul of mine? now kiss me on the mouth, my dearest, here; kiss me that i for once may cease to pine! so sweet, ah me, is thy dear mouth, so dear, that of thy mercy prithee sweeten mine! now, love, that thou hast kissed me, now, i say, look not to leave this place again for aye. or again in this (p. ):-- methinks i hear, i hear a voice that cries: beyond the hill it floats upon the air. it is my lover come to bid me rise, if i am fain forthwith toward heaven to fare. but i have answered him, and said him no! i've given my paradise, my heaven, for you: till we together go to paradise, i'll stay on earth and love your beauteous eyes. but it is not with such remote and eerie thoughts that the rustic muse of italy can deal successfully. far better is the following half-playful description of love-sadness (p. ):-- ah me, alas! who know not how to sigh! of sighs i now full well have learned the art: sighing at table when to eat i try, sighing within my little room apart, sighing when jests and laughter round me fly, sighing with her and her who know my heart: i sigh at first, and then i go on sighing; 'tis for your eyes that i am ever sighing: i sigh at first, and sigh the whole year through; and 'tis your eyes that keep me sighing so. the next two rispetti, delicious in their naïveté, might seem to have been extracted from the libretto of an opera, but that they lack the sympathising chorus, who should have stood at hand, ready to chime in with 'he,' 'she,' and 'they,' to the 'i,' 'you,' and 'we' of the lovers (p. ):-- ah, when will dawn that glorious day when you will softly mount my stair? my kin shall bring you on the way; i shall be first to greet you there. ah, when will dawn that day of bliss when we before the priest say yes? ah, when will dawn that blissful day when i shall softly mount your stair, your brothers meet me on the way, and one by one i greet them there? when comes the day, my staff, my strength, to call your mother mine at length? when will the day come, love of mine, i shall be yours and you be mine? hitherto the songs have told only of happy love, or of love returned. some of the best, however, are unhappy. here is one, for instance, steeped in gloom (p. ):-- they have this custom in fair naples town; they never mourn a man when he is dead: the mother weeps when she has reared a son to be a serf and slave by love misled; the mother weeps when she a son hath born to be the serf and slave of galley scorn; the mother weeps when she a son gives suck to be the serf and slave of city luck. the following contains a fine wild image, wrought out with strange passion in detail (p. ):-- i'll spread a table brave for revelry, and to the feast will bid sad lovers all. for meat i'll give them my heart's misery; for drink i'll give these briny tears that fall. sorrows and sighs shall be the varletry, to serve the lovers at this festival: the table shall be death, black death profound; weep, stones, and utter sighs, ye walls around! the table shall be death, yea, sacred death; weep, stones, and sigh as one that sorroweth! nor is the next a whit less in the vein of mad jeronimo (p. ):-- high up, high up, a house i'll rear, high up, high up, on yonder height; at every window set a snare, with treason, to betray the night; with treason, to betray the stars, since i'm betrayed by my false feres; with treason, to betray the day, since love betrayed me, well away! the vengeance of an italian reveals itself in the energetic song which i quote next (p. ):-- i have a sword; 'twould cut a brazen bell, tough steel 'twould cut, if there were any need: i've had it tempered in the streams of hell by masters mighty in the mystic rede: i've had it tempered by the light of stars; then let him come whose skin is stout as mars; i've had it tempered to a trenchant blade; then let him come who stole from me my maid. more mild, but brimful of the bitterness of a soul to whom the whole world has become but ashes in the death of love, is the following lament (p. ):-- call me the lovely golden locks no more, but call me sad maid of the golden hair. if there be wretched women, sure i think i too may rank among the most forlorn. i fling a palm into the sea; 'twill sink: others throw lead, and it is lightly borne. what have i done, dear lord, the world to cross? gold in my hand forthwith is turned to dross. how have i made, dear lord, dame fortune wroth? gold in my hand forthwith is turned to froth. what have i done, dear lord, to fret the folk? gold in my hand forthwith is turned to smoke. here is pathos (p. ):-- the wood-dove who hath lost her mate, she lives a dolorous life, i ween; she seeks a stream and bathes in it, and drinks that water foul and green: with other birds she will not mate, nor haunt, i wis, the flowery treen; she bathes her wings and strikes her breast; her mate is lost: oh, sore unrest! and here is fanciful despair (p. ):-- i'll build a house of sobs and sighs, with tears the lime i'll slack; and there i'll dwell with weeping eyes until my love come back: and there i'll stay with eyes that burn until i see my love return. the house of love has been deserted, and the lover comes to moan beneath its silent eaves (p. ):-- dark house and window desolate! where is the sun which shone so fair? 'twas here we danced and laughed at fate: now the stones weep; i see them there. they weep, and feel a grievous chill: dark house and widowed window-sill! and what can be more piteous than this prayer? (p. ):-- love, if you love me, delve a tomb, and lay me there the earth beneath; after a year, come see my bones, and make them dice to play therewith. but when you're tired of that game, then throw those dice into the flame; but when you're tired of gaming free, then throw those dice into the sea. the simpler expression of sorrow to the death is, as usual, more impressive. a girl speaks thus within sight of the grave (p. ):-- yes, i shall die: what wilt thou gain? the cross before my bier will go; and thou wilt hear the bells complain, the _misereres_ loud and low. midmost the church thou'lt see me lie with folded hands and frozen eye; then say at last, i do repent!-- nought else remains when fires are spent. here is a rustic oenone (p. ):-- fell death, that fliest fraught with woe! thy gloomy snares the world ensphere: where no man calls, thou lov'st to go; but when we call, thou wilt not hear. fell death, false death of treachery, thou makest all content but me. another is less reproachful, but scarcely less sad (p. ):-- strew me with blossoms when i die, nor lay me 'neath the earth below; beyond those walls, there let me lie, where oftentimes we used to go. there lay me to the wind and rain; dying for you, i feel no pain: there lay me to the sun above; dying for you, i die of love. yet another of these pitiful love-wailings displays much poetry of expression (p. ):-- i dug the sea, and delved the barren sand: i wrote with dust and gave it to the wind: of melting snow, false love, was made thy band, which suddenly the day's bright beams unbind. now am i ware, and know my own mistake-- how false are all the promises you make; now am i ware, and know the fact, ah me! that who confides in you, deceived will be. it would scarcely be well to pause upon these very doleful ditties. take, then, the following little serenade, in which the lover on his way to visit his mistress has unconsciously fallen on the same thought as bion (p. ):-- yestreen i went my love to greet, by yonder village path below: night in a coppice found my feet; i called the moon her light to show-- o moon, who needs no flame to fire thy face, look forth and lend me light a little space! enough has been quoted to illustrate the character of the tuscan popular poetry. these village rispetti bear the same relation to the canzoniere of petrarch as the 'savage drupe' to the 'suave plum.' they are, as it were, the wild stock of that highly artificial flower of art. herein lies, perhaps, their chief importance. as in our ballad literature we may discern the stuff of the elizabethan drama undeveloped, so in the tuscan people's songs we can trace the crude form of that poetic instinct which produced the sonnets to laura. it is also very probable that some such rustic minstrelsy preceded the idylls of theocritus and the bucolics of virgil; for coincidences of thought and imagery, which can scarcely be referred to any conscious study of the ancients, are not a few. popular poetry has this great value for the student of literature: it enables him to trace those forms of fancy and of feeling which are native to the people, and which must ultimately determine the character of national art, however much that may be modified by culture. * * * * * _popular italian poetry of the renaissance_ the semi-popular poetry of the italians in the fifteenth century formed an important branch of their national literature, and flourished independently of the courtly and scholastic studies which gave a special character to the golden age of the revival. while the latter tended to separate the people from the cultivated classes, the former established a new link of connection between them, different indeed from that which existed when smiths and carters repeated the canzoni of dante by heart in the fourteenth century, but still sufficiently real to exercise a weighty influence over the national development. scholars like angelo poliziano, princes like lorenzo de' medici, men of letters like feo belcari and benivieni, borrowed from the people forms of poetry, which they handled with refined taste, and appropriated to the uses of polite literature. the most important of these forms, native to the people but assimilated by the learned classes, were the miracle play or 'sacra rappresentazione;' the 'ballata' or lyric to be sung while dancing; the 'canto carnascialesco' or carnival chorus; the 'rispetto' or short love-ditty; the 'lauda' or hymn; the 'maggio' or may-song; and the 'madrigale' or little part-song. at florence, where even under the despotism of the medici a show of republican life still lingered, all classes joined in the amusements of carnival and spring time; and this poetry of the dance, the pageant, and the villa flourished side by side with the more serious efforts of the humanistic muse. it is not my purpose in this place to inquire into the origins of each lyrical type, to discuss the alterations they may have undergone at the hands of educated versifiers, or to define their several characteristics; but only to offer translations of such as seem to me best suited to represent the genius of the people and the age. in the composition of the poetry in question, angelo poliziano was indubitably the most successful. this giant of learning, who filled the lecture-rooms of florence with students of all nations, and whose critical and rhetorical labours marked an epoch in the history of scholarship, was by temperament a poet, and a poet of the people. nothing was easier for him than to throw aside his professor's mantle, and to improvise 'ballate' for the girls to sing as they danced their 'carola' upon the piazza di santa trinità in summer evenings. the peculiarity of this lyric is that it starts with a couplet, which also serves as refrain, supplying the rhyme to each successive stanza. the stanza itself is identical with our rime royal, if we count the couplet in the place of the seventh line. the form is in itself so graceful and is so beautifully treated by poliziano that i cannot content myself with fewer than four of his _ballate_.[ ] the first is written on the world-old theme of 'gather ye rosebuds while ye may.' i went a roaming, maidens, one bright day, in a green garden in mid month of may. violets and lilies grew on every side mid the green grass, and young flowers wonderful, golden and white and red and azure-eyed; toward which i stretched my hands, eager to pull plenty to make my fair curls beautiful, to crown my rippling curls with garlands gay. i went a roaming, maidens, one bright day, in a green garden in mid month of may. but when my lap was full of flowers i spied roses at last, roses of every hue; therefore i ran to pluck their ruddy pride, because their perfume was so sweet and true that all my soul went forth with pleasure new, with yearning and desire too soft to say. i went a roaming, maidens, one bright day, in a green garden in mid month of may. i gazed and gazed. hard task it were to tell how lovely were the roses in that hour: one was but peeping from her verdant shell, and some were faded, some were scarce in flower: then love said: go, pluck from the blooming bower those that thou seest ripe upon the spray. i went a roaming, maidens, one bright day, in a green garden in mid month of may. for when the full rose quits her tender sheath, when she is sweetest and most fair to see, then is the time to place her in thy wreath, before her beauty and her freshness flee. gather ye therefore roses with great glee, sweet girls, or ere their perfume pass away. i went a roaming, maidens, one bright day, in a green garden in mid month of may. the next ballata is less simple, but is composed with the same intention. it may here be parenthetically mentioned that the courtly poet, when he applied himself to this species of composition, invented a certain rusticity of incident, scarcely in keeping with the spirit of his art. it was in fact a conventional feature of this species of verse that the scene should be laid in the country, where the burgher, on a visit to his villa, is supposed to meet with a rustic beauty who captivates his eyes and heart. guido cavalcanti, in his celebrated ballata, 'in un boschetto trovai pastorella,' struck the keynote of this music, which, it may be reasonably conjectured, was imported into italy through provençal literature from the pastorals of northern france. the lady so quaintly imaged by a bird in the following ballata of poliziano is supposed to have been monna ippolita leoncina of prato, white-throated, golden-haired, and dressed in crimson silk. i found myself one day all, all alone, for pastime in a field with blossoms strewn. i do not think the world a field could show with herbs of perfume so surpassing rare; but when i passed beyond the green hedge-row, a thousand flowers around me flourished fair, white, pied and crimson, in the summer air; among the which i heard a sweet bird's tone. i found myself one day all, all alone, for pastime in a field with blossoms strewn. her song it was so tender and so clear that all the world listened with love; then i with stealthy feet a-tiptoe drawing near, her golden head and golden wings could spy, her plumes that flashed like rubies 'neath the sky, her crystal beak and throat and bosom's zone. i found myself one day all, all alone, for pastime in a field with blossoms strewn. fain would i snare her, smit with mighty love; but arrow-like she soared, and through the air fled to her nest upon the boughs above; wherefore to follow her is all my care, for haply i might lure her by some snare forth from the woodland wild where she is flown. i found myself one day all, all alone, for pastime in a field with blossoms strewn. yea, i might spread some net or woven wile; but since of singing she doth take such pleasure, without or other art or other guile i seek to win her with a tuneful measure; therefore in singing spend i all my leisure, to make by singing this sweet bird my own. i found myself one day all, all alone, for pastime in a field with blossoms strewn. the same lady is more directly celebrated in the next ballata, where poliziano calls her by her name, ippolita. i have taken the liberty of substituting myrrha for this somewhat unmanageable word. he who knows not what thing is paradise, let him look fixedly on myrrha's eyes. from myrrha's eyes there flieth, girt with fire, an angel of our lord, a laughing boy, who lights in frozen hearts a flaming pyre, and with such sweetness doth the soul destroy, that while it dies, it murmurs forth its joy; oh blessed am i to dwell in paradise! he who knows not what thing is paradise, let him look fixedly on myrrha's eyes. from myrrha's eyes a virtue still doth move, so swift and with so fierce and strong a flight, that it is like the lightning of high jove, riving of iron and adamant the might; nathless the wound doth carry such delight that he who suffers dwells in paradise. he who knows not what thing is paradise, let him look fixedly on myrrha's eyes. from myrrha's eyes a lovely messenger of joy so grave, so virtuous, doth flee, that all proud souls are bound to bend to her; so sweet her countenance, it turns the key of hard hearts locked in cold security: forth flies the prisoned soul to paradise. he who knows not what thing is paradise, let him look fixedly on myrrha's eyes. in myrrha's eyes beauty doth make her throne, and sweetly smile and sweetly speak her mind: such grace in her fair eyes a man hath known as in the whole wide world he scarce may find: yet if she slay him with a glance too kind, he lives again beneath her gazing eyes. he who knows not what thing is paradise, let him look fixedly on myrrha's eyes. the fourth ballata sets forth the fifteenth-century italian code of love, the code of the novelle, very different in its avowed laxity from the high ideal of the trecentisti poets. i ask no pardon if i follow love; since every gentle heart is thrall thereof. from those who feel the fire i feel, what use is there in asking pardon? these are so gentle, kind-hearted, tender, piteous, that they will have compassion, well i know. from such as never felt that honeyed woe, i seek no pardon: nought they know of love. i ask no pardon if i follow love; since every gentle heart is thrall thereof. honour, pure love, and perfect gentleness, weighed in the scales of equity refined, are but one thing: beauty is nought or less, placed in a dame of proud and scornful mind. who can rebuke me then if i am kind so far as honesty comports and love? i ask no pardon if i follow love; since every gentle heart is thrall thereof. let him rebuke me whose hard heart of stone ne'er felt of love the summer in his vein! i pray to love that who hath never known love's power, may ne'er be blessed with love's great gain; but he who serves our lord with might and main, may dwell for ever in the fire of love! i ask no pardon if i follow love; since every gentle heart is thrall thereof. let him rebuke me without cause who will; for if he be not gentle, i fear nought: my heart obedient to the same love still hath little heed of light words envy-fraught: so long as life remains, it is my thought to keep the laws of this so gentle love. i ask no pardon if i follow love; since every gentle heart is thrall thereof. this ballata is put into a woman's mouth. another, ascribed to lorenzo de' medici, expresses the sadness of a man who has lost the favour of his lady. it illustrates the well-known use of the word _signore_ for mistress in florentine poetry. how can i sing light-souled and fancy-free, when my loved lord no longer smiles on me? dances and songs and merry wakes i leave to lovers fair, more fortunate and gay; since to my heart so many sorrows cleave that only doleful tears are mine for aye: who hath heart's ease, may carol, dance, and play while i am fain to weep continually. how can i sing light-souled and fancy-free, when my loved lord no longer smiles on me? i too had heart's ease once, for so love willed, when my lord loved me with love strong and great: but envious fortune my life's music stilled, and turned to sadness all my gleeful state. ah me! death surely were less desolate than thus to live and love-neglected be! how can i sing light-souled and fancy-free, when my loved lord no longer smiles on me? one only comfort soothes my heart's despair, and mid this sorrow lends my soul some cheer; unto my lord i ever yielded fair service of faith untainted pure and clear; if then i die thus guiltless, on my bier it may be she will shed one tear for me. how can i sing light-souled and fancy-free, when my loved lord no longer smiles on me? the florentine _rispetto_ was written for the most part in octave stanzas, detached or continuous. the octave stanza in italian literature was an emphatically popular form; and it is still largely used in many parts of the peninsula for the lyrical expression of emotion.[ ] poliziano did no more than treat it with his own facility, sacrificing the unstudied raciness of his popular models to literary elegance. here are a few of these detached stanzas or _rispetti spicciolati_:-- upon that day when first i saw thy face, i vowed with loyal love to worship thee. move, and i move; stay, and i keep my place: whate'er thou dost, will i do equally. in joy of thine i find most perfect grace, and in thy sadness dwells my misery: laugh, and i laugh; weep, and i too will weep. thus love commands, whose laws i loving keep. nay, be not over-proud of thy great grace, lady! for brief time is thy thief and mine. white will he turn those golden curls, that lace thy forehead and thy neck so marble-fine. lo! while the flower still flourisheth apace, pluck it: for beauty but awhile doth shine. fair is the rose at dawn; but long ere night her freshness fades, her pride hath vanished quite. fire, fire! ho, water! for my heart's afire! ho, neighbours! help me, or by god i die! see, with his standard, that great lord, desire! he sets my heart aflame: in vain i cry. too late, alas! the flames mount high and higher. alack, good friends! i faint, i fail, i die. ho! water, neighbours mine! no more delay i my heart's a cinder if you do but stay. lo, may i prove to christ a renegade, and, dog-like, die in pagan barbary; nor may god's mercy on my soul be laid, if ere for aught i shall abandon thee: before all-seeing god this prayer be made-- when i desert thee, may death feed on me: now if thy hard heart scorn these vows, be sure that without faith none may abide secure. i ask not, love, for any other pain to make thy cruel foe and mine repent, only that thou shouldst yield her to the strain of these my arms, alone, for chastisement; then would i clasp her so with might and main, that she should learn to pity and relent, and, in revenge for scorn and proud despite, a thousand times i'd kiss her forehead white. not always do fierce tempests vex the sea, nor always clinging clouds offend the sky; cold snows before the sunbeams haste to flee, disclosing flowers that 'neath their whiteness lie; the saints each one doth wait his day to see, and time makes all things change; so, therefore, i ween that 'tis wise to wait my turn, and say, that who subdues himself, deserves to sway. it will be observed that the tone of these poems is not passionate nor elevated. love, as understood in florence of the fifteenth century, was neither; nor was poliziano the man to have revived platonic mysteries or chivalrous enthusiasms. when the octave stanzas, written with this amorous intention, were strung together into a continuous poem, this form of verse took the title of _rispetto gontinuato_. in the collection of poliziano's poems there are several examples of the long rispetto, carelessly enough composed, as may be gathered from the recurrence of the same stanzas in several poems. all repeat the old arguments, the old enticements to a less than lawful love. the one which i have chosen for translation, styled _serenata ovvero lettera in istrambotti_, might be selected as an epitome of florentine convention in the matter of love-making. o thou of fairest fairs the first and queen, most courteous, kind, and honourable dame, thine ear unto thy servant's singing lean, who loves thee more than health, or wealth, or fame; for thou his shining planet still hast been, and day and night he calls on thy fair name: first wishing thee all good the world can give, next praying in thy gentle thoughts to live. he humbly prayeth that thou shouldst be kind to think upon his pure and perfect faith, and that such mercy in thy heart and mind should reign, as so much beauty argueth: a thousand, thousand hints, or he were blind, of thy great courtesy he reckoneth: wherefore thy loyal subject now doth sue such guerdon only as shall prove them true. he knows himself unmeet for love from thee, unmeet for merely gazing on thine eyes; seeing thy comely squires so plenteous be, that there is none but 'neath thy beauty sighs: yet since thou seekest fame and bravery, nor carest aught for gauds that others prize, and since he strives to honour thee alway, he still hath hope to gain thy heart one day. virtue that dwells untold, unknown, unseen, still findeth none to love or value it; wherefore his faith, that hath so perfect been, not being known, can profit him no whit: he would find pity in thine eyes, i ween, if thou shouldst deign to make some proof of it; the rest may flatter, gape, and stand agaze; him only faith above the crowd doth raise. suppose that he might meet thee once alone, face unto face, without or jealousy, or doubt or fear from false misgiving grown, and tell his tale of grievous pain to thee, sure from thy breast he'd draw full many a moan. and make thy fair eyes weep right plenteously: yea, if he had but skill his heart to show, he scarce could fail to win thee by its woe. now art thou in thy beauty's blooming hour; thy youth is yet in pure perfection's prime: make it thy pride to yield thy fragile flower, or look to find it paled by envious time: for none to stay the flight of years hath power, and who culls roses caught by frosty rime? give therefore to thy lover, give, for they too late repent who act not while they may. time flies: and lo! thou let'st it idly fly: there is not in the world a thing more dear; and if thou wait to see sweet may pass by, where find'st thou roses in the later year? he never can, who lets occasion die: now that thou canst, stay not for doubt or fear; but by the forelock take the flying hour, ere change begins, and clouds above thee lower. too long 'twixt yea and nay he hath been wrung; whether he sleep or wake he little knows, or free or in the bands of bondage strung: nay, lady, strike, and let thy lover loose! what joy hast thou to keep a captive hung? kill him at once, or cut the cruel noose: no more, i prithee, stay; but take thy part: either relax the bow, or speed the dart. thou feedest him on words and windiness, on smiles, and signs, and bladders light as air; saying, thou fain wouldst comfort his distress, but dar'st not, canst not: nay, dear lady fair, all things are possible beneath the stress of will, that flames above the soul's despair! dally no longer: up, set to thy hand; or see his love unclothed and naked stand. for he hath sworn, and by this oath will bide, e'en though his life be lost in the endeavour, to leave no way, nor art, nor wile untried, until he pluck the fruit he sighs for ever: and, though he still would spare thy honest pride, the knot that binds him he must loose or sever; thou too, o lady, shouldst make sharp thy knife, if thou art fain to end this amorous strife. lo! if thou lingerest still in dubious dread, lest thou shouldst lose fair fame of honesty, here hast thou need of wile and warihead, to test thy lover's strength in screening thee; indulge him, if thou find him well bestead, knowing that smothered love flames outwardly: therefore, seek means, search out some privy way; keep not the steed too long at idle play. or if thou heedest what those friars teach, i cannot fail, lady, to call thee fool: well may they blame our private sins and preach; but ill their acts match with their spoken rule; the same pitch clings to all men, one and each. there, i have spoken: set the world to school with this true proverb, too, be well acquainted the devil's ne'er so black as he is painted. nor did our good lord give such grace to thee that thou shouldst keep it buried in thy breast, but to reward thy servant's constancy, whose love and loyal faith thou hast repressed: think it no sin to be some trifle free, because thou livest at a lord's behest; for if he take enough to feed his fill, to cast the rest away were surely ill. they find most favour in the sight of heaven who to the poor and hungry are most kind; a hundred-fold shall thus to thee be given by god, who loves the free and generous mind; thrice strike thy breast, with pure contrition riven, crying: i sinned; my sin hath made me blind!-- he wants not much: enough if he be able to pick up crumbs that fall beneath thy table. wherefore, o lady, break the ice at length; make thou, too, trial of love's fruits and flowers: when in thine arms thou feel'st thy lover's strength, thou wilt repent of all these wasted hours; husbands, they know not love, its breadth and length, seeing their hearts are not on fire like ours: things longed for give most pleasure; this i tell thee: if still thou doubtest let the proof compel thee. what i have spoken is pure gospel sooth; i have told all my mind, withholding nought: and well, i ween, thou canst unhusk the truth, and through the riddle read the hidden thought: perchance if heaven still smile upon my youth, some good effect for me may yet be wrought: then fare thee well; too many words offend: she who is wise is quick to comprehend. the levity of these love-declarations and the fluency of their vows show them to be 'false as dicers' oaths,' mere verses of the moment, made to please a facile mistress. one long poem, which cannot be styled a rispetto, but is rather a canzone of the legitimate type, stands out with distinctness from the rest of poliziano's love-verses. it was written by him for giuliano de' medici, in praise of the fair simonetta. the following version attempts to repeat its metrical effects in some measure:-- my task it is, since thus love wills, who strains and forces all the world beneath his sway, in lowly verse to say the great delight that in my bosom reigns. for if perchance i took but little pains to tell some part of all the joy i find, i might be deem'd unkind by one who knew my heart's deep happiness. he feels but little bliss who hides his bliss; small joy hath he whose joy is never sung; and he who curbs his tongue through cowardice, knows but of love the name. wherefore to succour and augment the fame of that pure, virtuous, wise, and lovely may, who like the star of day shines mid the stars, or like the rising sun, forth from my burning heart the words shall run. far, far be envy, far be jealous fear, with discord dark and drear, and all the choir that is of love the foe.-- the season had returned when soft winds blow, the season friendly to young lovers coy, which bids them clothe their joy in divers garbs and many a masked disguise. then i to track the game 'neath april skies went forth in raiment strange apparellèd, and by kind fate was led unto the spot where stayed my soul's desire. the beauteous nymph who feeds my soul with fire, i found in gentle, pure, and prudent mood, in graceful attitude, loving and courteous, holy, wise, benign. so sweet, so tender was her face divine, so gladsome, that in those celestial eyes shone perfect paradise, yea, all the good that we poor mortals crave. around her was a band so nobly brave of beauteous dames, that as i gazed at these methought heaven's goddesses that day for once had deigned to visit earth. but she who gives my soul sorrow and mirth, seemed pallas in her gait, and in her face venus; for every grace and beauty of the world in her combined. merely to think, far more to tell my mind of that most wondrous sight, confoundeth me, for mid the maidens she who most resembled her was found most rare. call ye another first among the fair; not first, but sole before my lady set: lily and violet and all the flowers below the rose must bow. down from her royal head and lustrous brow the golden curls fell sportively unpent, while through the choir she went with feet well lessoned to the rhythmic sound. her eyes, though scarcely raised above the ground, sent me by stealth a ray divinely fair; but still her jealous hair broke the bright beam, and veiled her from my gaze. she, born and nursed in heaven for angels' praise, no sooner saw this wrong, than back she drew, with hand of purest hue, her truant curls with kind and gentle mien. then from her eyes a soul so fiery keen, so sweet a soul of love she cast on mine, that scarce can i divine how then i 'scaped from burning utterly. these are the first fair signs of love to be, that bound my heart with adamant, and these the matchless courtesies which, dreamlike, still before mine eyes must hover. this is the honeyed food she gave her lover, to make him, so it pleased her, half-divine; nectar is not so fine, nor ambrosy, the fabled feast of jove. then, yielding proofs more clear and strong of love, as though to show the faith within her heart, she moved, with subtle art, her feet accordant to the amorous air. but while i gaze and pray to god that ne'er might cease that happy dance angelical, o harsh, unkind recall! back to the banquet was she beckonèd. she, with her face at first with pallor spread, then tinted with a blush of coral dye, 'the ball is best!' did cry, gentle in tone and smiling as she spake. but from her eyes celestial forth did break favour at parting; and i well could see young love confusedly enclosed within the furtive fervent gaze, heating his arrows at their beauteous rays, for war with pallas and with dian cold. fairer than mortal mould, she moved majestic with celestial gait; and with her hand her robe in royal state raised, as she went with pride ineffable. of me i cannot tell, whether alive or dead i there was left. nay, dead, methinks! since i of thee was reft, light of my life! and yet, perchance, alive-- such virtue to revive my lingering soul possessed thy beauteous face, but if that powerful charm of thy great grace could then thy loyal lover so sustain, why comes there not again more often or more soon the sweet delight? twice hath the wandering moon with borrowed light stored from her brother's rays her crescent horn, nor yet hath fortune borne me on the way to so much bliss again. earth smiles anew; fair spring renews her reign: the grass and every shrub once more is green; the amorous birds begin, from winter loosed, to fill the field with song. see how in loving pairs the cattle throng; the bull, the ram, their amorous jousts enjoy: thou maiden, i a boy, shall we prove traitors to love's law for aye? shall we these years that are so fair let fly? wilt thou not put thy flower of youth to use? or with thy beauty choose to make him blest who loves thee best of all? haply i am some hind who guards the stall, or of vile lineage, or with years outworn, poor, or a cripple born, or faint of spirit that you spurn me so? nay, but my race is noble and doth grow with honour to our land, with pomp and power; my youth is yet in flower, and it may chance some maiden sighs for me. my lot it is to deal right royally with all the goods that fortune spreads around, for still they more abound, shaken from her full lap, the more i waste. my strength is such as whoso tries shall taste; circled with friends, with favours crowned am i: yet though i rank so high among the blest, as men may reckon bliss, still without thee, my hope, my happiness, it seems a sad, and bitter thing to live! then stint me not, but give that joy which holds all joys enclosed in one. let me pluck fruits at last, not flowers alone! with much that is frigid, artificial, and tedious in this old-fashioned love-song, there is a curious monotony of sweetness which commends it to our ears; and he who reads it may remember the profile portrait of simonetta from the hand of piero della francesca in the pitti palace at florence. it is worth comparing poliziano's treatment of popular or semi-popular verse-forms with his imitations of petrarch's manner. for this purpose i have chosen a _canzone_, clearly written in competition with the celebrated 'chiare, fresche e dolci acque,' of laura's lover. while closely modelled upon petrarch's form and similar in motive, this canzone preserves poliziano's special qualities of fluency and emptiness of content. hills, valleys, caves and fells, with flowers and leaves and herbage spread; green meadows; shadowy groves where light is low; lawns watered with the rills that cruel love hath made me shed, cast from these cloudy eyes so dark with woe; thou stream that still dost know what fell pangs pierce my heart, so dost thou murmur back my moan; lone bird that chauntest tone for tone, while in our descant drear love sings his part: nymphs, woodland wanderers, wind and air; list to the sound out-poured from my despair! seven times and once more seven the roseate dawn her beauteous brow enwreathed with orient jewels hath displayed; cynthia once more in heaven hath orbed her horns with silver now; while in sea waves her brother's light was laid; since this high mountain glade felt the white footsteps fall of that proud lady, who to spring converts whatever woodland thing she may o'ershadow, touch, or heed at all. here bloom the flowers, the grasses spring from her bright eyes, and drink what mine must bring. yea, nourished with my tears is every little leaf i see, and the stream rolls therewith a prouder wave. ah me! through what long years will she withhold her face from me, which stills the stormy skies howe'er they rave? speak! or in grove or cave if one hath seen her stray, plucking amid those grasses green wreaths for her royal brows serene, flowers white and blue and red and golden gay! nay, prithee, speak, if pity dwell among these woods, within this leafy dell! o love! 'twas here we saw, beneath the new-fledged leaves that spring from this old beech, her fair form lowly laid:-- the thought renews my awe! how sweetly did her tresses fling waves of wreathed gold unto the winds that strayed fire, frost within me played, while i beheld the bloom of laughing flowers--o day of bliss!-- around those tresses meet and kiss, and roses in her lap of love the home! her grace, her port divinely fair, describe it, love! myself i do not dare. in mute intent surprise i gazed, as when a hind is seen to dote upon its image in a rill; drinking those love-lit eyes, those hands, that face, those words serene, that song which with delight the heaven did fill, that smile which thralls me still, which melteth stones unkind, which in this woodland wilderness tames every beast and stills the stress of hurrying waters. would that i could find her footprints upon field or grove! i should not then be envious of jove. thou cool stream rippling by, where oft it pleased her to dip her naked foot, how blest art thou! ye branching trees on high, that spread your gnarled roots on the lip of yonder hanging rock to drink heaven's dew! she often leaned on you, she who is my life's bliss! thou ancient beech with moss o'ergrown, how do i envy thee thy throne, found worthy to receive such happiness! ye winds, how blissful must ye be, since ye have borne to heaven her harmony! the winds that music bore, and wafted it to god on high, that paradise might have the joy thereof. flowers here she plucked, and wore wild roses from the thorn hard by: this air she lightened with her look of love: this running stream above, she bent her face!--ah me! where am i? what sweet makes me swoon? what calm is in the kiss of noon? who brought me here? who speaks? what melody? whence came pure peace into my soul? what joy hath rapt me from my own control? poliziano's refrain is always: 'gather ye rosebuds while ye may. it is spring-time now and youth. winter and old age are coming!' a _maggio_, or may-day song, describing the games, dances, and jousting matches of the florentine lads upon the morning of the first of may, expresses this facile philosophy of life with a quaintness that recalls herrick. it will be noticed that the maggio is built, so far as rhymes go, on the same system as poliziano's ballata. it has considerable historical interest, for the opening couplet is said to be guido cavalcanti's, while the whole poem is claimed by roscoe for lorenzo de' medici, and by carducci with better reason for poliziano. welcome in the may and the woodland garland gay! welcome in the jocund spring which bids all men lovers be! maidens, up with carolling, with your sweethearts stout and free, with roses and with blossoms ye who deck yourselves this first of may! up, and forth into the pure meadows, mid the trees and flowers! every beauty is secure with so many bachelors: beasts and birds amid the bowers burn with love this first of may. maidens, who are young and fair, be not harsh, i counsel you; for your youth cannot repair her prime of spring, as meadows do: none be proud, but all be true to men who love, this first of may. dance and carol every one of our band so bright and gay! see your sweethearts how they run through the jousts for you to-day! she who saith her lover nay, will deflower the sweets of may, lads in love take sword and shield to make pretty girls their prize: yield ye, merry maidens, yield to your lovers' vows and sighs: give his heart back ere it dies: wage not war this first of may. he who steals another's heart, let him give his own heart too: who's the robber? 'tis the smart little cherub cupid, who homage comes to pay with you, damsels, to the first of may. love comes smiling; round his head lilies white and roses meet: 'tis for you his flight is sped. fair one, haste our king to greet: who will fling him blossoms sweet soonest on this first of may? welcome, stranger! welcome, king! love, what hast thou to command? that each girl with wreaths should ring her lover's hair with loving hand, that girls small and great should band in love's ranks this first of may. the _canto carnascialesco_, for the final development if not for the invention of which all credit must be given to lorenzo de' medici, does not greatly differ from the maggio in structure. it admitted, however, of great varieties, and was generally more complex in its interweaving of rhymes. yet the essential principle of an exordium which should also serve for a refrain, was rarely, if ever, departed from. two specimens of the carnival song will serve to bring into close contrast two very different aspects of florentine history. the earlier was composed by lorenzo de' medici at the height of his power and in the summer of italian independence. it was sung by masquers attired in classical costume, to represent bacchus and his crew. fair is youth and void of sorrow; but it hourly flies away.-- youths and maids, enjoy to-day; nought ye know about to-morrow. this is bacchus and the bright ariadne, lovers true! they, in flying time's despite, each with each find pleasure new; these their nymphs, and all their crew keep perpetual holiday.-- youths and maids, enjoy to-day; nought ye know about to-morrow. these blithe satyrs, wanton-eyed, of the nymphs are paramours: through the caves and forests wide they have snared them mid the flowers; warmed with bacchus, in his bowers, now they dance and leap alway.-- youths and maids, enjoy to-day; nought ye know about to-morrow. these fair nymphs, they are not loth to entice their lovers' wiles. none but thankless folk and rough can resist when love beguiles. now enlaced, with wreathèd smiles, all together dance and play.-- youths and maids, enjoy to-day; nought ye know about to-morrow. see this load behind them plodding on the ass! silenus he, old and drunken, merry, nodding, full of years and jollity; though he goes so swayingly, yet he laughs and quaffs alway.-- youths and maids, enjoy to-day; nought ye know about to-morrow. midas treads a wearier measure: all he touches turns to gold: if there be no taste of pleasure, what's the use of wealth untold? what's the joy his fingers hold, when he's forced to thirst for aye?-- youths and maids, enjoy to-day; nought ye know about to-morrow. listen well to what we're saying; of to-morrow have no care! young and old together playing, boys and girls, be blithe as air! every sorry thought forswear! keep perpetual holiday.--- youths and maids, enjoy to-day; nought ye know about to-morrow. ladies and gay lovers young! long live bacchus, live desire! dance and play; let songs be sung; let sweet love your bosoms fire; in the future come what may!--- youths and maids, enjoy to-day! nought ye know about to-morrow. fair is youth and void of sorrow; but it hourly flies away. the next, composed by antonio alamanni, after lorenzo's death and the ominous passage of charles viii., was sung by masquers habited as skeletons. the car they rode on, was a car of death designed by piero di cosimo, and their music was purposely gloomy. if in the jovial days of the medici the streets of florence had rung to the thoughtless refrain, 'nought ye know about to-morrow,' they now re-echoed with a cry of 'penitence;' for times had strangely altered, and the heedless past had brought forth a doleful present. the last stanza of alamanni's chorus is a somewhat clumsy attempt to adapt the too real moral of his subject to the customary mood of the carnival. sorrow, tears, and penitence are our doom of pain for aye; this dead concourse riding by hath no cry but penitence! e'en as you are, once were we: you shall be as now we are: we are dead men, as you see: we shall see you dead men, where nought avails to take great care, after sins, of penitence. we too in the carnival sang our love-songs through the town; thus from sin to sin we all headlong, heedless, tumbled down:-- now we cry, the world around, penitence! oh, penitence! senseless, blind, and stubborn fools! time steals all things as he rides: honours, glories, states, and schools, pass away, and nought abides; till the tomb our carcase hides, and compels this penitence. this sharp scythe you see us bear, brings the world at length to woe: but from life to life we fare; and that life is joy or woe: all heaven's bliss on him doth flow who on earth does penitence. living here, we all must die; dying, every soul shall live: for the king of kings on high this fixed ordinance doth give: lo, you all are fugitive! penitence! cry penitence! torment great and grievous dole hath the thankless heart mid you; but the man of piteous soul finds much honour in our crew: love for loving is the due that prevents this penitence. sorrow, tears, and penitence are our doom of pain for aye: this dead concourse riding by hath no cry but penitence! one song for dancing, composed less upon the type of the ballata than on that of the carnival song, may here be introduced, not only in illustration of the varied forms assumed by this style of poetry, but also because it is highly characteristic of tuscan town-life. this poem in the vulgar style has been ascribed to lorenzo de' medici, but probably without due reason. it describes the manners and customs of female street gossips. since you beg with such a grace, how can i refuse a song, wholesome, honest, void of wrong, on the follies of the place? courteously on you i call; listen well to what i sing: for my roundelay to all may perchance instruction bring, and of life good lessoning.-- when in company you meet, or sit spinning, all the street clamours like a market-place. thirty of you there may be; twenty-nine are sure to buzz, and the single silent she racks her brains about her coz:-- mrs. buzz and mrs. huzz, mind your work, my ditty saith; do not gossip till your breath fails and leaves you black of face! governments go out and in:-- you the truth must needs discover. is a girl about to win a brave husband in her lover?-- straight you set to talk him over: 'is he wealthy?' 'does his coat fit?' 'and has he got a vote?' 'who's his father?' 'what's his race?' out of window one head pokes; twenty others do the same:-- chatter, clatter!--creaks and croaks all the year the same old game!-- 'see my spinning!' cries one dame, 'five long ells of cloth, i trow!' cries another, 'mine must go, drat it, to the bleaching base!' 'devil take the fowl!' says one: 'mine are all bewitched, i guess; cocks and hens with vermin run, mangy, filthy, featherless.' says another: 'i confess every hair i drop, i keep-- plague upon it, in a heap falling off to my disgrace!' if you see a fellow walk up or down the street and back, how you nod and wink and talk, hurry-skurry, cluck and clack!-- 'what, i wonder, does he lack here about?'--'there's something wrong!' till the poor man's made a song for the female populace. it were well you gave no thought to such idle company; shun these gossips, care for nought but the business that you ply. you who chatter, you who cry, heed my words; be wise, i pray: fewer, shorter stories say: bide at home, and mind your place. since you beg with such a grace, how can i refuse a song, wholesome, honest, void of wrong, on the follies of the place? the _madrigale_, intended to be sung in parts, was another species of popular poetry cultivated by the greatest of italian writers. without seeking examples from such men as petrarch, michelangelo, or tasso, who used it as a purely literary form, i will content myself with a few madrigals by anonymous composers, more truly popular in style, and more immediately intended for music.[ ] the similarity both of manner and matter, between these little poems and the ballate, is obvious. there is the same affectation of rusticity in both. _cogliendo per un prato._ plucking white lilies in a field i saw fair women, laden with young love's delight: some sang, some danced; but all were fresh and bright. then by the margin of a fount they leaned, and of those flowers made garlands for their hair-- wreaths for their golden tresses quaint and rare. forth from the field i passed, and gazed upon their loveliness, and lost my heart to one. _togliendo l' una all' altra._ one from the other borrowing leaves and flowers, i saw fair maidens 'neath the summer trees, weaving bright garlands with low love-ditties. mid that sweet sisterhood the loveliest turned her soft eyes to me, and whispered, 'take!' love-lost i stood, and not a word i spake. my heart she read, and her fair garland gave: therefore i am her servant to the grave. _appress' un fiume chiaro_. hard by a crystal stream girls and maids were dancing round a lilac with fair blossoms crowned. mid these i spied out one so tender-sweet, so love-laden, she stole my heart with singing then: love in her face so lovely-kind and eyes and hands my soul did bind. _di riva in riva_. from lawn to lea love led me down the valley, seeking my hawk, where 'neath a pleasant hill i spied fair maidens bathing in a rill. lina was there all loveliness excelling; the pleasure of her beauty made me sad, and yet at sight of her my soul was glad. downward i cast mine eyes with modest seeming, and all a tremble from the fountain fled: for each was naked as her maidenhead. thence singing fared i through a flowery plain, where bye and bye i found my hawk again! _nel chiaro fiume_. down a fair streamlet crystal-clear and pleasant i went a fishing all alone one day, and spied three maidens bathing there at play. of love they told each other honeyed stories, while with white hands they smote the stream, to wet their sunbright hair in the pure rivulet. gazing i crouched among thick flowering leafage, till one who spied a rustling branch on high, turned to her comrades with a sudden cry, and 'go! nay, prithee go!' she called to me: 'to stay were surely but scant courtesy.' _quel sole che nutrica._ the sun which makes a lily bloom, leans down at times on her to gaze-- fairer, he deems, than his fair rays: then, having looked a little while, he turns and tells the saints in bliss how marvellous her beauty is. thus up in heaven with flute and string thy loveliness the angels sing. _di novo è giunt'._ lo: here hath come an errant knight on a barbed charger clothed in mail: his archers scatter iron hail. at brow and breast his mace he aims; who therefore hath not arms of proof, let him live locked by door and roof; until dame summer on a day that grisly knight return to slay. poliziano's treatment of the octave stanza for rispetti was comparatively popular. but in his poem of 'la giostra,' written to commemorate the victory of giuliano de' medici in a tournament and to celebrate his mistress, he gave a new and richer form to the metre which boccaccio had already used for epic verse. the slight and uninteresting framework of this poem, which opened a new sphere for italian literature, and prepared the way for ariosto's golden cantos, might be compared to one of those wire baskets which children steep in alum water, and incrust with crystals, sparkling, artificial, beautiful with colours not their own. the mind of poliziano held, as it were, in solution all the images and thoughts of antiquity, all the riches of his native literature. in that vast reservoir of poems and mythologies and phrases, so patiently accumulated, so tenaciously preserved, so thoroughly assimilated, he plunged the trivial subject he had chosen, and triumphantly presented to the world the _spolia opima_ of scholarship and taste. what mattered it that the theme was slight? the art was perfect, the result splendid. one canto of stanzas describes the youth of giuliano, who sought to pass his life among the woods, a hunter dead to love, but who was doomed to be ensnared by cupid. the chase, the beauty of simonetta, the palace of venus, these are the three subjects of a book as long as the first iliad. the second canto begins with dreams and prophecies of glory to be won by giuliano in the tournament. but it stops abruptly. the tragic catastrophe of the pazzi conjuration cut short poliziano's panegyric by the murder of his hero. meanwhile the poet had achieved his purpose. his torso presented to italy a model of style, a piece of written art adequate to the great painting of the renaissance period, a double star of poetry which blent the splendours of the ancient and the modern world. to render into worthy english the harmonies of poliziano is a difficult task. yet this must be attempted if an english reader is to gain any notion of the scope and substance of the italian poet's art. in the first part of the poem we are placed, as it were, at the mid point between the 'hippolytus' of euripides and shakspere's 'venus and adonis.' the cold hunter giuliano is to see simonetta, and seeing, is to love her. this is how he first discovers the triumphant beauty:[ ] white is the maid, and white the robe around her, with buds and roses and thin grasses pied; enwreathèd folds of golden tresses crowned her, shadowing her forehead fair with modest pride: the wild wood smiled; the thicket where he found her, to ease his anguish, bloomed on every side: serene she sits, with gesture queenly mild, and with her brow tempers the tempests wild. after three stanzas of this sort, in which the poet's style is more apparent than the object he describes, occurs this charming picture:-- reclined he found her on the swarded grass in jocund mood; and garlands she had made of every flower that in the meadow was, or on her robe of many hues displayed; but when she saw the youth before her pass, raising her timid head awhile she stayed; then with her white hand gathered up her dress, and stood, lap-full of flowers, in loveliness. then through the dewy field with footstep slow the lingering maid began to take her way, leaving her lover in great fear and woe, for now he longs for nought but her alway: the wretch, who cannot bear that she should go, strives with a whispered prayer her feet to stay; and thus at last, all trembling, all afire, in humble wise he breathes his soul's desire: 'whoe'er thou art, maid among maidens queen, goddess, or nymph--nay, goddess seems most clear-- if goddess, sure my dian i have seen; if mortal, let thy proper self appear! beyond terrestrial beauty is thy mien; i have no merit that i should be here! what grace of heaven, what lucky star benign yields me the sight of beauty so divine?' a conversation ensues, after which giuliano departs utterly lovesick, and cupid takes wing exultingly for cyprus, where his mother's palace stands. in the following picture of the house of venus, who shall say how much of ariosto's alcina and tasso's armida is contained? cupid arrives, and the family of love is filled with joy at giuliano's conquest. from the plan of the poem it is clear that its beauties are chiefly those of detail. they are, however, very great. how perfect, for example, is the richness combined with delicacy of the following description of a country life:-- book i. stanzas - . how far more safe it is, how far more fair, to chase the flying deer along the lea; through ancient woods to track their hidden lair, far from the town, with long-drawn subtlety: to scan the vales, the hills, the limpid air, the grass and flowers, clear ice, and streams so free; to hear the birds wake from their winter trance, the wind-stirred leaves and murmuring waters dance. how sweet it were to watch the young goats hung from toppling crags, cropping the tender shoot, while in thick pleachèd shade the shepherd sung his uncouth rural lay and woke his flute; to mark, mid dewy grass, red apples flung, and every bough thick set with ripening fruit, the butting rams, kine lowing o'er the lea, and cornfields waving like the windy sea. lo! how the rugged master of the herd before his flock unbars the wattled cote; then with his rod and many a rustic word he rules their going: or 'tis sweet to note the delver, when his toothèd rake hath stirred the stubborn clod, his hoe the glebe hath smote; barefoot the country girl, with loosened zone, spins, while she keeps her geese 'neath yonder stone. after such happy wise, in ancient years, dwelt the old nations in the age of gold; nor had the fount been stirred of mothers' tears for sons in war's fell labour stark and cold; nor trusted they to ships the wild wind steers, nor yet had oxen groaning ploughed the wold; their houses were huge oaks, whose trunks had store of honey, and whose boughs thick acorns bore. nor yet, in that glad time, the accursèd thirst of cruel gold had fallen on this fair earth: joyous in liberty they lived at first; unploughed the fields sent forth their teeming birth; till fortune, envious of such concord, burst the bond of law, and pity banned and worth; within their breasts sprang luxury and that rage which men call love in our degenerate age. we need not be reminded that these stanzas are almost a cento from virgil, hesiod, and ovid. the merits of the translator, adapter, and combiner, who knew so well how to cull their beauties and adorn them with a perfect dress of modern diction, are so eminent that we cannot deny him the title of a great poet. it is always in picture-painting more than in dramatic presentation that poliziano excels. here is a basrelief of venus rising from the ocean foam:-- stanzas - . in thetis' lap, upon the vexed egean, the seed deific from olympus sown, beneath dim stars and cycling empyrean drifts like white foam across the salt waves blown; thence, born at last by movements hymenean, rises a maid more fair than man hath known; upon her shell the wanton breezes waft her; she nears the shore, while heaven looks down with laughter seeing the carved work you would cry that real were shell and sea, and real the winds that blow; the lightning of the goddess' eyes you feel, the smiling heavens, the elemental glow: white-vested hours across the smooth sands steal, with loosened curls that to the breezes flow; like, yet unlike, are all their beauteous faces, e'en as befits a choir of sister graces. well might you swear that on those waves were riding the goddess with her right hand on her hair, and with the other the sweet apple hiding; and that beneath her feet, divinely fair, fresh flowers sprang forth, the barren sands dividing; then that, with glad smiles and enticements rare, the three nymphs round their queen, embosoming her, threw the starred mantle soft as gossamer. the one, with hands above her head upraised, upon her dewy tresses fits a wreath, with ruddy gold and orient gems emblazed; the second hangs pure pearls her ears beneath; the third round shoulders white and breast hath placed such wealth of gleaming carcanets as sheathe their own fair bosoms, when the graces sing among the gods with dance and carolling. thence might you see them rising toward the spheres, seated upon a cloud of silvery white; the trembling of the cloven air appears wrought in the stone, and heaven serenely bright; the gods drink in with open eyes and ears her beauty, and desire her bed's delight; each seems to marvel with a mute amaze-- their brows and foreheads wrinkle as they gaze. the next quotation shows venus in the lap of mars, and visited by cupid:-- stanzas -- . stretched on a couch, outside the coverlid, love found her, scarce unloosed from mars' embrace; he, lying back within her bosom, fed his eager eyes on nought but her fair face; roses above them like a cloud were shed, to reinforce them in the amorous chace; while venus, quick with longings unsuppressed, a thousand times his eyes and forehead kissed. above, around, young loves on every side played naked, darting birdlike to and fro; and one, whose plumes a thousand colours dyed, fanned the shed roses as they lay arow; one filled his quiver with fresh flowers, and hied to pour them on the couch that lay below; another, poised upon his pinions, through the falling shower soared shaking rosy dew: for, as he quivered with his tremulous wing, the wandering roses in their drift were stayed;-- thus none was weary of glad gambolling; till cupid came, with dazzling plumes displayed, breathless; and round his mother's neck did fling his languid arms, and with his winnowing made her heart burn:--very glad and bright of face, but, with his flight, too tired to speak apace. these pictures have in them the very glow of italian painting. sometimes we seem to see a quaint design of piero di cosimo, with bright tints and multitudinous small figures in a spacious landscape. sometimes it is the languid grace of botticelli, whose soul became possessed of classic inspiration as it were in dreams, and who has painted the birth of venus almost exactly as poliziano imagined it. again, we seize the broader beauties of the venetian masters, or the vehemence of giulio romano's pencil. to the last class belong the two next extracts:-- stanzas -- . in the last square the great artificer had wrought himself crowned with love's perfect palm; black from his forge and rough, he runs to her, leaving all labour for her bosom's calm: lips joined to lips with deep love-longing stir, fire in his heart, and in his spirit balm; far fiercer flames through breast and marrow fly than those which heat his forge in sicily. jove, on the other side, becomes a bull, goodly and white, at love's behest, and rears his neck beneath his rich freight beautiful: she turns toward the shore that disappears, with frightened gesture; and the wonderful gold curls about her bosom and her ears float in the wind; her veil waves, backward borne; this hand still clasps his back, and that his horn. with naked feet close-tucked beneath her dress, she seems to fear the sea that dares not rise: so, imaged in a shape of drear distress, in vain unto her comrades sweet she cries; they left amid the meadow-flowers, no less for lost europa wail with weeping eyes: europa, sounds the shore, bring back our bliss but the bull swims and turns her feet to kiss. here jove is made a swan, a golden shower, or seems a serpent, or a shepherd-swain, to work his amorous will in secret hour; here, like an eagle, soars he o'er the plain, love-led, and bears his ganymede, the flower of beauty, mid celestial peers to reign; the boy with cypress hath his fair locks crowned, naked, with ivy wreathed his waist around. stanzas -- . lo! here again fair ariadne lies, and to the deaf winds of false theseus plains. and of the air and slumber's treacheries; trembling with fear even as a reed that strain. and quivers by the mere 'neath breezy skies: her very speechless attitude complains-- no beast there is so cruel as thou art, no beast less loyal to my broken heart. throned on a car, with ivy crowned and vine, rides bacchus, by two champing tigers driven: around him on the sand deep-soaked with brine satyrs and bacchantes rush; the skies are riven with shouts and laughter; fauns quaff bubbling wine from horns and cymbals; nymphs, to madness driven, trip, skip, and stumble; mixed in wild enlacements, laughing they roll or meet for glad embracements. upon his ass silenus, never sated, with thick, black veins, wherethrough the must is soaking, nods his dull forehead with deep sleep belated; his eyes are wine-inflamed, and red, and smoking: bold mænads goad the ass so sorely weighted, with stinging thyrsi; he sways feebly poking the mane with bloated fingers; fauns behind him, e'en as he falls, upon the crupper bind him. we almost seem to be looking at the frescoes in some trasteverine palace, or at the canvas of one of the sensual genoese painters. the description of the garden of venus has the charm of somewhat artificial elegance, the exotic grace of style, which attracts us in the earlier renaissance work:-- the leafy tresses of that timeless garden nor fragile brine nor fresh snow dares to whiten; frore winter never comes the rills to harden, nor winds the tender shrubs and herbs to frighten; glad spring is always here, a laughing warden; nor do the seasons wane, but ever brighten; here to the breeze young may, her curls unbinding, with thousand flowers her wreath is ever winding. indeed it may be said with truth that poliziano's most eminent faculty as a descriptive poet corresponded exactly to the genius of the painters of his day. to produce pictures radiant with renaissance colouring, and vigorous with renaissance passion, was the function of his art, not to express profound thought or dramatic situations. this remark might be extended with justice to ariosto, and tasso, and boiardo. the great narrative poets of the renaissance in italy were not dramatists; nor were their poems epics: their forte lay in the inexhaustible variety and beauty of their pictures. of poliziano's plagiarism--if this be the right word to apply to the process of assimilation and selection, by means of which the poet-scholar of florence taught the italians how to use the riches of the ancient languages and their own literature--here are some specimens. in stanza of the 'giostra' he says of simonetta:-- e 'n lei discerne un non so che divino. dante has the line:-- vostri risplende un non so che divino. in the th he speaks about the birds:-- e canta ogni augelletto in suo latino. this comes from cavalcanti's:-- e cantinne gli augelli. ciascuno in suo latino. stanza is taken bodily from claudian, dante, and cavalcanti. it would seem as though poliziano wished to show that the classic and medieval literature of italy was all one, and that a poet of the renaissance could carry on the continuous tradition in his own style. a, line in stanza seems perfectly original:-- e già dall'alte ville il fumo esala. it comes straight from virgil:-- et jam summa pocul villarum culmina fumant. in the next stanza the line-- tal che 'l ciel tutto rasserenò d'intorno, is petrarch's. so in the th, is the phrase 'il dolce andar celeste.' in stanza -- par che 'l cor del petto se gli schianti, belongs to boccaccio. in stanza the first line:-- la notte che le cose ci nasconde, together with its rhyme, 'sotto le amate fronde,' is borrowed from the rd canto of the 'paradiso.' in the second line, 'stellato ammanto' is claudian's 'stellantes sinus' applied to the heaven. when we reach the garden of venus we find whole passages translated from claudian's 'marriage of honorius,' and from the 'metamorphoses' of ovid. poliziano's second poem of importance, which indeed may historically be said to take precedence of 'la giostra,' was the so-called tragedy of 'orfeo.' the english version of this lyrical drama must be reserved for a separate study: yet it belongs to the subject of this, inasmuch as the 'orfeo' is a classical legend treated in a form already familiar to the italian people. nearly all the popular kinds of poetry of which specimens have been translated in this chapter, will be found combined in its six short scenes. * * * * * _orfeo_ the 'orfeo' of messer angelo poliziano ranks amongst the most important poems of the fifteenth century. it was composed at mantua in the short space of two days, on the occasion of cardinal francesco gonzaga's visit to his native town in . but, though so hastily put together, the 'orfeo' marks an epoch in the evolution of italian poetry. it is the earliest example of a secular drama, containing within the compass of its brief scenes the germ of the opera, the tragedy, and the pastoral play. in form it does not greatly differ from the 'sacre rappresentazioni' of the fifteenth century, as those miracle plays were handled by popular poets of the earlier renaissance. but while the traditional octave stanza is used for the main movement of the piece, poliziano has introduced episodes of _terza rima_, madrigals, a carnival song, a _ballata_, and, above all, choral passages which have in them the future melodrama of the musical italian stage. the lyrical treatment of the fable, its capacity for brilliant and varied scenic effects, its combination of singing with action, and the whole artistic keeping of the piece, which never passes into genuine tragedy, but stays within the limits of romantic pathos, distinguish the 'orfeo' as a typical production of italian genius. thus, though little better than an improvisation, it combines the many forms of verse developed by the tuscans at the close of the middle ages, and fixes the limits beyond which their dramatic poets, with a few exceptions, were not destined to advance. nor was the choice of the fable without significance. quitting the bible stories and the legends of saints, which supplied the mediaeval playwright with material, poliziano selects a classic story: and this story might pass for an allegory of italy, whose intellectual development the scholar-poet ruled. orpheus is the power of poetry and art, softening stubborn nature, civilising men, and prevailing over hades for a season. he is the right hero of humanism, the genius of the renaissance, the tutelary god of italy, who thought she could resist the laws of fate by verse and elegant accomplishments. to press this kind of allegory is unwise; for at a certain moment it breaks in our hands. and yet in eurydice the fancy might discover freedom, the true spouse of poetry and art; orfeo's last resolve too vividly depicts the vice of the renaissance; and the mænads are those barbarous armies destined to lay waste the plains of italy, inebriate with wine and blood, obeying a new lord of life on whom the poet's harp exerts no charm. but a truce to this spinning of pedantic cobwebs. let mercury appear, and let the play begin. _the fable of orpheus_ mercury _announces the show_. ho, silence! listen! there was once a hind, son of apollo, aristaeus hight, who loved with so untamed and fierce a mind eurydice, the wife of orpheus wight, that chasing her one day with will unkind he wrought her cruel death in love's despite; for, as she fled toward the mere hard by, a serpent stung her, and she had to die. now orpheus, singing, brought her back from hell, but could not keep the law the fates ordain: poor wretch, he backward turned and broke the spell; so that once more from him his love was ta'en. therefore he would no more with women dwell, and in the end by women he was slain. _enter_ a shepherd, _who says_-- nay, listen, friends! fair auspices are given, since mercury to earth hath come from heaven. scene i mopsus, _an old shepherd_. say, hast thou seen a calf of mine, all white save for a spot of black upon her front, two feet, one flank, and one knee ruddy-bright? aristaeus, _a young shepherd_. friend mopsus, to the margin of this fount no herds have come to drink since break of day; yet may'st thou hear them low on yonder mount. go, thyrsis, search the upland lawn, i pray! thou mopsus shalt with me the while abide; for i would have thee listen to my lay. _[exit_ thyrsis. 'twas yester morn where trees yon cavern hide, i saw a nymph more fair than dian, who had a young lusty lover at her side: but when that more than woman met my view, the heart within my bosom leapt outright, and straight the madness of wild love i knew. since then, dear mopsus, i have no delight; but weep and weep: of food and drink i tire, and without slumber pass the weary night. mopsus. friend aristaeus, if this amorous fire thou dost not seek to quench as best may be, thy peace of soul will vanish in desire. thou know'st that love is no new thing to me: i've proved how love grown old brings bitter pain: cure it at once, or hope no remedy; for if thou find thee in love's cruel chain, thy bees, thy blossoms will be out of mind, thy fields, thy vines, thy flocks, thy cotes, thy grain aristaeus. mopsus, thou speakest to the deaf and blind: waste not on me these wingèd words, i pray, lest they be scattered to the inconstant wind, i love, and cannot wish to say love nay; nor seek to cure so charming a disease: they praise love best who most against him say. yet if thou fain wouldst give my heart some ease, forth from thy wallet take thy pipe, and we will sing awhile beneath the leafy trees; for well my nymph is pleased with melody. the song. listen, ye wild woods, to my roundelay; since the fair nymph will hear not, though i pray. the lovely nymph is deaf to my lament, nor heeds the music of this rustic reed; wherefore my flocks and herds are ill content, nor bathe their hoof where grows the water weed, nor touch the tender herbage on the mead; so sad, because their shepherd grieves, are they. listen, ye wild woods, to my roundelay; since the fair nymph will hear not, though i pray. the herds are sorry for their master's moan; the nymph heeds not her lover though he die, the lovely nymph, whose heart is made of stone-- nay steel, nay adamant! she still doth fly far, far before me, when she sees me nigh, even as a lamb flies fern the wolf away. listen, ye wild woods, to my roundelay; since the fair nymph will hear not, though i pray. nay, tell her, pipe of mine, how swift doth flee beauty together with our years amain; tell her how time destroys all rarity, nor youth once lost can be renewed again; tell her to use the gifts that yet remain: roses and violets blossom not alway. listen, ye wild woods, to my roundelay; since the fair nymph will hear not, though i pray. carry, ye winds, these sweet words to her ears, unto the ears of my loved nymph, and tell how many tears i shed, what bitter tears! beg her to pity one who loves so well: say that my life is frail and mutable, and melts like rime before the rising day. listen, ye wild woods, to my roundelay; since the fair nymph will hear not, though i pray. mopsus. less sweet, methinks the voice of waters falling from cliffs that echo back their murmurous song; less sweet the summer sound of breezes calling through pine-tree tops sonorous all day long; than are thy rhymes, the soul of grief enthralling, thy rhymes o'er field and forest borne along: if she but hear them, at thy feet she'll fawn.-- lo, thyrsis, hurrying homeward from the lawn! [_re-enters_ thyrsis. aristaeus. what of the calf? say, hast thou seen her now? thyrsis, _the cowherd_. i have, and i'd as lief her throat were cut! she almost ripped my bowels up, i vow, running amuck with horns well set to butt: nathless i've locked her in the stall below: she's blown with grass, i tell you, saucy slut! aristaeus. now, prithee, let me hear what made you stay so long upon the upland lawns away? thyrsis. walking, i spied a gentle maiden there, who plucked wild flowers upon the mountain side: i scarcely think that venus is more fair, of sweeter grace, most modest in her pride: she speaks, she sings, with voice so soft and rare, that listening streams would backward roll their tide: her face is snow and roses; gold her head; all, all alone she goes, white-raimented, aristaeus. stay, mopsus! i must follow: for 'tis she of whom i lately spoke. so, friend, farewell! mopsus. hold, aristaeus, lest for her or thee thy boldness be the cause of mischief fell! aristaeus. nay, death this day must be my destiny, unless i try my fate and break the spell. stay therefore, mopsus, by the fountain stay! i'll follow her, meanwhile, yon mountain way. [_exit_ aristaeus. mopsus. thyrsis, what thinkest thou of thy loved lord? see'st thou that all his senses are distraught? couldst thou not speak some seasonable word, tell him what shame this idle love hath wrought? thyrsis. free speech and servitude but ill accord, friend mopsus, and the hind is folly-fraught who rates his lord! he's wiser far than i. to tend these kine is all my mastery. scene ii aristaeus, _in pursuit of_ eurydice. flee not from me, maiden! lo, i am thy friend! dearer far than life i hold thee. list, thou beauty-laden, to these prayers attend: flee not, let my arms enfold thee! neither wolf nor bear will grasp thee: that i am thy friend i've told thee: stay thy course then; let me clasp thee!-- since thou'rt deaf and wilt not heed me, since thou'rt still before me flying, while i follow panting, dying, lend me wings, love, wings to speed me! [_exit_ aristaeus, _pursuing_ eurydice. scene iii a dryad. sad news of lamentation and of pain, dear sisters, hath my voice to bear to you: i scarcely dare to raise the dolorous strain. eurydice by yonder stream lies low; the flowers are fading round her stricken head, and the complaining waters weep their woe. the stranger soul from that fair house hath fled; and she, like privet pale, or white may-bloom untimely plucked, lies on the meadow, dead. hear then the cause of her disastrous doom! a snake stole forth and stung her suddenly. i am so burdened with this weight of gloom that, lo, i bid you all come weep with me! chorus of dryads. let the wide air with our complaint resound! for all heaven's light is spent. let rivers break their bound, swollen with tears outpoured from our lament! fell death hath ta'en their splendour from the skies: the stars are sunk in gloom. stern death hath plucked the bloom of nymphs:--eurydice down-trodden lies. weep, love! the woodland cries. weep, groves and founts; ye craggy mounts; you leafy dell, beneath whose boughs she fell, bend every branch in time with this sad sound. let the wide air with our complaint resound! ah, fortune pitiless! ah, cruel snake! ah, luckless doom of woes! like a cropped summer rose, or lily cut, she withers on the brake. her face, which once did make our age so bright with beauty's light, is faint and pale; and the clear lamp doth fail, which shed pure splendour all the world around let the wide air with our complaint resound! who e'er will sing so sweetly, now she's gone? her gentle voice to hear, the wild winds dared not stir; and now they breathe but sorrow, moan for moan: so many joys are flown, such jocund days doth death erase with her sweet eyes! bid earth's lament arise, and make our dirge through heaven and sea rebound! let the wide air with our complaint resound! a dryad. 'tis surely orpheus, who hath reached the hill, with harp in hand, glad-eyed and light of heart! he thinks that his dear love is living still. my news will stab him with a sudden smart: an unforeseen and unexpected blow wounds worst and stings the bosom's tenderest part. death hath disjoined the truest love, i know, that nature yet to this low world revealed, and quenched the flame in its most charming glow. go, sisters, hasten ye to yonder field, where on the sward lies slain eurydice; strew her with flowers and grasses! i must yield this man the measure of his misery. [_exeunt_ dryads. _enter_ orpheus, _singing_. orpheus. _musa, triumphales titulos et gesta canamus herculis, et forti monstra subacta manu; ut timidae malri pressos ostenderit angues, intrepidusque fero riserit ore puer._ a dryad. orpheus, i bring thee bitter news. alas! thy nymph who was so beautiful, is slain! flying from aristaeus o'er the grass, what time she reached yon stream that threads the plain, a snake which lurked mid flowers where she did pass, pierced her fair foot with his envenomed bane: so fierce, so potent was the sting, that she died in mid course. ah, woe that this should be! [orpheus _turns to go in silence._ mnesillus, _the satyr_. mark ye how sunk in woe the poor wretch forth doth pass, and may not answer, for his grief, one word? on some lone shore, unheard, far, far away, he'll go, and pour his heart forth to the winds, alas! i'll follow and observe if he moves with his moan the hills to sympathy. [_follows_ orpheus. orpheus. let us lament, o lyre disconsolate! our wonted music is in tune no more. lament we while the heavens revolve, and let the nightingale be conquered on love's shore! o heaven, o earth, o sea, o cruel fate! how shall i bear a pang so passing sore? eurydice, my love! o life of mine! on earth i will no more without thee pine! i will go down unto the doors of hell, and see if mercy may be found below: perchance we shall reverse fate's spoken spell with tearful songs and words of honeyed woe: perchance will death be pitiful; for well with singing have we turned the streams that flow; moved stones, together hind and tiger drawn, and made trees dance upon the forest lawn. [_passes from sight on his way to hades._ mnesillus. the staff of fate is strong and will not lightly bend, nor yet the stubborn gates of steely hell. nay, i can see full well his life will not be long: those downward feet no more will earthward wend. what marvel if they lose the light, who make blind love their guide by day and night! scene iv orpheus, _at the gate of hell._ pity, nay pity for a lover's moan! ye powers of hell, let pity reign in you! to your dark regions led me love alone: downward upon his wings of light i flew. hush, cerberus! howl not by pluto's throne! for when you hear my tale of misery, you, nor you alone, but all who here abide in this blind world, will weep by lethe's tide. there is no need, ye furies, thus to rage; to dart those snakes that in your tresses twine: knew ye the cause of this my pilgrimage, ye would lie down and join your moans with mine. let this poor wretch but pass, who war doth wage with heaven, the elements, the powers divine! i beg for pity or for death. no more! but open, ope hell's adamantine door! [orpheus _enters hell._ pluto. what man is he who with his golden lyre hath moved the gates that never move, while the dead folk repeat his dirge of love? the rolling stone no more doth tire swart sisyphus on yonder hill; and tantalus with water slakes his fire; the groans of mangled tityos are still; ixion's wheel forgets to fly; the danaids their urns can fill: i hear no more the tortured spirits cry; but all find rest in that sweet harmony. proserpine. dear consort, since, compelled by love of thee, i left the light of heaven serene, and came to reign in hell, a sombre queen; the charm of tenderest sympathy hath never yet had power to turn my stubborn heart, or draw forth tears from me. now with desire for yon sweet voice i yearn; nor is there aught so dear as that delight. nay, be not stern to this one prayer! relax thy brows severe, and rest awhile with me that song to hear! [orpheus _stands before the throne._ orpheus. ye rulers of the people lost in gloom, who see no more the jocund light of day! ye who inherit all things that the womb of nature and the elements display! hear ye the grief that draws me to the tomb! love, cruel love, hath led me on this way: not to chain cerberus i hither come, but to bring back my mistress to her home. a serpent hidden among flowers and leaves stole my fair mistress--nay, my heart--from me: wherefore my wounded life for ever grieves, nor can i stand against this agony. still, if some fragrance lingers yet and cleaves of your famed love unto your memory, if of that ancient rape you think at all, give back eurydice!--on you i call. all things ere long unto this bourne descend: all mortal lives to you return at last: whate'er the moon hath circled, in the end must fade and perish in your empire vast: some sooner and some later hither wend; yet all upon this pathway shall have passed: this of our footsteps is the final goal; and then we dwell for aye in your control. therefore the nymph i love is left for you when nature leads her deathward in due time: but now you've cropped the tendrils as they grew, the grapes unripe, while yet the sap did climb: who reaps the young blades wet with april dew, nor waits till summer hath o'erpassed her prime? give back, give back my hope one little day!-- not for a gift, but for a loan i pray. i pray not to you by the waves forlorn of marshy styx or dismal acheron, by chaos where the mighty world was born, or by the sounding flames of phlegethon; but by the fruit which charmed thee on that morn when thou didst leave our world for this dread throne! o queen! if thou reject this pleading breath, i will no more return, but ask for death! proserpine. husband, i never guessed that in our realm oppressed pity could find a home to dwell: but now i know that mercy teems in hell. i see death weep; her breast is shaken by those tears that faultless fell. let then thy laws severe for him be swayed by love, by song, by the just prayers he prayed! pluto. she's thine, but at this price: bend not on her thine eyes, till mid the souls that live she stay. see that thou turn not back upon the way! check all fond thoughts that rise! else will thy love be torn from thee away. i am well pleased that song so rare as thine the might of my dread sceptre should incline. scene v orpheus, _sings._ _ite tritumphales circum mea tempora lauri. vicimus eurydicen: reddita vita mihi est, haec mea praecipue victoria digna coronâ. oredimus? an lateri juncta puella meo?_ eurydice. all me! thy love too great hath lost not thee alone! i am torn from thee by strong fate. no more i am thine own. in vain i stretch these arms. back, back to hell i'm drawn, i'm drawn. my orpheus, fare thee well! [eurydice _disappears._ orpheus. who hath laid laws on love? will pity not be given for one short look so full thereof? since i am robbed of heaven, since all my joy so great is turned to pain, i will go back and plead with death again! [tisiphone _blocks his way._ tisiphone. nay, seek not back to turn! vain is thy weeping, all thy words are vain. eurydice may not complain of aught but thee--albeit her grief is great. vain are thy verses 'gainst the voice of fate! how vain thy song! for death is stern! try not the backward path: thy feet refrain! the laws of the abyss are fixed and firm remain. scene vi orpheus. what sorrow-laden song shall e'er be found to match the burden of my matchless woe? how shall i make the fount of tears abound, to weep apace with grief's unmeasured flow? salt tears i'll waste upon the barren ground, so long as life delays me here below; and since my fate hath wrought me wrong so sore, i swear i'll never love a woman more! henceforth i'll pluck the buds of opening spring, the bloom of youth when life is loveliest, ere years have spoiled the beauty which they bring: this love, i swear, is sweetest, softest, best! of female charms let no one speak or sing; since she is slain who ruled within my breast. he who would seek my converse, let him see that ne'er he talk of woman's love to me! how pitiful is he who changes mind for woman! for her love laments or grieves! who suffers her in chains his will to bind, or trusts her words lighter than withered leaves, her loving looks more treacherous than the wind! a thousand times she veers; to nothing cleaves: follows who flies; from him who follows, flees; and comes and goes like waves on stormy seas! high jove confirms the truth of what i said, who, caught and bound in love's delightful snare, enjoys in heaven his own bright ganymed: phoebus on earth had hyacinth the fair: hercules, conqueror of the world, was led captive to hylas by this love so rare.-- advice for husbands! seek divorce, and fly far, far away from female company! [_enter a_ maenad _leading a train of_ bacchantes. a maenad. ho! sisters! up! alive! see him who doth our sex deride! hunt him to death, the slave! thou snatch the thyrsus! thou this oak-tree rive! cast down this doeskin and that hide! we'll wreak our fury on the knave! yea, he shall feel our wrath, the knave! he shall yield up his hide riven as woodmen fir-trees rive! no power his life can save; since women he hath dared deride! ho! to him, sisters! ho! alive! [orpheus _is chased off the scene and slain: the_ maenads _then return._ a maenad. ho! bacchus! ho! i yield thee thanks for this! through all the woodland we the wretch have borne: so that each root is slaked with blood of his: yea, limb from limb his body have we torn through the wild forest with a fearful bliss: his gore hath bathed the earth by ash and thorn!-- go then! thy blame on lawful wedlock fling! ho! bacchus! take the victim that we bring! chorus of maenads. bacchus! we all must follow thee! bacchus! bacchus! ohé! ohé! with ivy coronals, bunch and berry, crown we our heads to worship thee! thou hast bidden us to make merry day and night with jollity! drink then! bacchus is here! drink free, and hand ye the drinking-cup to me! bacchus! we all must follow thee! bacchus! bacchus! ohé! ohé! see, i have emptied my horn already: stretch hither your beaker to me, i pray: are the hills and the lawns where we roam unsteady? or is it my brain that reels away? let every one run to and fro through the hay, as ye see me run! ho! after me! bacchus! we all must follow thee! bacchus! bacchus! ohé! ohé! methinks i am dropping in swoon or slumber: am i drunken or sober, yes or no? what are these weights my feet encumber? you too are tipsy, well i know! let every one do as ye see me do, let every one drink and quaff like me! bacchus! we all must follow thee! bacchus! bacchus! ohé! ohé! cry bacchus! cry bacchus! be blithe and merry, tossing wine down your throats away! let sleep then come and our gladness bury: drink you, and you, and you, while ye may! dancing is over for me to-day. let every one cry aloud evohé! bacchus! we all must follow thee! bacchus! bacchus! ohé! ohé! though an english translation can do little toward rendering the facile graces of poliziano's style, that 'roseate fluency' for which it has been praised by his italian admirers, the main qualities of the 'orfeo' as a composition may be traced in this rough copy. of dramatic power, of that mastery over the deeper springs of human nature which distinguished the first effort of the english muse in marlowe's plays, there is but little. a certain adaptation of the language to the characters, as in the rudeness of thyrsis when contrasted with the rustic elegance of aristæus, a touch of simple feeling in eurydice's lyrical outcry of farewell, a discrimination between the tender sympathy of proserpine and pluto's stern relenting, a spirited presentation of the bacchanalian _furore_ in the mænads, an attempt to model the satyr mnesillus as apart from human nature and yet sympathetic to its anguish, these points constitute the chief dramatic features of the melodrama. orpheus himself is a purely lyrical personage. of character, he can scarcely be said to have anything marked; and his part rises to its height precisely in that passage where the lyrist has to be displayed. before the gates of hades and the throne of proserpine he sings, and his singing is the right outpouring of a poet's soul; each octave resumes the theme of the last stanza with a swell of utterance, a crescendo of intonation that recalls the passionate and unpremeditated descant of a bird upon the boughs alone. to this true quality of music is added the persuasiveness of pleading. that the violin melody of his incomparable song is lost, must be reckoned a great misfortune. we have good reason to believe that the part of orpheus was taken by messer baccio ugolini, singing to the viol. here too it may be mentioned that a _tondo_ in monochrome, painted by signorelli among the arabesques at orvieto, shows orpheus at the throne of plato, habited as a poet with the laurel crown and playing on a violin of antique form. it would be interesting to know whether a rumour of the mantuan pageant had reached the ears of the cortonese painter. if the whole of the 'orfeo' had been conceived and executed with the same artistic feeling as the chief act, it would have been a really fine poem independently of its historical interest. but we have only to turn the page and read the lament uttered for the loss of eurydice, in order to perceive poliziano's incapacity for dealing with his hero in a situation of greater difficulty. the pathos which might have made us sympathise with orpheus in his misery, the passion, approaching to madness, which might have justified his misogyny, are absent. it is difficult not to feel that in this climax of his anguish he was a poor creature, and that the mænads served him right. nothing illustrates the defect of real dramatic imagination better than this failure to dignify the catastrophe. gifted with a fine lyrical inspiration, poliziano seems to have already felt the bacchic chorus which forms so brilliant a termination to his play, and to have forgotten his duty to the unfortunate orpheus, whose sorrow for eurydice is stultified and made unmeaning by the prosaic expression of a base resolve. it may indeed be said in general that the 'orfeo' is a good poem only where the situation is not so much dramatic as lyrical, and that its finest passage--the scene in hades--was fortunately for its author one in which the dramatic motive had to be lyrically expressed. in this respect, as in many others, the 'orfeo' combines the faults and merits of the italian attempts at melo-tragedy. to break a butterfly upon the wheel is, however, no fit function of criticism: and probably no one would have smiled more than the author of this improvisation, at the thought of its being gravely dissected just four hundred years after the occasion it was meant to serve had long been given over to oblivion. _note_ poliziano's 'orfeo' was dedicated to messer carlo canale, the husband of that famous vannozza who bore lucrezia and cesare borgia to alexander vi. as first published in , and as republished from time to time up to the year , it carried the title of 'la favola di orfeo,' and was not divided into acts. frequent stage-directions sufficed, as in the case of florentine 'sacre rappresentazioni,' for the indication of the scenes. in this earliest redaction of the 'orfeo' the chorus of the dryads, the part of mnesillus, the lyrical speeches of proserpine and pluto, and the first lyric of the mænads are either omitted or represented by passages in _ottava rima_. in the year the padre ireneo affò printed at venice a new version of 'orfeo, tragedia di messer angelo poliziano,' collated by him from two mss. this play is divided into five acts, severally entitled 'pastoricus,' 'nymphas habet,' 'heroïcus,' 'necromanticus,' and 'bacchanalis.' the stage-directions are given partly in latin, partly in italian; and instead of the 'announcement of the feast' by mercury, a prologue consisting of two octave stanzas is appended. a latin sapphic ode in praise of the cardinal gonzaga, which was interpolated in the first version, is omitted, and certain changes are made in the last soliloquy of orpheus. there is little doubt, i think, that the second version, first given to the press by the padre affò, was poliziano's own recension of his earlier composition. i have therefore followed it in the main, except that i have not thought it necessary to observe the somewhat pedantic division into acts, and have preferred to use the original 'announcement of the feast,' which proves the integral connection between this ancient secular play and the florentine mystery or 'sacra rappresentazione.' the last soliloquy of orpheus, again, has been freely translated by me from both versions for reasons which will be obvious to students of the original. i have yet to make a remark upon one detail of my translation. in line (part of the first lyric of the mænads) the italian gives us:-- spezzata come il fabbro il cribro spezza. this means literally: 'riven as a blacksmith rives a sieve or boulter.' now sieves are made in tuscany of a plate of iron, pierced with holes; and the image would therefore be familiar to an italian. i have, however, preferred to translate thus:-- riven as woodmen fir-trees rive, instead of giving:-- riven as blacksmiths boulters rive, because i thought that the second and faithful version would be unintelligible as well as unpoetical for english readers. * * * * * _eight sonnets of petrarch_ on the papal court at avignon fountain of woe! harbour of endless ire! thou school of errors, haunt of heresies! once rome, now babylon, the world's disease, that maddenest men with fears and fell desire! o forge of fraud! o prison dark and dire, where dies the good, where evil breeds increase! thou living hell! wonders will never cease if christ rise not to purge thy sins with fire. founded in chaste and humble poverty, against thy founders thou dost raise thy horn, thou shameless harlot! and whence flows this pride? even from foul and loathed adultery, the wage of lewdness. constantine, return! not so: the felon world its fate must bide. * * * * * to stefano colonna written from vaucluse glorius colonna, thou on whose high head rest all our hopes and the great latin name, whom from the narrow path of truth and fame the wrath of jove turned not with stormful dread: here are no palace-courts, no stage to tread; but pines and oaks the shadowy valleys fill between the green fields and the neighbouring hill, where musing oft i climb by fancy led. these lift from earth to heaven our soaring soul, while the sweet nightingale, that in thick bowers through darkness pours her wail of tuneful woe, doth bend our charmed breast to love's control; but thou alone hast marred this bliss of ours, since from our side, dear lord, thou needs must go. in vita di madonna laura. xi on leaving avignon backward at every weary step and slow these limbs i turn which with great pain i bear; then take i comfort from the fragrant air that breathes from thee, and sighing onward go. but when i think how joy is turned to woe, remembering my short life and whence i fare, i stay my feet for anguish and despair, and cast my tearful eyes on earth below. at times amid the storm of misery this doubt assails me: how frail limbs and poor can severed from their spirit hope to live. then answers love: hast thou no memory how i to lovers this great guerdon give, free from all human bondage to endure? * * * * * in vita di madonna laura. xii thoughts in absence the wrinkled sire with hair like winter snow leaves the beloved spot where he hath passed his years, leaves wife and children, dumb with bitter tears, to see their father's tottering steps and slow. dragging his aged limbs with weary woe, in these last days of life he nothing fears, but with stout heart his fainting spirit cheers, and spent and wayworn forward still doth go; then comes to rome, following his heart's desire, to gaze upon the portraiture of him whom yet he hopes in heaven above to see: thus i, alas! my seeking spirit tire, lady, to find in other features dim the longed for, loved, true lineaments of thee. in vita di madonna laura. lii oh that i had wings like a dove! i am so tired beneath the ancient load of my misdeeds and custom's tyranny, that much i fear to fail upon the road and yield my soul unto mine enemy. 'tis true a friend from whom all splendour flowed, to save me came with matchless courtesy: then flew far up from sight to heaven's abode, so that i strive in vain his face to see. yet still his voice reverberates here below: oh ye who labour, lo! the path is here; come unto me if none your going stay! what grace, what love, what fate surpassing fear shall give me wings like dove's wings soft as snow, that i may rest and raise me from the clay? * * * * * in morte di madonna laura. xxiv the eyes whereof i sang my fervid song, the arms, the hands, the feet, the face benign, which severed me from what was rightly mine, and made me sole and strange amid the throng, the crispèd curls of pure gold beautiful, and those angelic smiles which once did shine imparadising earth with joy divine, are now a little dust--dumb, deaf, and dull. and yet i live! wherefore i weep and wail, left alone without the light i loved so long, storm-tossed upon a bark that hath no sail. then let me here give o'er my amorous song; the fountains of old inspiration fail, and nought but woe my dolorous chords prolong. in morte di madonna laura. xxxiv in thought i raised me to the place where she whom still on earth i seek and find not, shines; there 'mid the souls whom the third sphere confines, more fair i found her and less proud to me. she took my hand and said: here shalt thou be with me ensphered, unless desires mislead; lo! i am she who made thy bosom bleed, whose day ere eve was ended utterly: my bliss no mortal heart can understand; thee only do i lack, and that which thou so loved, now left on earth, my beauteous veil. ah! wherefore did she cease and loose my hand? for at the sound of that celestial tale i all but stayed in paradise till now. * * * * * in morte di madonna laura. lxxiv the flower of angels and the spirits blest, burghers of heaven, on that first day when she who is my lady died, around her pressed fulfilled with wonder and with piety. what light is this? what beauty manifest? marvelling they cried: for such supremacy of splendour in this age to our high rest hath never soared from earth's obscurity. she, glad to have exchanged her spirit's place, consorts with those whose virtues most exceed; at times the while she backward turns her face to see me follow--seems to wait and plead: therefore toward heaven my will and soul i raise, because i hear her praying me to speed. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : we may compare with venice what is known about the ancient hellenic city of sybaris. sybaris and ravenna were the greek and roman venice of antiquity.] [footnote : his first wife was a daughter of the great general of the venetians against francesco sforza. whether sigismondo murdered her, as sansovino seems to imply in his _famiglie illustri_, or whether he only repudiated her after her father's execution on the piazza di san marco, admits of doubt. about the question of sigismondo's marriage with isotta there is also some uncertainty. at any rate she had been some time his mistress before she became his wife.] [footnote : for the place occupied in the evolution of italian scholarship by this greek sage, see my 'revival of learning,' _renaissance in italy_, part .] [footnote : the account of this church given by Æneas sylvius piccolomini (pii secondi, comment., ii. ) deserves quotation: 'Ædificavit tamen nobile templum arimini in honorem divi francisci, verum ita gentilibus operibus implevit, ut non tam christianorum quam infidelium dæmones adorantium templum esse videatur.'] [footnote : almost all the facts of alberti's life are to be found in the latin biography included in muratori. it has been conjectured, and not without plausibility, by the last editor of alberti's complete works, bonucci, that this latin life was penned by alberti himself.] [footnote : there is in reality no doubt or problem about this saint clair. she was born in , and joined the augustinian sisterhood, dying young, in , as abbess of her convent. continual and impassioned meditation on the passion of our lord impressed her heart with the signs of his suffering which have been described above. i owe this note to the kindness of an anonymous correspondent, whom i here thank.] [footnote : the balance of probability leans against isabella in this affair. at the licentious court of the medici she lived with unpardonable freedom. troilo orsini was himself assassinated in paris by bracciano's orders a few years afterwards.] [footnote : i have amplified and corrected this chronicle by the light of professor gnoli's monograph, _vittoria accoramboni_, published by le monnier at florence in .] [footnote : in dealing with webster's tragedy, i have adhered to his use and spelling of names.] [footnote : the fresco of the coronation of the virgin upon the semi-dome of s. giovanni is the work of a copyist, cesare aretusi. but part of the original fresco, which was removed in , exists in a good state of preservation at the end of the long gallery of the library.] [footnote : see the chapter on euripides in my _studies of greek poets_, first series, for a further development of this view of artistic evolution.] [footnote : i find that this story is common in the country round canossa. it is mentioned by professor a. ferretti in his monograph entitled _canossa, studi e ricerche_, reggio, , a work to which i am indebted, and which will repay careful study.] [footnote : charles claimed under the will of rené of anjou, who in turn claimed under the will of joan ii.] [footnote : for an estimate of cosimo's services to art and literature, his collection of libraries, his great buildings, his generosity to scholars, and his promotion of greek studies, i may refer to my _renaissance in italy_: 'the revival of learning,' chap. iv.] [footnote : giottino had painted the duke of athens, in like manner, on the same walls.] [footnote : see _archivio storico_.] [footnote : the order of rhymes runs thus: _a, b, b, a, a, b, b, a, c, d, c, d, c, d_; or in the terzets, _c, d, e, c, d, e_, or _c, d, e, d, c, e_, and so forth.] [footnote : it has extraordinary interest for the student of our literary development, inasmuch as it is full of experiments in metres, which have never thriven on english soil. not to mention the attempt to write in asclepiads and other classical rhythms, we might point to sidney's _terza rima_, poems with _sdrucciolo_ or treble rhymes. this peculiar and painful form he borrowed from ariosto and sanazzaro; but even in italian it cannot be handled without sacrifice of variety, without impeding the metrical movement and marring the sense.] [footnote : the stately structure of the _prothalamion_ and _epithalamion_ is a rebuilding of the italian canzone. his eclogues, with their allegories, repeat the manner of petrarch's minor latin poems.] [footnote : marlowe makes gaveston talk of 'italian masques.' at the same time, in the prologue to _tamburlaine_, he shows that he was conscious of the new and nobler direction followed by the drama in england.] [footnote : this sentence requires some qualification. in his _poesia popolare italiana_, , professor d'ancona prints a pisan, a venetian, and two lombard versions of our border ballad 'where hae ye been, lord randal, my son,' so close in general type and minor details to the english, german, swedish, and finnish versions of this volkslied as to suggest a very ancient community of origin. it remains as yet, however, an isolated fact in the history of italian popular poetry.] [footnote : _canti popolari toscani_, raccolti e annotati da giuseppe tigri. volume unico. firenze: g. barbèra, .] [footnote : this is a description of the tuscan rispetto. in sicily the stanza generally consists of eight lines rhyming alternately throughout, while in the north of italy it is normally a simple quatrain. the same poetical material assumes in northern, central, and southern italy these diverge but associated forms.] [footnote : this song, called ciure (sicilian for _fiore_) in sicily, is said by signor pitré to be in disrepute there. he once asked an old dame of palermo to repeat him some of these ditties. her answer was, 'you must get them from light women; i do not know any. they sing them in bad houses and prisons, where, god be praised, i have never been.' in tuscany there does not appear to be so marked a distinction between the flower song and the rispetto.] [footnote : much light has lately been thrown on the popular poetry of italy; and it appears that contemporary improvisatori trust more to their richly stocked memories and to their power of recombination than to original or novel inspiration. it is in sicily that the vein of truly creative lyric utterance is said to flow most freely and most copiously at the present time.] [footnote : 'remember me, fair one, to the scrivener. i do not know him or who he is, but he seems to me a sovereign poet, so cunning is he in his use of verse.'] [footnote : it must be remarked that tigri draws a strong contrast in this respect between the songs of the mountain districts which he has printed and those of the towns, and that pitrè, in his edition of sicilian _volkslieder_, expressly alludes to the coarseness of a whole class which he had omitted. the mss. of sicilian and tuscan songs, dating from the fifteenth century and earlier, yield a fair proportion of decidedly obscene compositions. yet the fact stated above is integrally correct. when acclimatised in the large towns, the rustic muse not unfrequently assumes a garb of grossness. at home, among the fields and on the mountains, she remains chaste and romantic.] [footnote : in a rispetto, of which i subjoin a translation, sung by a poor lad to a mistress of higher rank, love itself is pleaded as the sign of a gentle soul:-- my state is poor: i am not meet to court so nobly born a love; for poverty hath tied my feet, trying to climb too far above. yet am i gentle, loving thee; nor need thou shun my poverty. [footnote : when the cherubina, of whom mention has been made above, was asked by signor tigri to dictate some of her rispetti, she answered, 'o signore! ne dico tanti quando li canto! . . . ma ora . . . bisognerebbe averli tutti in visione; se no, proprio non vengono.'] [footnote : i need hardly guard myself against being supposed to mean that the form of _ballata_ in question was the only one of its kind in italy.] [footnote : see my _sketches in italy and greece_, p. .] [footnote : the originals will be found in carducci's _studi letterari_, p. _et seq._ i have preserved their rhyming structure.] [footnote : stanza xliii. all references are made to carducci's excellent edition, _le stanze, l'orfeo e le rime di messer angelo ambrogini poliziano._ firenze: g. barbéra. .] [illustration: courtesy international mercantile marine co. the coliseum and arch of titus] seeing europe with famous authors selected and edited with introductions, etc. by francis w. halsey _editor of "great epochs in american history" associate editor of "the worlds famous orations" and of "the best of the world's classics," etc._ in ten volumes illustrated vol. vii italy, sicily, and greece part one funk & wagnalls company new york and london copyright, , by funk & wagnalls company [_printed in the united states of america_] introduction to volumes vii and viii italy, sicily and greece tourists in great numbers now go to italy by steamers that have naples and genoa for ports. by the fast channel steamers, however, touching at cherbourg and havre, one may make the trip in less time (rail journey included). in going to rome, four days could thus be saved; but the expense will be greater--perhaps forty per cent. ... "and now, fair italy! thou art the garden of the world, the home of all art yields, and nature can decree; even in thy desert, what is like to thee? thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste more rich than other climes' fertility; thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced with an immaculate charm which can not be defaced." at least four civilizations, and probably five, have dominated italy; together they cover a period of more than , years--pelasgian, etruscan, greek, roman, italian. of these the pelasgian is, in the main, legendary. next came the etruscan. how old that civilization is no man knows, but its beginnings date from at least b.c.--that is, earlier than homer's writings, and earlier by nearly three centuries than the wall built by romulus around rome. the etruscan state was a federation of twelve cities, embracing a large part of central and northern italy--from near naples as far north perhaps as milan and the great lombard plain. etruscans thus dominated the largest, and certainly the fairest, parts of italy. before rome was founded, the etruscan cities were populous and opulent commonwealths. together they formed one of the great naval powers of the mediterranean. of their civilization, we have abundant knowledge from architectural remains, and, from thousands of inscriptions still extant. cortona was one of their oldest towns. "ere troy itself arose, cortona was." after the etruscans, came greeks, who made flourishing settlements in southern italy, the chief of which was paestum, founded not later than b.c. stupendous ruins survive at paestum; few more interesting ones have come down to us from the world of ancient hellas. the oldest dates from about b.c. here was once the most fertile and beautiful part of italy, celebrated for its flowers so that virgil praised them. it is now a lonely and forsaken land, forbidding and malarious. once thickly populated, it has become scarcely more than a haunt of buffalos and peasants, who wander indifferent among these colossal remains of a vanished race. these, however, are not the civilizations that do most attract tourists to italy, but the remains found there of ancient rome. of that empire all modern men are heirs--heirs of her marvelous political structure, of her social and industrial laws. last of these five civilizations is the italian, the beginnings of which date from theodoric the goth, who in the fifth century set up a kingdom independent of rome; but gothic rule was of short life, and then came the lombards, who for two hundred years were dominant in northern and central parts, or until charlemagne grasped their tottering kingdom and put on their famous iron crown. in the south charlemagne's empire never flourished. that part of italy was for centuries the prey of saracens, magyars and scandinavians. from these events emerged modern italy--the rise of her vigorous republics, pisa, genoa, florence, venice; the dawn, meridian splendor and decline of her great schools of sculpture, painting and architecture, the power and beauty of which have held the world in subjection; her literature, to which also the world has become a willing captive; her splendid municipal spirit; a church, whose influence has circled the globe, and in which historians, in a spiritual sense, have seen a survival of imperial rome. but here are tales that every schoolboy hears. sicily is reached in a night by steamer from naples to palermo, or the tourist may go by train from naples to reggio, and thence by ferry across the strait to messina. its earliest people were contemporaries of the etruscans. phoenicians also made settlements there, as they did in many parts of the mediterranean, but these were purely commercial enterprises. real civilization in sicily dates from neither of those races, but from dorian and ionic greeks, who came perhaps as early as the founding of rome--that is, in the seventh or eighth century b.c. the great cities of the sicilian greeks were syracuse, segesta and girgenti, where still survive colossal remains of their genius. in military and political senses, the island for , years has been overrun, plundered and torn asunder by every race known to mediterranean waters. beside those already named, are carthaginians under hannibal, vandals under genseric, goths under theodoric, byzantines under belisarius, saracens from asia minor, normans under robert guiscard, german emperors of the thirteenth century, french angevine princes (in whose time came the sicilian vespers), spaniards of the house of aragon, french under napoleon, austrians of the nineteenth century, and then--that glorious day when garibaldi transferred it to the victorious sardinian king. the tourist who seeks greece from northern europe may go from trieste by steamer along the dalmatian coast (in itself a trip of fine surprizes), to cattaro and corfu, transferring to another steamer for the piræus, the port of athens; or from italy by steamer direct from brindisi, the ancient brundusium, whence sailed all roman expeditions to the east, and where in retirement once dwelt cicero. no writer has known where to date the beginnings of civilization in greece, but with mycenæ, tiryns, and the minoan palace of crete laid bare, antiquarians have pointed the way to dates far older than anything before recorded. the palace of minos is ancient enough to make the homeric age seem modern. with the dorian invasion of greece about b.c., begins that greek civilization of which we have so much authentic knowledge. dorian influence was confined largely to sparta, but it spread to many greek colonies in the central mediterranean and in the levant. it became a powerful influence, alike in art, in domestic life, and in political supremacy. one of its noblest achievements was its help in keeping out the persian, and another in supplanting in the mediterranean the commercial rule of phoenicians. attica and sparta became world-famous cities, with stupendous achievements in every domain of human art and human efficiency. the colossal debt all europe and all america owe them, is known to everyone who has ever been to school. f. w. h. contents of volume vii italy, sicily, and greece--part one introduction to vols. vii and viii--by the editor. i--rome page first days in the eternal city--by johann wolfgang von goethe the antiquities--by joseph addison the palace of the cÆsars--by rodolfo lanciani the coliseum--by george s. hillard the pantheon--by george s. hillard hadrian's tomb--by rodolfo lanciani trajan's forum--by francis wey the baths of caracalla--by hippolyte adolphe taine the aqueduct builders--by rodolfo lanciani the quarries and bricks of the ancient city--by rodolfo lanciani palm sunday in st. peter--by grace greenwood (mrs. lippincott) the election of a pope--by cardinal wiseman an audience with pius x.--by mary emogene hazeltine the ascent of the dome of st. peter's--by george s. hillard santa maria maggiore--by hippolyte adolphe taine catacombs and crypts--by charles dickens the cemetery of the capuchins--by nathaniel hawthorne the burial place of keats and shelley--by nathaniel parker willis excursions near rome--by charles dickens ii--florence the approach by carriage road--by nathaniel hawthorne the old palace and the loggia--by theophile gautier the origins of the city--by grant allen the cathedral--by hippolyte adolphe taine the ascent of the dome of brunelleschi--by mr. and mrs. edwin h. blashfield arnolfo, giotto and brunelleschi--by mrs. oliphant ghiberti's gates--by charles yriarte the ponte vecchio--by charles yriarte santa croce--by charles yriarte the uffizi gallery--by hippolyte adolphe taine florence eighty years ago--by william cullen bryant iii--venice the approach from the sea--by charles yriarte the approach by train--by the editor a tour of the grand canal--by theophile gautier st. mark's church--by john ruskin how the old campanile was built--by horatio f. brown how the campanile fell--by horatio f. brown the palace of the doges--by john ruskin the lagoons--by horatio f. brown the decline amid splendor--by hippolyte adolphe taine the doves of st. mark's--by horatio f. brown torcello, the mother city--by john ruskin cadore, titian's birthplace--by amelia b. edwards list of illustrations volume vii frontispiece the coliseum and the arch of titus preceding page the pantheon, rome rome: the tiber, castle of st. angelo, and dome of st. peter's rome: ruins of the palace of the cÆsars rome: the san sebastian gate the tomb of metella on the appian way the tarpian rock in rome interior of the coliseum the coliseum, rome st. peter's, rome rome: interior of st. peter's rome: interior of santa maria maggiore the cathedral, florence following page florence: bridge across the arno florence: the old palace florence: the loggia di lanzi florence: cloister of santa maria novella florence: cloister of san marco florence: the pitti palace florence: house of dante front of st. mark's, venice interior of st. mark's, venice the ducal palace, venice venice: piazza of st. mark's, ducal palace on the left view of venice from the campanile [illustration: the pantheon of rome courtesy john c. winston co.] [illustration: the tiber, castle of st. angelo, and dome of st. peter's ruins of the palace of the cÆsars] [illustration: the san sebastian gate of rome] [illustration: the tomb of metella on the appian way courtesy john c. winston co.] [illustration: the tarpeian rock in rome] [illustration: interior of the coliseum] [illustration: the coliseum] [st. peter's, rome courtesy john c. winston co.] [illustration: rome: interior of st. peter's] [illustration: rome: interior of santa maria maggiore] [illustration: the cathedral of florence] i rome first days in the eternal city[ ] by johann wolfgang von goethe at last i am arrived in this great capital of the world. if fifteen years ago i could have seen it in good company, with a well-informed guide, i should have thought myself very fortunate. but as it was to be that i should thus see it alone, and with my own eyes, it is well that this joy has fallen to my lot so late in life. over the mountains of the tyrol i have as good as flown. verona, vicenza, padua, and venice i have carefully looked at; hastily glanced at ferrara, cento, bologna, and scarcely seen florence at all. my anxiety to reach rome was so great, and it so grew with me every moment, that to think of stopping anywhere was quite out of the question; even in florence, i only stayed three hours. now i am here at my ease, and as it would seem, shall be tranquilized for my whole life; for we may almost say that a new life begins when a man once sees with his own eyes all that before he has but partially heard or read of. all the dreams of my youth i now behold realized before me; the subjects of the first engravings i ever remembered seeing (several views of rome were hung up in an anteroom of my father's house) stand bodily before my sight, and all that i had long been acquainted with, through paintings or drawings, engravings, or wood-cuts, plaster-casts, and cork models are here collectively presented to my eye. wherever i go i find some old acquaintance in this new world; it is all just as i had thought it, and yet all is new; and just the same might i remark of my own observations and my own ideas. i have not gained any new thoughts, but the older ones have become so defined, so vivid, and so coherent, that they may almost pass for new ones.... i have now been here seven days, and by degrees have formed in my mind a general idea of the city. we go diligently backward and forward. while i am thus making myself acquainted with the plan of old and new rome, viewing the ruins and the buildings, visiting this and that villa, the grandest and most remarkable objects are slowly and leisurely contemplated. i do but keep my eyes open and see, and then go and come again, for it is only in rome one can duly prepare oneself for rome. it must, in truth, be confessed, that it is a sad and melancholy business to prick and track out ancient rome in new rome; however, it must be done, and we may hope at least for an incalculable gratification. we meet with traces both of majesty and of ruin, which alike surpass all conception; what the barbarians spared, the builders of new rome made havoc of.... when one thus beholds an object two thousand years old and more, but so manifoldly and thoroughly altered by the changes of time, but, sees nevertheless, the same soil, the same mountains, and often indeed the same walls and columns, one becomes, as it were, a contemporary of the great counsels of fortune, and thus it becomes difficult for the observer to trace from the beginning rome following rome, and not only new rome succeeding to the old, but also the several epochs of both old and new in succession. i endeavor, first of all, to grope my way alone through the obscurer parts, for this is the only plan by which one can hope fully and completely to perfect by the excellent introductory works which have been written from the fifteenth century to the present day. the first artists and scholars have occupied their whole lives with these objects. and this vastness has a strangely tranquilizing effect upon you in rome, while you pass from place to place, in order to visit the most remarkable objects. in other places one has to search for what is important; here one is opprest, and borne down with numberless phenomena. wherever one goes and casts a look around, the eye is at once struck with some landscape--forms of every kind and style; palaces and ruins, gardens and statuary, distant views of villas, cottages and stables, triumphal arches and columns, often crowding so close together, that they might all be sketched on a single sheet of paper. he ought to have a hundred hands to write, for what can a single pen do here; and, besides, by the evening one is quite weary and exhausted with the day's seeing and admiring. my strange, and perhaps whimsical, incognito proves useful to me in many ways that i never should have thought of. as every one thinks himself in duty bound to ignore who i am, and consequently never ventures to speak to me of myself and my works,[ ] they have no alternative left them but to speak of themselves, or of the matters in which they are most interested, and in this way i become circumstantially informed of the occupations of each, and of everything remarkable that is either taken in hand or produced. hofrath reiffenstein good-naturedly humors this whim of mine; as, however, for special reasons, he could not bear the name which i had assumed, he immediately made a baron of me, and i am now called the "baron gegen rondanini über" (the baron who lives opposite to the palace rondanini). this designation is sufficiently precise, especially as the italians are accustomed to speak of people either by their christian names, or else by some nickname. enough; i have gained my object; and i escape the dreadful annoyance of having to give to everybody an account of myself and my works.... in rome, the rotunda,[ ] both by its exterior and interior, has moved me to offer a willing homage to its magnificence. in st. peter's i learned to understand how art, no less than nature, annihilates the artificial measures and dimensions of man. and in the same way the apollo belvidere also has again drawn me out of reality. for as even the most correct engravings furnish no adequate idea of these buildings, so the case is the same with respect to the marble original of this statue, as compared with the plaster models of it, which, however, i formerly used to look upon as beautiful. here i am now living with a calmness and tranquility to which i have for a long while been a stranger. my practise to see and take all things as they are, my fidelity in letting the eye be my light, my perfect renunciation of all pretension, have again come to my aid, and make me calmly, but most intensely, happy. every day has its fresh remarkable object--every day its new grand unequaled paintings, and a whole which a man may long think of, and dream of, but which with all his power of imagination he can never reach. yesterday i was at the pyramid of cestius, and in the evening on the palatine, on the top of which are the ruins of the palace of the cæsars, which stand there like walls of rock. of all this, however, no idea can be conveyed! in truth, there is nothing little here; altho, indeed, occasionally something to find fault with--something more or less absurd in taste, and yet even this partakes of the universal grandeur of all around.... yesterday i visited the nymph egeria, and then the hippodrome of caracalla, the ruined tombs along the via appia, and the tomb of metella, which is the first to give one a true idea of what solid masonry really is. these men worked for eternity--all causes of decay were calculated, except the rage of the spoiler, which nothing can resist. the remains of the principal aqueduct are highly venerable. how beautiful and grand a design, to supply a whole people with water by so vast a structure! in the evening we came upon the coliseum, when it was already twilight. when one looks at it, all else seems little; the edifice is so vast, that one can not hold the image of it in one's soul--in memory we think it smaller, and then return to it again to find it every time greater than before. we entered the sistine chapel, which we found bright and cheerful, and with a good light for the pictures. "the last judgment" divided our admiration with the paintings on the roof by michael angelo. i could only see and wonder. the mental confidence and boldness of the master, and his grandeur of conception, are beyond all expression. after we had looked at all of them over and over again, we left this sacred building, and went to st. peter's, which received from the bright heavens the loveliest light possible, and every part of it was clearly lit up. as men willing to be pleased, we were delighted with its vastness and splendor, and did not allow an over-nice or hypercritical taste to mar our pleasure. we supprest every harsher judgment; we enjoyed the enjoyable. lastly we ascended the roof of the church, where one finds in little the plan, of a well-built city. houses and magazines, springs (in appearance at least), churches, and a great temple all in the air, and beautiful walks between. we mounted the dome, and saw glistening before us the regions of the apennines, soracte, and toward tivoli the volcanic hills. frascati, castelgandolfo, and the plains, and beyond all the sea. close at our feet lay the whole city of rome in its length and breadth, with its mountain palaces, domes, etc. not a breath of air was moving, and in the upper dome it was (as they say) like being in a hot-house. when we had looked enough at these things, we went down, and they opened for us the doors in the cornices of the dome, the tympanum, and the nave. there is a passage all round, and from above you can take a view of the whole church, and of its several parts. as we stood on the cornices of the tympanum, we saw beneath us the pope passing to his mid-day devotions. nothing, therefore, was wanting to make our view of st. peter's perfect. we at last descended to the piazza, and took in a neighboring hotel a cheerful but frugal meal, and then set off for st. cecilia's. it would take many words to describe the decorations of this church, which was crammed full of people; not a stone of the edifice was to be seen. the pillars were covered with red velvet wound round with gold lace; the capitals were overlaid with embroidered velvet, so as to retain somewhat of the appearance of capitals, and all the cornices and pillars were in like manner covered with hangings. all the entablatures of the walls were also covered with life-like paintings, so that the whole church seemed to be laid out in mosaic. around the church, and on the high altar more than two hundred wax tapers were burning. it looked like a wall of lights, and the whole nave was perfectly lit up. the aisles and side altars were equally adorned and illuminated. right opposite the high altar, and under the organ, two scaffolds were erected, which also were covered with velvet, on one of which were placed the singers, and on the other the instruments, which kept up one unbroken strain of music.... and yet these glorious objects are even still like new acquaintances to me. one has not yet lived with them, nor got familiar with their peculiarities. some of them attract us with irresistible power, so that for a time one feels indifferent, if not unjust, toward all others. thus, for instance, the pantheon, the apollo belvedere, some colossal heads, and very recently the sistine chapel, have by turns so won my whole heart, that i scarcely saw any thing besides them. but, in truth, can man, little as man always is, and accustomed to littleness, ever make himself equal to all that here surrounds him of the noble, the vast, and the refined? even tho he should in any degree adapt himself to it, then how vast is the multitude of objects that immediately press upon him from all sides, and meet him at every turn, of which each demands for itself the tribute of his whole attention. how is one to get out of the difficulty? no other way assuredly than by patiently allowing it to work, becoming industrious, and attending the while to all that others have accomplished for our benefit. of the beauty of a walk through rome by moonlight it is impossible to form a conception, without having witnessed it. all single objects are swallowed up by the great masses of light and shade, and nothing but grand and general outlines present themselves to the eye. for three several days we have enjoyed to the full the brightest and most glorious of nights. peculiarly beautiful at such a time is the coliseum. at night it is always closed; a hermit dwells in a little shrine within its range, and beggars of all kinds nestle beneath its crumbling arches; the latter had lit a fire on the arena, and a gentle wind bore down the smoke to the ground, so that the lower portion of the ruins was quite hid by it, while above the vast walls stood out in deeper darkness before the eye. as we stopt at the gate to contemplate the scene through the iron gratings, the moon shone brightly in the heavens above. presently the smoke found its way up the sides, and through every chink and opening, while the moon lit it up like a cloud. the sight was exceedingly glorious. in such a light one ought also to see the pantheon, the capitol, the portico of st. peter's, and the other grand streets and squares--and thus sun and moon, like the human mind, have quite a different work to do here from elsewhere, where the vastest and yet the most elegant of masses present themselves to their rays. the antiquities of the city[ ] by joseph addison there are in rome two sets of antiquities, the christian, and the heathen. the former, tho of a fresher date, are so embroiled with fable and legend, that one receives but little satisfaction from searching into them. the other give a great deal of pleasure to such as have met with them before in ancient authors; for a man who is in rome can scarce see an object that does not call to mind a piece of a latin poet or historian. among the remains of old rome, the grandeur of the commonwealth shows itself chiefly in works that were either necessary or convenient, such as temples, highways, aqueducts, walls, and bridges of the city. on the contrary, the magnificence of rome under the emperors is seen principally in such works as were rather for ostentation or luxury, than any real usefulness or necessity, as in baths, amphitheaters, circuses, obelisks, triumphal pillars, arches, and mausoleums; for what they added to the aqueducts was rather to supply their baths and naumachias, and to embellish the city with fountains, than out of any real necessity there was for them.... no part of the antiquities of rome pleased me so much as the ancient statues, of which there is still an incredible variety. the workmanship is often the most exquisite of anything in its kind. a man would wonder how it were possible for so much life to enter into marble, as may be discovered in some of the best of them; and even in the meanest, one has the satisfaction of seeing the faces, postures, airs, and dress of those that have lived so many ages before us. there is a strange resemblance between the figures of the several heathen deities, and the descriptions that the latin poets have given us of them; but as the first may be looked upon as the ancienter of the two, i question not but the roman poets were the copiers of the greek statuaries. tho on other occasions we often find the statuaries took their subjects from the poets. the laocöon is too known an instance among many others that are to be met with at rome. i could not forbear taking particular notice of the several musical instruments that are to be seen in the hands of the apollos, muses, fauns, satyrs, bacchanals, and shepherds, which might certainly give a great light to the dispute for preference between the ancient and modern music. it would, perhaps, be no impertinent design to take off all their models in wood, which might not only give us some notion of the ancient music, but help us to pleasanter instruments than are now in use. by the appearance they make in marble, there is not one string-instrument that seems comparable to our violins, for they are all played on either by the bare fingers, or the plectrum, so that they were incapable of adding any length to their notes, or of varying them by those insensible swellings, and wearings away of sound upon the same string, which give so wonderful a sweetness to our modern music. besides that, the string-instruments must have had very low and feeble voices, as may be guessed from the small proportion of wood about them, which could not contain air enough to render the strokes, in any considerable measure, full and sonorous. there is a great deal of difference in the make, not only of the several kinds of instruments, but even among those of the same name. the syringa, for example, has sometimes four, and sometimes more pipes, as high as the twelve. the same variety of strings may be observed on their harps, and of stops on their tibiæ, which shows the little foundation that such writers have gone upon, who, from a verse perhaps in virgil's eclogues, or a short passage in a classic author, have been so very nice in determining the precise shape of the ancient musical instruments, with the exact number of their pipes, strings, and stops.... tho the statues that have been found among the ruins of old rome are already very numerous, there is no question but posterity will have the pleasure of seeing many noble pieces of sculpture which are still undiscovered; for, doubtless, there are greater treasures of this nature under ground, than what are yet brought to light.[ ] they have often dug into lands that are described in old authors, as the places where such particular statues or obelisks stood, and have seldom failed of success in their pursuits. there are still many such promising spots of ground that have never been searched into. a great part of the palatine mountain, for example, lies untouched, which was formerly the seat of the imperial palace, and may be presumed to abound with more treasures of this nature than any other part of rome. but whether it be that the richest of these discoveries fall into the pope's hands, or for some other reason, it is said that the prince farnese, who is the present owner of this seat, will keep his own family in the chair. there are undertakers in rome who often purchase the digging of fields, gardens, or vineyards, where they find any likelihood of succeeding, and some have been known to arrive at great estates by it. they pay according to the dimensions of the surface they are to break up; and after having made essays into it, as they do for coal in england, they rake into the most promising parts of it, tho they often find, to their disappointment, that others have been beforehand with them. however, they generally gain enough by the rubbish and bricks, which the present architects value much beyond those of a modern make, to defray the charges of their search. i was shown two spaces of ground, where part of nero's golden house stood, for which the owner has been offered an extraordinary sum of money. what encouraged the undertakers, are several very ancient trees, which grow upon the spot, from whence they conclude that these particular tracts of ground must have lain untouched for some ages. it is pity there is not something like a public register, to preserve the memory of such statues as have been found from time to time, and to mark the particular places where they have been taken up, which would not only prevent many fruitless searches for the future, but might often give a considerable light into the quality of the place, or the design of the statue. but the great magazine for all kinds of treasure, is supposed to be the bed of the tiber. we may be sure, when the romans lay under the apprehensions of seeing their city sacked by a barbarous enemy, as they have done more than once, that they would take care to bestow such of their riches this way as could best bear the water, besides what the insolence of a brutish conqueror may be supposed to have contributed, who had an ambition to waste and destroy all the beauties of so celebrated a city. i need not mention the old common-shore of rome, which ran from all parts of the town with the current and violence of an ordinary river, nor the frequent inundations of the tiber, which may have swept away many of the ornaments of its banks, nor the several statues that the romans themselves flung into it, when they would revenge themselves on the memory of an ill citizen, a dead tyrant, or a discarded favorite. at rome they have so general an opinion of the riches of this river, that the jews have formerly proffered the pope to cleanse it, so they might have for their pains what they found in the bosom of it. i have seen the valley near ponte molle, which they proposed to fashion into a new channel for it, until they had cleared the old for its reception. the pope, however, would not comply with the proposal, as fearing the heats might advance too far before they had finished their work, and produce a pestilence among his people; tho i do not see why such a design might not be executed now with as little danger as in augustus's time, were there as many hands employed upon it. the city of rome would receive a great advantage from the undertaking, as it would raise the banks and deepen the bed of the tiber, and by consequence free them from those frequent inundations to which they are so subject at present; for the channel of the river is observed to be narrower within the walls than either below or above them. next to the statues, there is nothing in rome more surprizing than that amazing variety of ancient pillars of so many kinds of marble. as most of the old statues may be well supposed to have been cheaper to their first owners than they are to a modern purchaser, several of the pillars are certainly rated at a much lower price at present than they were of old. for not to mention what a huge column of granite, serpentine, or porphyry must have cost in the quarry, or in its carriage from egypt to rome, we may only consider the great difficulty of hewing it into any form, and of giving it the due turn, proportion, and polish. the most valuable pillars about rome, for the marble of which they are made, are the four columns of oriental jasper in st. paulina's chapel at st. maria maggiore; two of oriental granite in st. pudenziana; one of transparent oriental jasper in the vatican library; four of nero-bianco, in st. cecilia transtevere; two of brocatello, and two of oriental agate in don livio's palace; two of giallo antico in st. john lateran, and two of verdi antique in the villa pamphilia. these are all entire and solid pillars, and made of such kinds of marble as are nowhere to be found but among antiquities, whether it be that the veins of it are undiscovered, or that they were quite exhausted upon the ancient buildings. among these old pillars, i can not forbear reckoning a great part of an alabaster column, which was found in the ruins of livia's portico. it is of the color of fire, and may be seen over the high altar of st. maria in campitello; for they have cut it into two pieces, and fixt it in the shape of a cross in a hole of the wall that was made on purpose to receive it; so that the light passing through it from without, makes it look, to those who are in the church, like a huge transparent cross of amber. the palace of the cÆsars[ ] by rodolfo lanciani the palatine hill became the residence of the roman emperors, and the center of the roman empire, not on account of its historical and traditional associations with the foundation and first growth of the city, nor because of its central and commanding position, but by a mere accident. at daybreak on september st, of the year b.c., augustus was born in this region, in a modest house, opening on the lane called "ad capita bubula," which led from the valley, where now the coliseum stands, up the slopes of the hill toward the modern church and convent of st. bonaventura. this man, sent by god to change the condition of mankind and the state of the world, this founder of an empire which is still practically in existence,[ ] never deserted the palatine hill all through his eventful career. from the lane "ad capita bubula" he moved to the house of calvus, the orator, at the northeast corner of the hill overlooking the forum; and in process of time, having become absolute master of the roman commonwealth, he settled finally on the top of the hill, having purchased for his residence the house of hortensius, a simple and modest house, indeed, with columns of the commonest kind of stone, pavements of rubble-work, and simple whitewashed walls. whether this selection of a site was made because the palatine had long before been the faubourg st. honoré, the belgravia of ancient rome, is difficult to determine. we know that the house of hortensius, chosen by augustus, was surrounded by those of clodius, scaurus, crassus, caecina, sisenna, flaccus, catiline, and other members of the aristocracy. i am persuaded, however, that the secret of the selection is to be found in the simplicity, i will even say in the poverty, of the dwelling; in fact, such extreme modesty is worthy of the good sense and the spirit of moderation shown by augustus throughout his career. he could very well sacrifice appearances to the reality of an unbounded power. it is just, at any rate, to recognize that even in his remotest resorts for temporary rest and retirement from the cares of government, he led the same kind of plain, modest life, spending all his leisure hours in arranging his collections of natural history, more especially the palaeo-ethnological or prehistoric, for which the ossiferous caverns of the island of capri supplied him with abundant materials. it was only after the victory of actium that, finding himself master of the world, he thought it expedient to give up, in a certain measure, his former habits, and live in better style. having bought through his agents some of the aristocratic palaces adjoining the old house of hortensius, among them the historical palace of catiline, he built a new and very handsome residence, but declared at the same time that he considered it as public property, not as his own. the solemn dedication of the palace took place on january th, of the year before christ. here he lived, sleeping always in the same small cubiculum, for twenty-eight years; that is to say, until the third year after christ, when the palace was almost destroyed by fire. as soon as the news of the disaster spread throughout the empire, an almost incredible amount of money was subscribed at once, by all orders of citizens, to provide him with a new residence; and altho, with his usual moderation, he would consent to accept only one denarius from each individual subscribed, it is easy to imagine how many millions he must have realized in spite of his modesty. a new, magnificent palace rose from the ruins of the old one, but it does not appear that the plan and arrangement were changed; otherwise augustus could not have continued to sleep in the same room during the last ten years of his life, as we are told positively that he did. the work of augustus was continued by his successor and kinsman, tiberius, who built a new wing near the northwest corner of the hill, overlooking the velabrum. caligula filled with new structures the whole space between the "domus tiberiana" and the roman forum. nero, likewise, occupied with a new palace the south-east corner of the hill, overlooking the valley, where the coliseum was afterward built. domitian rebuilt the "domus augustana," injured by fire, adding to its accommodations a stadium for gymnastic sports. the same emperor raised an altogether new palace, in the space between the house of augustus, on one side, and those of caligula and tiberius on the other. septimius severus and his son restored the whole group of imperial buildings, adding a new wing at the southwest corner, known under the name of septizonium. the latest additions, of no special importance, took place under julia mamaea and heliogabalus. every emperor, to a certain extent, enlarged, altered, destroyed, and reconstructed the work of his predecessors; cutting new openings, walling up old ones, subdividing large rooms into smaller apartments, and changing their destination. one section alone of the imperial palatine buildings remained unaltered, and kept the former simplicity of its plans down to the fall of the empire--the section built by augustus across the center of the hill, which comprised the main entrance, the portico surrounding the temple of apollo, the temple itself, the greek and latin libraries, the shrine of vesta, and the imperial residence. the architectural group raised by augustus on the palatine, formed, as it were, the vestibule to his own imperial residence. we know with absolute certainty that it contained at least one hundred and twenty columns of the rarest kinds of marbles and breccias, fifty-two of which were of numidian marble, with capitals of gilt bronze; a group of lysias, comprising one chariot, four horses and two drivers, all cut in a single block of marble; the hercules of lysippus; the apollo of scopas; the latona of cephisodotos, the diana of timotheos; the bas-reliefs of the pediment by bupalos and anthermos; the quadriga of the sun in gilt bronze; exquisite ivory carvings; a bronze colossus fifty feet high; hundreds of medallions in gold, silver, and bronze; gold and silver plate; a collection of gems and cameos; and, lastly, candelabras which had been the property of alexander the great, and the admiration of the east. has the world ever seen a collection of greater artistic and material value exhibited in a single building? and we must recollect that the group built by augustus comprises only a very modest section of the palatine; that to his palace we must join the palaces of tiberius, caligula, nero, vespasian, domitian, septimius serverus, julia mamaea, and heliogabalus; that each one of these imperial residences equalled the residence of augustus, if not in pure taste, certainly in wealth, in luxury, in magnificence, in the number and value of works of art collected and stolen from greece and the east, from egypt and persia. by multiplying eight or ten times the list i have given above, the reader will get an approximate idea of the "home" of the roman emperors in its full pride and glory. i have deliberately excluded from my description the residence or private house of augustus, because he himself had deliberately excluded from it any trace of that grandeur he had so lavishly bestowed on the buildings which constituted the approach to it.... during the rule of claudius, the successor of caligula, little or nothing was done toward the enlargement or the embellishment of the palace of the cæsars. nero, however, the successor of claudius, conceived the gigantic plan of renewing and of rebuilding from the very foundations, not only the imperial residence, but the whole metropolis. in the rebuilding of the city the emperor secured for himself the lion's share; and his golden house, of which we possess such beautiful remains, occupied the whole extent from the palatine to the quirinal, where now the central railway station has been erected. its area amounted to nearly a square mile, and this enormous district was appropriated, or rather usurped, by the emperor, right in the center of a city numbering about two million inhabitants. of the wonders of the golden house it is enough to say that there were comprised within the precincts of the enchanting residence waterfalls supplied by an aqueduct fifty miles long, lakes and rivers shaded by dense masses of foliage, with harbors and docks for the imperial galleys; a vestibule containing a bronze colossus one hundred and twenty feet high; porticos three thousand feet long; farms and vineyards, pasture grounds and woods teeming with the rarest and costliest kind of game, zoological and botanical gardens; sulfur baths supplied from springs twelve miles distant; sea baths supplied from the waters of the mediterranean, sixteen miles distant at the nearest point; thousands of columns crowned with capitals of corinthian gilt metal; thousands of statues stolen from greece and asia minor; walls encrusted with gems and mother-of-pearl; banqueting-halls with ivory ceilings, from which rare flowers and precious perfumes could fall gently on the recumbent guests. more marvelous still was the ceiling of the state dining-room. it was spherical in shape, and cut in ivory, to represent the constellated skies, and kept in constant motion by machinery in imitation of the movements of the stars and planets. all these details sound like fairy-tales, like the dream of a fertile imagination; still they are described minutely by contemporary and serious writers, by suetonius, by martial and by tacitus. suetonius adds that the day nero took possession of his golden house, he was heard to exclaim, "at last i am lodged like a man." the wonders created by him, however, did not last very long. otho, his successor, on the very day of his election to the throne, signed an order of fifty millions of sesterces (two million dollars) to bring the golden house to perfection; but after his murder vespasian and titus gave back to the people the greater portion of the ground usurped by nero. they built the coliseum on the very site of nero's artificial lake, and the thermæ of titus on the foundation of his private palace; they respected only that portion of nero's insane construction which was comprised within the boundaries of the palatine hill. the coliseum[ ] by george stillman hillard the venerable bede, who lived in the eighth century, is the first person who is known to have given to the flavian amphitheater its comparatively modern and now universal designation of the coliseum; tho the name, derived from a colossal statue of the emperor nero which stood near it, was probably then familiar to men's ears, as we may infer from his so calling it without explanation or remark. when in its perfect state, the exterior, with its costly ornaments in marble, and its forest of columns, lost the merit of simplicity without gaining that of grandeur. the eye was teased with a multitude of details, not in themselves good; the same defects were repeated in each story, and the real height was diminished by the projecting and ungraceful cornices. the interior arrangements were admirable; and modern architects can not sufficiently commend the skill with which eighty thousand spectators were accommodated with seats; or the ingenious contrivances, by which, through the help of spacious corridors, multiplied passages, and staircases, every person went directly to his place, and immense audiences were dispersed in less time than is required for a thousand persons to squeeze through the entries of a modern concert-room. we know that this interior of the coliseum was decorated with great splendor. the principal seats were of marble, and covered with cushions. gilded gratings, ornaments of gold, ivory, and amber, and mosaics of precious stones, displayed the generosity of the emperors, and gratified the taste of the people. how, or at what period, the work of ruin first began does not distinctly appear. an earthquake may have first shattered its ponderous arches, and thus made an opening for the destroying hand of time. there can be no doubt that it suffered violence from the hands of civil and foreign war. but more destructive agencies than those of earthquake, conflagration or war, were let loose upon it. its massive stones, fitted to each other with such nice adaptation, presented a strong temptation to the cupidity of wealthy nobles and cardinals, with whom building was a ruling passion; and for many ages the coliseum became a quarry. the palazzo della cancelleria, the palazzo barberini, the palazzo farnese, and the palazzo veneziano were all built mainly from the plunder of the coliseum; and meaner robbers emulated the rapacity of their betters, by burning into lime the fragments not available for architectural purposes. the material of which the coliseum was built is exactly fitted to the purposes of a great ruin. it is travertine, of a rich, dark, warm color, deepened and mellowed by time. there is nothing glaring, harsh, or abrupt in the harmony of tints. the blue sky above, and the green earth beneath, are in unison with a tone of coloring not unlike the brown of one of our own early winter landscapes. the travertine is also of a coarse grain and porous texture, not splintering into points and edges, but gradually corroding by natural decay. stone of such a texture everywhere opens laps and nooks for the reception and formation of soil. every grain of dust that is borne through the air by the lazy breeze of summer, instead of sliding from a glassy surface, is held where it falls. the rocks themselves crumble and decompose, and turn into a fertile mold. thus, the coliseum is throughout crowned and draped with a covering of earth, in many places of considerable depth. trailing plants clasp the stones with arms of verdure; wild flowers bloom in their seasons; and long grass nods and waves on the airy battlements. life has everywhere sprouted from the trunk of death. insects hum and sport in the sunshine; the burnished lizard darts like a tongue of green flame along the walls; and birds make the hollow quarry overflow with their songs. there is something beautiful and impressive in the contrast between luxuriant life and the rigid skeleton upon which it rests. as a matter of course, everybody goes to see the coliseum by moonlight. the great charm of the ruin under this condition is, that the imagination is substituted for sight; and the mind for the eye. the essential character of moonlight is hard rather than soft. the line between light and shadow is sharply defined, and there is no gradation of color. blocks and walls of silver are bordered by, and spring out of, chasms of blackness. but moonlight shrouds the coliseum in mystery. it opens deep vaults of gloom where the eye meets only an ebon wall, upon which the fancy paints innumerable pictures in solemn, splendid, and tragic colors. shadowy forms of emperor and lictor and vestal virgin and gladiator and martyr come out of the darkness, and pass before us in long and silent procession. the breezes which blow through the broken arches are changed into voices, and recall the shouts and cries of a vast audience. by day, the coliseum is an impressive fact; by night, it is a stately vision. by day, it is a lifeless form; by night, a vital thought. the coliseum should by all means be seen by a bright starlight, or under the growing sickle of a young moon. the fainter ray and deeper gloom bring out more strongly its visionary and ideal character. when the full moon has blotted out the stars, it fills the vast gulf of the building with a flood of spectral light, which falls with a chilling touch upon the spirit; for then the ruin is like a "corpse in its shroud of snow," and the moon is a pale watcher by its side. but when the walls, veiled in deep shadow, seem a part of the darkness in which they are lost--when the stars are seen through their chasms and breaks, and sparkle along the broken line of the battlements--the scene becomes another, tho the same; more indistinct, yet not so mournful; contracting the sphere of sight, but enlarging that of thought; less burdening, but more suggestive. but under all aspects, in the blaze of noon, at sunset, by the light of the moon or stars--the coliseum stands alone and unapproached. it is the monarch of ruins. it is a great tragedy in stone, and it softens and subdues the mind like a drama of aeschylus or shakespeare. it is a colossal type of those struggles of humanity against an irresistible destiny, in which the tragic poet finds the elements of his art. the calamities which crusht the house of atreus are symbolized in its broken arches and shattered walls. built of the most durable materials, and seemingly for eternity--of a size, material, and form to defy the "strong hours" which conquer all, it has bowed its head to their touch, and passed into the inevitable cycle of decay. "and this too shall pass away"--which the eastern monarch engraved upon his signet ring--is carved upon these cyclopean blocks. the stones of the coliseum were once water; and they are now turning into dust. such is ever the circle of nature. the solid is changing into the fluid, and the fluid into the solid; and that which is unseen is alone indestructible. he does not see the coliseum aright who carries away from it no other impressions than those of form, size, and hue. it speaks an intelligible language to the wiser mind. it rebukes the peevish and consoles the patient. it teaches us that there are misfortunes which are clothed with dignity, and sorrows that are crowned with grandeur. as the same blue sky smiles upon the ruin which smiled upon the perfect structure, so the same beneficent providence bends over our shattered hopes and our answered prayers. the pantheon[ ] by george stillman hillard the best preserved monument of ancient rome, and one of the most beautiful buildings of the modern city, is unhappily placed. the pantheon stands in a narrow and dirty piazza, and is shouldered and elbowed by a mob of vulgar houses. there is no breathing-space around, which it might penetrate with the light of its own serene beauty. its harmonious proportions can be seen only in front; and it has there the disadvantage of being approached from a point higher than that on which it stands. on one side is a market; and the space before the matchless portico is strewn with fish-bones, decayed vegetables, and offal.[ ] forsyth, the sternest and most fastidious of architectural critics, has only "large draughts of unqualified praise" for the pantheon; and, where he finds nothing to censure, who will venture to do any thing but commend? the character of the architecture, and the sense of satisfaction which it leaves upon the mind, are proofs of the enduring charm of simplicity. the portico is perfectly beautiful. it is one hundred and ten feet long and forty-four deep, and rests upon sixteen columns of the corinthian order, the shafts being of granite and the capitals of marble. eight of these are in front, and of these eight, there are four (including the two on the extreme right and left) which have two others behind them; the portico being thus divided into three portions, like the nave and side aisles of a cathedral; the middle space, leading to the door, being wider than the others. the granite of the shafts is partly gray and partly rose-colored, but, in the shadow in which they stand, the difference of hue is hardly perceptible. the proportions of these columns are faultless; and their massive shafts and richly-carved capitals produce the effect, at once, of beauty and sublimity. the pediment above is now a bald front of ragged stone, but it was once adorned with bas-reliefs in bronze; and the holes, made by the rivets with which they were fastened, are still to be seen. the aisles of the portico were once vaulted with bronze, and massive beams or slabs of the same metal stretched across the whole structure; but this was removed by urban viii., and melted into a baldachino to deface st. peter's, and cannon to defend the castle of st. angelo; and, not content with this, he has added insult to injury, and commemorated his robbery in a latin inscription, in which he claims to be commended as for a praiseworthy act. but even this is not the heaviest weight resting on the memory of that vandal pope. he shares with bernini the reproach of having added those hideous belfries which now rise above each end of the vestibule--as wanton and unprovoked an offense against good taste as ever was committed. a cocked hat upon the statue of demosthenes in the vatican would not be a more discordant addition. the artist should have gone to the stake, before giving his hand to such a piece of disfigurement. the cell, or main portion of the building to which the portico is attached, is a simple structure, circular in form, and built of brick. it was formerly encrusted with marble. the cell and the portico stand to each other in the most harmonious relation, altho it seems to be admitted that the latter was an addition, not contemplated when the cell was built. but in the combination there is nothing forced or unnatural, and they seem as necessary and as preordained complements, one to the other, as a fine face and a fine head. the cell is a type of masculine dignity, and the portico, of feminine grace; and the result is a perfect architectural union. the interior--a rotunda, surmounted by a dome--is converted into a christian church, a purpose to which its form and structure are not well adapted; and the altars and their accessories are not improvements in an architectural point of view. but in spite of this--in spite of all that it has suffered at the hands of rapacity and bad taste--tho the panels of the majestic dome have been stript of their bronze, and the whole has been daubed over with a glaring coat of whitewash--the interior still remains, with all its rare beauty essentially unimpaired. and the reason of this is that this charm is the result of form and proportion, and can not be lost except by entire destruction. the only light which the temple receives is from a circular opening of twenty-eight feet in diameter at the top; and falling, as it does, directly from the sky, it fills the whole space with the purity of the heavens themselves. the magical effect of this kind of illumination it is impossible to describe.... the pavement of the pantheon, composed of porphyry, pavonazzetto, and giallo antico, tho constantly overflowed by the tiber, and drenched by the rains which fall upon it from the roof, is the finest in rome. there is an opening in the center, through which the water entering by the dome is carried off into a reservoir. the pantheon has a peculiar interest in the history of art, as the burial place of raphael. his grave was opened in , and the remains found to be lying in the spot which vasari had pointed out. hadrian's tomb[ ] by rodolfo lanciani nerva was the last emperor buried in the mausoleum of augustus.[ ] trajan's ashes were laid to rest in an urn of gold under his monumental column. hadrian determined to raise a new tomb for himself and his successors, and, like augustus, selected a site on the green and shady banks of the tiber, not on the city side, however, but in the gardens of domitia, which, with those of agrippina, formed a crown property called by tacitus "nero's gardens." the mausoleum and the bridge which gave access to it were substantially finished in a.d. . antoninus pius, after completing the ornamental part in , transferred to it hadrian's ashes from their temporary burial-place in the former villa of cicero at puteoli, and was himself afterward interred there.... beside the passages of the "hadrian's life," and of dion cassius, two descriptions of the monument have come down to us, one by procopius, the other by leo i. from these we learn that it was composed of a square basement of moderate height, each side of which measured feet. it was faced with blocks of parian marble, with pilasters at the corners, crowned by a capital. above the pilasters were groups of men and horses in bronze, of admirable workmanship. the basement was protected around by a sidewalk and a railing of gilt bronze, supported by marble pillars crowned with gilded peacocks, two of which are in the giardino della pigna, in the vatican. a grand circular mole, nearly a thousand feet in circumference, and also faced with blocks of parian marble, stood on the square basement and supported in its turn a cone of earth covered with evergreens, like the mausoleum of augustus. of this magnificent decoration nothing now remains except a few blocks of the coating of marble, on the east side of the quadrangle, near the bastione di s. giovanni. all that is visible of the ancient work from the outside are the blocks of peperino of the mole which once supported the outer casing. the rest, both above and below, is covered by the works of fortification constructed at various periods, from the time of honorius ( - ) to our own days. in no other monument of ancient and medieval rome is our history written, molded, as it were, so vividly, as upon the battered remains of this castle-tomb. within and around it took place all the fights for dominion with which popes, emperors, barons, barbarians, romans, have distracted the city for fifteen hundred years. of the internal arrangement of the monument nothing was known until , when the principal door was discovered in the middle of the square basement facing the bridge. it opens upon a corridor leading to a large niche, which, it is conjectured, contained a statue of hadrian. the walls of this vestibule, by which modern visitors generally begin their inspection, are built of travertine, and bear evidence of having been paneled with numidian marble. the pavement is of white mosaic. on the right side of this vestibule, near the niche, begins an inclined spiral way, feet high and feet wide, leading up to the central chamber, which is in the form of a greek cross. there is no doubt that the tomb was adorned with statues. procopius distinctly says that, during the siege laid by the goths to the castle in , many of them were hurled down from the battlements upon the assailants. on the strength of this passage topographers have been in the habit of attributing to the mausoleum all the works of statuary discovered in the neighborhood; like the barberini faun now in munich, the exquisite statue of a river god described by cassiano dal pozzo, etc., as if such subjects were becoming a house of death. the mausoleum of hadrian formed part of one of the largest and noblest cemeteries of ancient rome, crossed by the via triumphalis. the tomb next in importance to it was the so-called "meta," or "sepulcrum romuli," or "sepulcrum neronis," a pyramid of great size, which stood on the site of the church of st. maria transpontina, and was destroyed by alexander vi. in . trajan's forum[ ] by francis wey in the midst of the busy quarters lying at the base of the quirinal, you come out upon a great piazza which you name at once without ever having seen it before; trajan's column serves as ensign for a forum, of which apollodorus of damascus erected the porticoes. the lines described by the bases of a plantation of pillars will help you to identify the pesimeter of the temple which hadrian consecrated, and the site of the ulpian library which was divided into two chambers--one for greek books, and the other for latin; and finally the situation of the basilica, opening on to the forum and with its apse in the north-northwest direction.... it was in the ulpian basilica that, in , constantine, having assembled the notables of the empire seated himself in the presbyterium, to proclaim his abjuration of polytheism in favor of the religion of christ; on that day and spot the prince closed the cycle of antiquity, opened the catacombs, and inaugurated the modern world. the acts of st. sylvester describe many passages of the discourse in which, "invoking truth against mischievous divisions," and declaring that he "put away superstitions born of ignorance and reared on unreason," the emperor ordains that "churches be opened to christians, and that the priests of the temples and those of christ enjoy the same privileges." he himself undertakes to build a church in his lateran palace. i do not think there exists any monument in the world more precious or more exquisite in its proportions than trajan's column, nor one that has rendered more capital service. this has been set forth with more authority than i can pretend to, by viollet-le-duc, the architect who has written best on his own art; his description sums up the subject and makes everything clear. a set of pictures of the campaigns of trajan against the decians--the bas-reliefs--reproduces the arms, the accouterments, the engines of war, the dwellings of the barbarians; we discern the breed of the warriors and their horses; we look upon the ships of the time, canoes and quinqueremes; women of all ranks, priests of all theogonies, sieges, and assaults. such are the merits of this sculptured host, that polidoro da caravaggio, giulio romano, michael angelo, and all the artists of the renaissance have drawn thence models of style and picturesque grouping. trajan's column is of pure carrara marble. the shaft measures about ninety-four english feet, by twelve in diameter at the base, and ten below the capital, which is doric and carved out of a single block; the column is composed of thirty-four blocks, hollowed out internally and cut into a winding stair. a series of bas-reliefs, divided from one another by a narrow band, run spirally around the shaft parallel to the inner staircase of a hundred and eighty-two steps, and describes twenty-three circuits to reach the platform on which the statue is placed. the foot and the pedestal are seventeen feet high; the torus, of enormous diameter, is a monolith; the whole construction rises a hundred and thirty-five feet from the ground. these thirty-four blocks, measuring eleven meters in circumference by one in height, had--a task of considerable precision--to have holes drilled in them for the screws of the staircase, it being necessary to determine from the inside precisely where these borings must be made in order not to break the continuity of the bas-reliefs, executed by several different hands, and which are more deeply worked in proportion as they gain in height, so as to appear of an equal projection. the baths of caracalla[ ] by hippolyte adolphe taine you reach the baths of caracalla, the most imposing object after the coliseum that one sees in rome. these colossal structures are so many signs of their times. imperial rome plundered the entire mediterranean basin, spain, gaul, and two-thirds of england, for the benefit of a hundred thousand idlers. she amused them in the coliseum with massacres of beasts and of men; in the circus maximus with combats of athletes and with chariot races; in the theater of marcellus with pantomimes, plays, and the pageantry of arms and costume; she provided them with baths, to which they resorted to gossip, to contemplate statues, to listen to declaimers, to keep themselves cool in the heats of summer. all that had been invented of the convenient, agreeable, and beautiful, all that could be collected in the world that was curious and magnificent, was for them; the cæsars fed them and diverted them, seeking only to afford them gratification, and to obtain their acclamations. a roman of the middle classes might well regard his emperors as so many public purveyors, administering his property, relieving him from troublesome cares, furnishing him at fair rates, or for nothing, with corn, wine, and oil, giving him sumptuous meals and well-got-up fêtes, providing him with pictures, statues, pantomimists, gladiators, and lions, resuscitating his "blasé" taste every morning with some surprising novelty, and even occasionally converting themselves into actors, charioteers, singers, and gladiators for his especial delight. in order to lodge this group of amateurs in a very suitable to its regal pretensions, architecture invented original and grand forms. vast structures always indicate some corresponding excess, some immoderate concentration and accumulation of the labor of humanity. look at the gothic cathedrals, the pyramids of egypt, paris of the present day, and the docks of london! on reaching the end of a long line of narrow streets, white walls, and deserted gardens, the great ruin appears. there is nothing with which to compare its form, while the line it describes on the sky is unique. no mountains, no hills, no edifices, give any idea of it. it resembles all these; it is a human structure, which time and events have so deformed and transformed, as to render a natural production. rising upward in the air, its moss-stained embossed summit and indented crest with its wide crevices, a red, mournful, decayed mass, silently reposes in a shroud of clouds. you enter, and it seems as if you had never seen anything in the world so grand. the coliseum itself is no approach to it, so much do a multiplicity and irregularity of ruins add to the vastness of the vast enclosure. before these heaps of red corroded masonry, these round vaults spanning the air like the arches of a mighty bridge before these crumbling walls, you wonder whether an entire city did not once exist there. frequently an arch has fallen, and the monstrous mass that sustained it still stands erect, exposing remnants of staircases and fragments of arcades, like so many shapeless, deformed houses. sometimes it is cleft in the center, and a portion appears about to fall and roll away, like a huge rock. sections of wall and pieces of tottering arches cling to it and dart their projections threateningly upward in the air. the courts are strewed with various fragments, and blocks of brick welded together by the action of time, like stones incrusted with the deposits of the sea. elsewhere are arcades quite intact, piled up story upon story, the bright sky appearing behind them, and above, along the dull red brickwork is a verdant head-dress of plants, waving and rustling in the midst of the ethereal blue. here are mystic depths, wherein the bedewed shade prolongs itself among mysterious shadows. into these the ivy descends, and anemones, fennel, and mallows fringe their brinks. shafts of columns lie half-buried under climbing vines and heaps of rubbish, while luxuriant clover carpets the surrounding slopes. small green oaks, with round tops, innumerable green shrubs, and myriads of gillyflowers cling to the various projections, nestle in the hollows, and deck its crest with their yellow clusters. all these murmur in the breeze, and the birds are singing in the midst of the imposing silence.... you ascend, i know not how many stories, and, on the summit, find the pavement of the upper chambers to consist of checkered squares of marble; owing to the shrubs and plants that have taken root among them, these are disjoined in places, a fresh bit of mosaic sometimes appearing intact on removing a layer of earth. here were sixteen hundred seats of polished marble. in the baths of diocletian there were places for three thousand two hundred bathers. from this elevation, on casting your eyes around, you see, on the plain, lines of ancient aqueducts radiating in all directions and losing themselves in the distance, and, on the side of albano, three other vast ruins, masses of red and black arcades, shattered and disintegrated brick by brick, and corroded by time. you descend and take another glance. the hall of the "piscine" is a hundred and twenty paces long; that in which the bathers disrobed is eighty feet in height; the whole is covered with marble, and with such beautiful marble that mantel ornaments are now made of its fragments. in the sixteenth century the farnese hercules was discovered here, and the torso and venus callipygis, and i know not how many other masterpieces; and in the seventeenth century hundreds of statues. no people, probably, will ever again display the same luxurious conveniences, the same diversions, and especially the same order of beauty, as that which the romans displayed in rome. here only can you comprehend this assertion--a civilization other than our own, other and different, but in its kind as complete and as elegant. it is another animal, but equally perfect, like the mastodon, previous to the modern elephant. the aqueduct builders[ ] by rodolfo lanciani one of the praises bestowed by cicero on the founder of the city is that "he selected a district very rich in springs." a glance at the plan will at once prove the accuracy of the statement. twenty-three springs have been described within the walls, several of which are still in existence; others have disappeared owing to the increase of modern soil. "for four hundred and forty-one years," says frontinus, "the romans contented themselves with such water as they could get from the tiber, from wells, and from springs. some of these springs are still held in great veneration on account of their health-restoring qualities, like the spring of the camoenae, that of apollo, and that of juturna." the first aqueduct, that of the "aqua appia," is the joint work of appius claudius cæcus and c. plautius venox, censors in b.c. the first built the channel, the second discovered the springs , meters northeast of the sixth and seventh milestones of the via collatina. they are still to be seen, much reduced in volume, at the bottom of some stone quarries near the farmhouse of la rustica. the second aqueduct was begun in b.c. by manius curius dentatus, censor, and finished three years later by fulvius flaccus. the water was taken from the river anio meters above st. cosimato, on the road from tivoli to arsoli (valeria). the course of the channel can be traced as far as gallicano; from gallicano to rome it is uncertain.... in b.c. the senate, considering that the increase of the population had diminished the rate of distribution of water (from to liters per head), determined that the old aqueducts of the appia and the anio should be repaired, and a new one built, the appropriation for both works being , , sesterces, or , , lire. the execution of the scheme was entrusted to q. marcius rex. he selected a group of springs at the foot of the monte della prugna, in the territory of arsoli, , meters to the right of the thirty-sixth milestone of the via valeria; and after many years of untiring efforts he succeeded in making a display of the water on the highest platform of the capitol. agrippa restored the aqueduct in b.c.; augustus doubled the volume of the water in b.c. by the addition of the aqua augusta. in septimius severus brought in a new supply for the use of his thermae severianae; in - caracalla built a branch aqueduct, four miles long, for the use of his baths; in - diocletian did the same thing for his great thermæ; and, finally, arcadius and honorius devoted to the restoration of the aqueduct the money seized from count gildo, the african rebel. none of the roman aqueducts are eulogized by frontinus like the claudian. he calls it "a work most magnificently done," and after demonstrating in more than one way that the volume of the springs collected by claudius amounted to , quinariae, he says that there was a reserve of , always ready. the works, began by caligula in a.d. , lasted fourteen years, the water having reached rome only on august , (the birthday of claudius). the course of the aqueduct was first around the slopes of the monte ripoli, like that of the marcia and of the anio vetus. domitian shortened it by several miles by boring a tunnel , meters long through the monte affiano. length of channel, , meters, of which , was on arches; volume per day, , cubic meters. the claudia was used for the imperial table; a branch aqueduct, , meters long, left the main channel at spem veterem (porta maggiore), and following the line of the via caelimontana (villa wolkonsky), of the campus caelimontan (lateran), and of the street now called di s. stefano rotondo, reached the temple of claudius by the church of ss. giovanni e paolo, and the imperial palace by the church of st. bonaventura. the anio novus, like the vetus, was at first derived from the river of the same name at the forty-second milestone of the road to subiaco, great precautions being taken for purifying the water. the works were begun by caligula in a.d. , and completed by claudius on august , , on a most magnificent scale, some of the arches reaching the height of thirty-two meters above ground; and there were eight miles of them. yet, in spite of the purifying reservoir, and of the clear springs of the rivus herculaneus (fosso di fioggio), which had been mixed with the water from the river, the anio novus was hardly ever drinkable. whenever a shower fell on the simbruine mountains, the water would get troubled and saturated with mud and carbonate of lime. trajan improved its condition by carrying the head of the aqueduct higher up the valley, where nero had created three artificial lakes for the adornment of his villa sublacensis. these lakes served more efficiently as "purgatories," than the artificial basin of caligula, nine miles below. the anio novus reached rome in its own channel after a course of , meters, but for the last seven miles it ran on the same arches with the aqua claudia. the anio novus was the largest of all roman aqueducts, discharging nearly three hundred thousand cubic meters per day. there are two places in the suburbs of rome where these marvelous arches of the claudia and anio novus can be seen to advantage; one is the torre fiscale, three miles outside the porta s. giovanni on the albano road (to be reached also from the tavolato station, on the upper albano railway); the other is the vicolo del mandrione, which leaves the labicana one mile outside the porta maggiore and falls into the tusculana at the place called porta furba. the quarries and bricks of the ancient city[ ] by rodolfo lanciani the materials used in roman constructions are the "lapis ruber" (tufa); the "lapis albanus" (peperino); the "lapis gabinus" (sperone); the "lapis tiburtinus" (travertino); the silex ("selce"); and bricks and tiles of various kinds. the cement was composed of pozzolana and lime. imported marbles came into fashion toward the end of the republic, and became soon after the pride and glory of rome.... the only material which the first builders of rome found at hand was the volcanic conglomerate called tufa. the quality of the stone used in those early days was far from perfect. the walls of the palatine hill and of the capitoline citadel were built of material quarried on the spot--a mixture of charred pumice-stones and reddish volcanic sand. the quarries used for the fortification of the capitol were located at the foot of the hill toward the argiletum, and were so important as to give their name, lautumiae, to the neighboring district. it is probable that the prison called tullianum, from a jet of water, "tullus," which sprang from the rock, was originally a portion of this quarry. the tufa blocks employed by servius tullius for the building of the city walls, and of the agger, appear to be of three qualities--yellowish, reddish, and gray; the first, soft and easily broken up, seems to have been quarried from the little aventine, near the church of st. saba. the galleries of this quarry, much disfigured by medieval and modern use, can be followed to a considerable distance, altho the collapsing of the vaults makes it dangerous to visit them.... the quarries of the third quality were, or rather one of them was, discovered on february , , in the vigna querini, outside the porta st. lorenzo, near the first milestone of the vicolo di valle cupa. it was a surface quarry, comprising five trenches feet wide, feet deep. some of the blocks, already squared, were lying on the floor of the trenches, others were detached on two or three sides only, the size of others was simply traced on the rock by vertical or horizontal lines. this tufa, better known by the name of cappellaccio, is very bad. the only buildings in which it was used, besides the inner wall of the servian agger, are the platform of the temple of jupiter capitolinus, in the gardens of the german embassy, and the "puticuli" in the burial-grounds of the esquiline. its use must have been given up before the end of the period of the kings, in consequence of the discovery of better quarries on the right bank of the tiber, at the foot of the hills now called monte verde.... they cover a space one mile in length and a quarter of a mile wide on each side of the valley of pozzo pantaléo. in fact, this valley, which runs from the via portuensis toward the lake of the villa pamphili, seems to be artificial; i mean, produced by the extraction of the rock of millions of cubic meters in the course of twenty-four centuries. if the work of the ancient quarrymen could be freed from the loose material which conceals it from view, we should possess within a few minutes' drive from the porta portese a reproduction of the famous mines of el masarah, with beds of rock cut into steps and terraces, with roads and lanes, shafts, inclines, underground passages, and outlets for the discharge of rain-water. when a quarry had given out, its galleries were filled up with the refuse of the neighboring ones--chips left over after the squaring of the blocks; so that, in many cases, the color and texture of the chips do not correspond with those of the quarry in which they are found. this layer of refuse, transformed by time into humus, and worked upon by human and atmospheric forces, has given the valley a different aspect, so that it looks as if it were the work not of quarrymen, but of nature. tufa may be found used in many existing monuments of ancient rome, such as the drains of the middle and southern basin of the left bank, the channels and arches of the marcia and anio vetus, the servian walls, the temples of fortuna virilis, of hercules magnus custos, the rostra, the embankment of the tiber, etc. the largest and most magnificent quarries in the suburban district are the so-called grotte della cervara. no words can convey an idea of their size and of the regularity of their plan. they seem to be the work of a fanciful architect who has hewn out of the rock halls and galleries, courts and vestibules, and imitated the forms of an assyrian palace. for the study of the peperino mines, which contain a stone special to the alban district, formed by the action of hot water on gray volcanic cinders, the reader should follow on foot the line of the new albano railway, from the place called il sassone to the town of marino. many of the valleys in this district, now made beautiful by vineyards and oliveyards, owe their existence to the pickax of the roman stonecutter, like the valley of pozzo pantaléo. the most curious sight is a dolmen or isolated rock meters high, left in the center of one of the quarries to certify the thickness of the bed of rock excavated. in fact, the whole district is very interesting both to the archeologist and to the paysagiste. the mines of marino, still worked in the neighborhood of the railway station, would count, like the grotte della cervara, among the wonders of the campagna, were they known to the student as they deserve to be. the principal roman buildings in which the lapis albanus has been used are: the claudian aqueduct, the cloaca maxima, the temples of antonius and faustina, of cybele, of the eventus bonus, of neptune, the inclosure wall of the forum augustum, forum transitorium, and forum pacis, the porticus argonautarum, porticus pompeii, the ustrinum of the appian way, etc. the sarcophagus of cornelius scipio barbatus in the vatican museum, and the tomb of the tibicines in the museo municipale al celio are also of this stone. travertine stone was quarried in the plains of tivoli at places now called le caprine, casal bernini, and il barco. this last was reopened after an interval of many centuries by count g. brazza, brother of the african explorer. lost in the wilderness and overgrown with shrubs, it had not been examined, i believe, since the visit of brocchi. it can be reached by stopping at the station of the aquae albulae, on the tivoli line, and following the ancient road which led to the works. this road, twice as wide as the appian way, is flanked by substructures, and is not paved, but macadamized. parallel with it runs an aqueduct which supplied the works with motive power, derived probably from the sulfur springs. there are also remains of tombs, one of which, octagonal in shape, serves as a foundation to the farmhouse del barco. the most remarkable monument of the whole group is the roman quarry from which five and a half million cubic meters of travertine have been extracted, as proved by the measurement of the hollow space between the two opposite vertical sides. that this is the most important ancient quarry of travertine, and the largest one used by the romans, is proved, in the first place, by its immense size. the sides show a frontage of more than two and a half kilometers; the surface amounts to , square meters. the sides are quite perpendicular, and have the peculiarity of projecting buttresses, at an angle of degrees. some of these buttresses are isolated on three sides, and still preserve the grooves, by means of which they could be separated from the solid mass.... in order to keep the bottom of the works clean and free from the movement of the carts, for the action of the cranes, and for the maneuvres of the workmen, the chips, or useless product of the squaring of the blocks, were transported to a great distance, as far as the banks of the anio, and there piled up to a great height. this is the origin of that chain of hills which runs parallel to the river, and of whose artificial formation no one, as far as i know, had the least suspicion. one of these hills, visible from every point of the neighboring district, from hadrian's villa as well as from the sulfur baths, is elliptical in shape, meters high, meters long, and meters wide. it can with reason be compared with our testaccio. it is easy to imagine how immense must have been the number of blocks cut from the cava del barco during the period of the formation of this hill alone. another proof of the antiquity of the quarry, and of its abandonment from imperial times down to our own day, is given by this fact.... there are three collections of brick-stamps in rome; one, of little value, in the kircherian museum; the second in the last room of the vatican library, past the "nozze aldobrandine;" the third and best in the museo municipale al celio. this last contains over a thousand specimens, and a unique set of the products of roman kilns. in fact, the first hall of the museo is set apart exclusively for the study of ancient building and decorative materials. roman bricks were square, oblong, triangular, or round, the latter being used only to build columns in the pompeiian style. the largest bricks that have been discovered in my time measure . meters in length. they were set into an arch of one of the great stairs leading to the avenue or boulevard established in imperial times on the top of the agger of servius. roman bricks are very often stamped with a seal, the legend of which contains the names of the owner and the manager of the kilns, of the maker of the tile, of the merchant entrusted with the sale of the products, and of the consuls under whose term of office the bricks were made. these indications are not necessarily found all in one seal. the most important of them is the consular date, because it helps the student to determine, within certain limits, the date of the building itself. the rule, however, is far from being absolute, and before fixing the date of a roman structure from that of its brick stamps one must take into consideration many other points of circumstantial evidence. when we examine, for instance, the grain warehouses at ostia, or hadrian's villa at tivoli, and find that their walls have never undergone repairs, that their masonry is characteristic of the first quarter of the second century, that their bricks bear the dates of hadrian's age and no others, we may rest assured that the stamps speak the truth. their evidence is, in such a case, conclusive. but if the bricks are variously dated, or bear the names of various kilns, and not of one or two only, then their value as an evidence of the date of a building is diminished, if not lost altogether.... the bricks, again, occasionally bear curious signs, such as footmarks of chickens, dogs, or pigs, which stept over them while still fresh, impressions of coins and medals, words or sentences scratched with a nail, etc. a bricklayer, who had perhaps seen better times in his youth, wrote on a tile the first verse of the aeneid. the great manufacturing center of roman bricks was the district between the viae triumphalis, cornelia, and the two aureliae, now called the monti della creta, which includes the southern slopes of the vatican ridge and the northern of the janiculum. here also, as at pozzo pantaléo, the traces of the work of man are simply gigantic. the valleys del gelsomino, delle fornaci, del vicolo delle cave, della balduina, and a section of the val d'inferno, are not the work of nature, but the result of excavations for "creta figulina," which began , years ago, and have never been interrupted since. a walk through the monti della creta will teach the student many interesting things. the best point of observation is a bluff between the vicolo della cave and the vicolo del gelsomino, marked with the word "ruderi" and with the altitude of meters, in the military map of the suburbs. the bluff rises meters above the floor of the brick-kilns of the gelsomino.... roman bricks were exported to all the shores of the mediterranean; they have been found in the riviera, on the coasts of benetia, of narbonensis, of spain and africa, and in the island of sardinia. the brick-making business must have been very remunerative, if we judge from the rank and wealth of many personages who had an interest in it. many names of emperors appear in brick-stamps, and even more of empresses and princesses of the imperial family. palm sunday in st. peter's[ ] by grace greenwood (mrs. lippincott) yesterday began holy week with the imposing but tedious ceremonies of palm sunday at st. peter's. at nine o'clock in the morning we were in our places--seats erected for the occasion near the high altar, drest in the costume prescribed by church etiquette--black throughout, with black veils on our heads. at about ten the pope entered, and the rites, ordinary and extraordinary, the masses and processions, continued until one. the entrance of the pope into this his grandest basilica was, as usual, a beautiful and brilliant sight. he came splendidly vested, wearing his miter, and borne in his chair of state under a gorgeous canopy, between the flabelli--two enormous fans of white peacock feathers. he was preceded and followed by cardinals, bishops, arch-bishops, monsignori, abbots, the apostolic prothonotaries, generals of the religious orders, officers of the state, of the army, of his household, and the guardia nobile. he took his seat on the throne, and received the homage of the cardinals, who, kneeling, kissed his right hand. this is a ceremony which is always gone through with in the most formal, mechanical, business-like manner possible. some palms, not in natural branches, but cut and wreathed in various strange, fantastic forms, lay on the altar. the pope's chief sacristan took one of these, a deacon another, a sub-deacon a third, and knelt at the foot of the throne. his holiness read prayers over them, sprinkled them with holy water, and incensed them three times. one of these is held beside the throne by the prince assistant during the service; another is borne by the pope when in procession. after this, multitudes of palms were brought up for the papal benediction. first came the cardinals, each, as he received his palm from the pope, kissing it, the right hand and knee of his holiness; then the bishops, who only kissed the palm and his right knee; then the abbots, who were only entitled to kiss the palm and his foot; then the governor of rome, the prince assistant, the auditor, the treasurer, the maggiordomo, the secretaries, the chamberlains, the mace bearers, the deacons and sub-deacons, generals of the religious orders and priests in general, masters of the ceremonies, singers, clerks of the papal chapel, students of roman colleges, foreign ministers and their attachés, italian, french, spanish, austrian, russian, prussian officers, noblemen and gentlemen, all came up in turn, knelt, received blest palms, and kissed the foot of the sovereign pontiff. during the distribution of the palms, anthems were sung by the choir, who were caged up in a sort of trellice workbox at the right of the altar. this long but brilliantly picturesque ceremony through, the pope, after washing his hands, again mounted into his "sedia gestatoria," and bearing his palm, preceded and followed by all those to whom he had given palms, passed slowly down the nave of the church, blessing the kneeling and bending multitude right and left. this procession of palms was very striking and gorgeous from the beauty and variety of military arms and uniforms, and more than royal richness of the priestly vestments, the gleam of miters and maces, and of innumerable sacred symbols and insignia. the election of a pope[ ] by cardinal wiseman the interval between the close of one pontificate and the commencement of another is a period of some excitement, and necessarily of much anxiety. time is required for the electors to assemble, from distant provinces, or even foreign countries; and this is occupied in paying the last tribute of respect and affection to the departed pontiff. his body is embalmed, clothed in the robes of his office, of the penitential color, and laid on a couch of state within one of the chapels in st. peter's, so that the faithful may not only see it, but kiss its feet. this last act of reverence to the mortal remains of the immortal pius viii., the writer well recollects performing. these preliminaries occupy three days; during which rises, as if by magic, or from the crypts below, an immense catafalque, a colossal architectural structure, which fills the nave of that basilica illustrated by inscriptions, and adorned by statuary. before this huge monument, for nine days funeral rites are performed, closed by a funeral oration. for the body of the last pope there is a uniform resting-place in st. peter's--a plain sarcophagus, of marbled stucco, hardly noticed by the traveler, over a door beside the choir, on which is simply painted the title of the latest pontiff. on the death of his successor it is broken down at the top, the coffin is removed to the under-church, and that of the new claimant for repose is substituted. this change takes place late in the evening, and is considered private. i can not recollect whether it was on this or on a subsequent occasion that i witnessed it with my college companions.... in the afternoon of the last day of the novendiali, as they are called, the cardinals assemble in a church near the quirinal palace, and walk thence in procession, accompanied by their conclavisiti, a secretary, a chaplain, and a servant or two, to the great gate of the royal residence, in which one will remain as master and supreme lord. of course the hill is crowded by persons lining the avenue kept open for the procession. cardinals never before seen by them, or not for many years, pass before them; eager eyes scan and measure them, and try to conjecture, from fancied omens in eye, or figure, or expression, who will shortly be the sovereign of their fair city, and, what is more, the head of the catholic church from the rising to the setting sun. equal they pass the threshold of that gate; they share together the supreme rule, temporal and spiritual; there is still embosomed in them all the voice yet silent, that soon will sound, from one tongue, over all the world, and the dormant germ of that authority which will soon again be concentrated in one man alone. to-day they are all equal; perhaps to-morrow one will sit enthroned, and all the rest will kiss his feet; one will be sovereign, the others his subjects; one the shepherd, and the others his flock.... while we have been thus sketching, hastily and imperfectly, one of many who passed almost unnoticed in the solemn procession to conclave, on the d of september, , we may suppose the doors to have been inexorably closed on those who composed it. the conclave, which formerly used to take place in the vatican, was on this occasion, and has been subsequently, held in the quirinal palace. this noble building, known equally by the name of monte cavallo, consists of a large quadrangle, round which run the papal apartments. from this stretches out, along a whole street, an immense wing, its two upper floors divided into a great number of small but complete suites of apartments, occupied permanently, or occasionally, by persons attached to the court. during conclave these are allotted, literally so, to the cardinals, each of whom lives apart, with his attendants. his food is brought daily from his own house, and is examined, and delivered to him in the shape of "broken victuals," by the watchful guardians of the turns and lattices, through which alone anything, even conversation, can penetrate into the seclusion of that sacred retreat. for a few hours, the first evening, the doors are left open, and the nobility, the diplomatic body, and in fact all presentable persons, may roam from cell to cell, paying a brief compliment to their occupants, perhaps speaking the same good wishes to fifty, which they know can be accomplished in only one. after that all is closed; a wicket is left accessible for the entrance of any cardinal who is not yet arrived; but every aperture is jealously guarded by faithful janitors, judges and prelates of various tribunals, who relieve one another. every letter even is opened and read, that no communications may be held with the outer world. the very street on which the wing of the conclave looks is barricaded and guarded by a picket at each end; and as, fortunately, there are no private residences opposite, and all the buildings have access from the back, no inconvenience is thereby created. while conclave lasts, the administrative power rests in the hands of the cardinal chamberlain, who strikes his own coins during its continuance; and he is assisted by three cardinals, called the "heads of orders," because they represent the three orders in the sacred college, of bishops, priests and deacons. the ambassadors of the great powers receive fresh credentials to the conclave, and proceed in state, to present them to this delegation, at the grille. an address, carefully prepared, is delivered by the envoy, and receives a well-pondered reply from the presiding cardinal. twice a day the cardinals meet in the chapel contained within the palace, and there, on tickets so arranged that the voter's name can not be seen, write the name of him for whom they give their suffrage. these papers are examined in their presence, and if the number of votes given to any one do not constitute the majority, they are burned, in such a manner that the smoke, issuing through a flue, is visible to the crowd usually assembled in the square outside. some day, instead of this usual signal to disperse, the sound of pick and hammer is heard, and a small opening is seen in the wall which had temporarily blocked up the great window over the palace gateway. at last the masons of the conclave have opened a rude door, through which steps out on the balcony the first cardinal deacon, and proclaims to the many, or to the few, who may happen to be waiting, that they again possess a sovereign and a pontiff. an audience with pius x[ ] by mary emogene hazeltine we arrived in rome at three in the afternoon, with letters which ensured us an audience with the pope. a friend, long resident in rome, who advised us to present them at once, accompanied us to the vatican. passing through an interesting part of the city, including the st. angelo bridge across the tiber, we soon found ourselves in the world-famous colonnade of st. peter's. ascending the steps leading to the vatican, we passed the swiss guard in their famous uniforms designed by michelangelo, and climbed what seemed like endless stairs, passing guards at almost every turn, who pointed out the way indicated by the address on our credentials. arriving at an anteroom, a priestly secretary, speaking excellent english, read our letter with what seemed to us, from the expression of his face, great interest and evident approval. why should this not have been? our letter was from the apostolic delegate then in washington--the pope's own representative in america. it was in italian, in the highest official form, and conveyed the intelligence that we were traveling in italy for a brief vacation, mentioned all four of us by name, and said that, while we were not catholics, we respected the faith and would carefully observe all the forms prescribed for an audience. the monseigneur whom we were to see was at that time engaged with several bishops. because of this, we were asked to present ourselves at the same hour on saturday, meanwhile leaving our letter. promptly at the hour i was again at the door of the major domo, monseigneur bisleti, to be received again by the priestly secretary, by whom i was taken into the palatial rooms of the monseigneur. a moment here was sufficient to explain my errand and receive from the monseigneur the long-coveted permission, which i found had already been made out in due form for four persons. our cards entitled us to admission on the following day, which made necessary unexpected haste in arranging for the official costume of black. fortunately we had all brought black veils and some of us either gowns or skirts. with help from others, we secured one or two necessary waists, and from our hostess obtained the rosaries i wished to have blest by the pope. our hostess then gave us a dress rehearsal, in order that we might fully understand what to us would be an imposing ceremony. an audience is a great function and the procedure accordingly is rigid. on reaching the vatican next day, we were directed by the swiss guard, not to the major domo's apartments as before, but through a court and thence up the grandest of staircases in three long flights, the walls lined with beautiful marbles more wonderful than many pictures, the light coming through magnificent stained-glass windows. in every sense here was a palatial, an imperial, entrance. at the head of the stairway we were met by gorgeous chamberlains, the body servants of the pope, clad in superb magenta brocaded velvet, with knee breeches, magenta silk stockings, and great silver buckles on their shoes. streamers hanging from their arms at the back, added to the official appearance of these men in their gorgeous uniforms. we were shown through a magnificent antechamber, and then into a series of reception rooms, through which we were motioned on, until we came to the fourth, where were just four chairs which seemed to be waiting for us four. swiss guards patrolled the rooms, and others--chamberlains, i suppose. we had a full half hour in which to wait here, but we could use it to advantage, in watching the gathering company, and viewing the magnificent room, hung as it was with rich red moire silk, as were all others of the suite. the ladies in black garb became very effective figures in this brilliant setting. there were many beautiful tapestries in the rooms, one room having a tapestried frieze. the furniture was massive, either of inlaid wood or heavy gilt, and the floors of beautiful inlaid marble. it is not possible to give any adequate idea of these stately rooms, nor of their exquisite appointments; nor yet of the gathering company, for many high officials of the church passed before us and through to rooms beyond, which added to the interest of the occasion and the splendor of the scene. we learned soon that this was to be no ordinary audience, but a special one granted to alumni of the american college in rome. a few days before we left new york, a large company of american priests, graduates of the american college, had sailed on a chartered steamer to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of the founding of the college, from which they had received holy orders. this audience had been specially arranged for them. we were therefore more than favored in having an audience at the same time, a fact due probably to the credentials with which we had come provided. we now understood that the officials of the church who had entered this room were our own american bishops. with them had however come others of high rank. over their priestly robes of black they wore rich purple silk capes, falling to the floor, and purple sashes. (there are, of course, technical terms for these garments, but i do not know them.) the special body guard of the pope, three men chosen from the palatine guard, and in soldier's uniform, now passed through the room with a noble guard of the knights of malta and count moroni, also in uniform, with chapeau, feathered with plumes of black and white. at exactly half after eleven, monseigneur bisleti, watch in hand, bustled through, followed by bishops and priests. we were at once on our knees, for his holiness was seen to be approaching from rooms beyond. as he advanced we could see his small figure, clad in white, surrounded by court attendants, american bishops, an archbishop, the palatine guard, monseigneur bisleti, and the knight of malta. between us and the doorway through which he approached, stood a girl of twelve, in white garments and veil. she had come from her first communion. near her was a franciscan monk, who evidently had just returned from some mission field, for he was bronzed, and haggard, and worn as to his garments. as the pope passed he gave a special word of blessing to the monk, and a smile to the child. the ceremony of the audience itself was simple. the pope walked past the kneeling people, giving to each his hand. this each one took, kissing his ring. filling the center of the room, as we were kneeling around the sides, were the priestly courtiers, the papal delegate, in gray robes, a prominent figure among them. the pope passed on through several rooms filled with waiting priests. we were then all bidden to follow to the throne room, for a special ceremony. an audience generally ends when the pope leaves the room in which he receives you, giving his blessing to all as he leaves. in the throne room now the american alumni were to present their addresses to the pope. as we entered, undergraduates of the college were discovered already there singing. until the addresses were read, the singing was continued. it was all a magnificent sight, the little white father on his splendid throne, his court about him, his special body servant holding his red cape (to be used in case of drafts), and, as a background for all the colors of the court scene, several hundred black-robed priests. monseigneur kennedy, rector of the college, read an address, as did rev. father wall of baltimore, president of the association. to these the pope replied, reading from a manuscript. after this, he rose, mingled with his entourage, and chatted pleasantly with bishops and others. a picture was then taken of the court, the priests and students. these american priests and undergraduates were a fine company of men. the pope finally gave his blessing to all who were assembled in the room, and the great function was over. the ascent of the dome of st. peter's[ ] by george stillman hillard the visitor to st. peter's should not fail to ascend to the dome; a long journey, but involving no danger and not a great amount of fatigue. from the church to the roof the passage is by an inclined plane of pavement, with so gradual an ascent that loaded mules pass up without difficulty. in stepping out upon the roof, it is difficult to believe that we are more than one hundred and fifty feet from the ground, or that so extensive an architectural surface could have been reared in air by the patient labor of men's hands. it rather seems as if a little village had been lifted up by some geological convulsion. here are wide spaces to walk about in, houses for human habitation, a fountain playing, and all the signs of life. the views are everywhere fine, and one can fancy that the air is purer and the sky more blue than to those left below. the dome soars high above the eye, and a new sense of its magnitude seizes upon the mind. the two cupolas which flank the façade are upward of one hundred feet high, and the five smaller ones which crown the chapels are of great size; but here they seem like dwarfs clinging about a giant's knee. the dome of st. peter's, as is well known, is double; and between the outer and inner wall is a series of winding passages and staircases, by which the ascent is made to the top. the length of these passages and staircases, their number, and the time it takes to traverse them, are a new revelation of the size of this stupendous structure. we begin to comprehend the genius and courage which planned and executed a work so novel and so bold. from the galleries inside, the view of the interior below is most striking. it looks as the earth may look from a balloon. the men moving upon the pavement appear like that "small infantry warred on by cranes"; and even the baldacchino hardly swells beyond the dimensions of a candelabrum. at the base of the ball, a railing, unseen from below, enables the visitor whose nerves are tolerably good to enjoy an extensive and beautiful prospect, embracing a region interesting not merely to the eye but to the mind: the cradle of that mighty roman race which here began its ever-widening circle of conquest and annexation. it comprises the campagna, the tiber, the distant mediterranean, the apennines, the alban and sabine hills, and the isolated bulk of soracte. from no point on earth can the eye rest upon so many spots on which the undying light of human interest lingers. from this place the ascent is made to the interior of the ball itself, into which most travelers climb, probably more for the sake of saying that they have been there than anything else. tho the ball looks like a mere point from below, it is nearly eight feet in diameter; and the interior will hold a dozen persons without inconvenience. altho i visited it on a winter's day, the atmosphere was extremely hot and uncomfortable, from the effect of the sun's rays upon the gilded bronze. by means of an exterior ladder, it is possible to climb to the foot of the cross; a feat which few landsmen would have the nerve to undertake. santa maria maggiore[ ] by hippolyte adolphe taine we followed the street which ascends and descends, bordered with palaces and old hedges of thorn, as far as santa maria maggiore. this basilica, standing upon a large eminence, surmounted with its domes, rises nobly upward, at once simple and complete, and when you enter it, it affords still greater pleasure. it belongs to the fifth century; on being rebuilt at a later period, the general plan, its antique idea, was preserved. an ample nave, with a horizontal roof, is sustained by two rows of white ionic columns. you are rejoiced to see so fine an effect obtained by such simple means; you might almost imagine yourself in a greek temple. it is said that a temple of juno was robbed of these columns. each of them bare and polished, with no other ornament than the delicate curves of its small capital, is of healthful and charming beauty. you appreciate here the good sense, and all that is agreeable in genuine natural construction, the file of trunks of trees which bear the beams, resting flat and providing a long walk. all that has since been added is barbarous, and first, the two chapels of sixtus v. and paul v., with their paintings by guido, josepin, and cigoli, and the sculptures of bernini, and the architecture of fontana and flaminio. these are celebrated names, and money has been prodigally spent, but instead of the slight means with which the ancients produced a great effect, the moderns produce a petty effect with great means. when the bewildered eye is satiated with the elaborate sweep of these arches and domes, with the splendors of polychromatic marbles, with friezes and pedestals of agate, with columns of oriental jasper, with angels hanging by their feet, and with all these bas-reliefs of bronze and gold, the visitor hastens to get away from it as he would to escape from a confectioner's shop. it seems as if this grand, glittering box, gilded and labored from pavement to lantern, caught up and tore at every point of its finery the delicate web of poetic reverie; the slender profile of the least of the columns impresses one far more than any of this display of the art of upholsterers and parvenus. similarly to this the façade, loaded with balustrades, and round and angular pediments, and statues roosting on its stones, is a "hôtel-de-ville" frontage. the campanile, belonging to the fourteenth century, alone presents an agreeable object; at that time it was one of the towers of the city, a distinctive sign which marked it on the old plans so black and sharp, and stamped it forever on the still corporeal imaginations of monks and wayfarers. there are traces of every age in these old basilicas; you see the diverse states of christianity, at first enshrined in pagan forms, and then traversing the middle ages and the renaissance to muffle itself up finally, and bedeck itself with modern finery. the byzantine epoch has left its imprint in the mosaics of the great nave and the apsis, and in its bloodless and lifeless christs and virgins, so many staring specters motionless on their gold backgrounds and red panels, the fantoms of an extinct art and a vanished society. catacombs and crypts[ ] by charles dickens there is an upper chamber in the mamertine prison, over what is said to have been--and very possibly may have been--the dungeon of st. peter. this chamber is now fitted up as an oratory, dedicated to that saint; and it lives, as a distinct and separate place, in my recollection, too. it is very small and low-roofed; and the dread and gloom of the ponderous, obdurate old prison are on it, as if they had come up in a dark mist through the floor. hanging on the walls, among the clustered votive offerings, are objects, at once strangely in keeping, and strangely at variance, with the place--rusty daggers, knives, pistols, clubs, divers instruments of violence and murder, brought here, fresh from use, and hung up to propitiate offended heaven; as if the blood upon them would drain off in consecrated air, and have no voice to cry with. it is all so silent and so close, and tomb-like; and the dungeons below are so black and stealthy, and stagnant, and naked; that this little dark spot becomes a dream within a dream; and in the vision of great churches which come rolling past me like a sea, it is a small wave by itself, that melts into no other wave, and does not flow on with the rest. it is an awful thing to think of the enormous caverns that are entered from some roman churches, and undermine the city. many churches have crypts and subterranean chapels of great size, which, in the ancient time, were baths, and secret chambers of temples, and what not; but i do not speak of them. beneath the church of st. giovanni and st. paolo, there are the jaws of a terrific range of caverns, hewn out of the rock, and said to have another outlet underneath the coliseum--tremendous darknesses of vast extent, half-buried in the earth and unexplorable, where the dull torches, flashed by the attendants, glimmer down long ranges of distant vaults branching to the right and left, like streets in a city of the dead; and show the cold damp stealing down the walls, drip-drop, drip-drop, to join the pools of water that lie here and there, and never saw, and never will see, one ray of sun. some accounts make these the prisons of the wild beasts destined for the amphitheater; some, the prisons of the condemned gladiators; some, both. but the legend most appalling to the fancy is, that in the upper range (for there are two stories of these caves) the early christians destined to be eaten at the coliseum shows, heard the wild beasts, hungry for them, roaring down below; until, upon the night and solitude of their captivity, there burst the sudden noon and life of the vast theater crowded to the parapet, and of these, their dreaded neighbors, bounding in! below the church of san sebastiano, two miles beyond the gate of san sebastiano, on the appian way, is the entrance to the catacombs of rome--quarries in the old time, but afterward the hiding-places of the christians. these ghastly passages have been explored for twenty miles; and form a chain of labyrinths, sixty miles in circumference. a gaunt franciscan friar, with a wild, bright eye, was our only guide, down into this profound and dreadful place. the narrow ways and openings hither and thither, coupled with the dead and heavy air, soon blotted out, in all of us, any recollection of the track by which we had come; and i could not help thinking: "good heaven, if, in a sudden fit of madness he should dash the torches out, or if he should be seized with a fit, what would become of us!" on we wandered, among martyrs' graves; passing great subterranean vaulted roads, diverging in all directions, and choked up with heaps of stones, that thieves and murderers may not take refuge there, and form a population under rome even worse than that which lives between it and the sun. graves, graves, graves; graves of men, of women, of their little children, who ran crying to the persecutors, "we are christians! we are christians!" that they might be murdered with their parents; graves with the palm of martyrdom roughly cut into their stone boundaries, and little niches, made to hold a vessel of the martyrs' blood; graves of some who lived down here, for years together, ministering to the rest, and preaching truth, and hope, and comfort, from the rude altars, that bear witness to their fortitude at this hour; more roomy graves, but far more terrible, where hundreds, being surprized, were hemmed in and walled up; buried before death, and killed by slow starvation. such are the spots and patches in my dream of churches, that remain apart and keep their separate identity. i have a fainter recollection, sometimes, of the relics; of the fragment of the pillar of the temple that was rent in twain; of the portion of the table that was spread for the last supper; of the well at which the woman of samaria gave water to our savior; of two columns from the house of pontius pilate; of the stone to which the sacred hands were bound, when the scourging was performed; of the grid-iron of saint lawrence, and the stone below it, marked with the frying of his fat and blood; these set a shadowy mark on some cathedrals, as an old story, or a fable might, and stop them for an instant, as they flit before me. the rest is a vast wilderness of consecrated buildings of all shapes and fancies, blending one with another; of battered pillars of old pagan temples, dug up from the ground, and forced, like giant captives, to support the roofs of christian churches; of pictures, bad, and wonderful, and impious, and ridiculous; of kneeling people, curling incense, tinkling bells, and sometimes (but not often) of a swelling organ; of madonne, with their breasts stuck full of swords, arranged in a half-circle like a modern fan; of actual skeletons of dead saints, hideously attired in gaudy satins, silks, and velvets trimmed with gold; their withered crust of skull adorned with precious jewels, or with chaplets of crusht flowers; sometimes, of people gathered round the pulpit, and a monk within it stretching out the crucifix, and preaching fiercely; the sun just streaming down through some high window on the sail-cloth stretched above him and across the church, to keep his high-pitched voice from being lost among the echoes of the roof. then my tired memory comes out upon a flight of steps, where knots of people are asleep, or basking in the light; and strolls away, among the rags and smells, and palaces, and hovels, of an old italian street. the cemetery of the capuchins[ ] by nathaniel hawthorne the cemetery is beneath the church, but entirely above ground, and lighted by a row of iron-grated windows without glass. a corridor runs along besides these windows, and gives access to three or four vaulted recesses, or chapels, of considerable breadth and height, the floor of which consists of the consecrated earth of jerusalem. it is smoothed decorously over the deceased brethren of the convent, and is kept quite free from grass or weeds, such as would grow even in these gloomy recesses, if pains were not bestowed to root them up. but, as the cemetery is small, and it is a precious privilege to sleep in holy ground, the brotherhood are immemorially accustomed, when one of their number dies, to take the longest-buried skeleton out of the oldest grave, and lay the new slumberer there instead. thus, each of the good friars, in his turn, enjoys the luxury of a consecrated bed, attended with the slight drawback of being forced to get up long before daybreak, as it were, and make room for another lodger. the arrangement of the unearthed skeletons is what makes the special interest of the cemetery. the arched and vaulted walls of the burial recesses are supported by massive pillars and pilasters made of thigh-bones and skulls; the whole material of the structure appears to be of a similar kind; and the knobs and embossed ornaments of this strange architecture are represented by the joints of the spine, and the more delicate tracery by the smaller bones of the human frame. the summits of the arches are adorned with entire skeletons, looking as if they were wrought most skilfully in bas-relief. there is no possibility of describing how ugly and grotesque is the effect, combined with a certain artistic merit, nor how much perverted ingenuity has been shown in this queer way, nor what a multitude of dead monks, through how many hundred years, must have contributed their bony framework to build up these great arches of mortality. on some of the skulls there are inscriptions, purporting that such a monk, who formerly made use of that particular head-piece, died on such a day and year; but vastly the greater number are piled up indistinguishably into the architectural design like the many deaths that make up the one glory of a victory. in the side walls of the vaults are niches where skeleton monks sit or stand, clad in the brown habits that they wore in life, and labeled with their names and the dates of their decease. their skulls (some quite bare, and others still covered with yellow skin, and hair that has known the earth-damps) look out from beneath their hoods, grinning, hideously repulsive. one reverend father has his mouth wide open, as if he had died in the midst of a howl of terror and remorse, which perhaps is even now screeching through eternity. as a general thing, however, these frocked and hooded skeletons seem to take a more cheerful view of their position, and try with ghastly smiles to turn it into a jest. but the cemetery of the capuchins is no place to nourish celestial hopes; the soul sinks forlorn and wretched under all this burden of dusty death; the holy earth from jerusalem, so imbued is it with mortality, has grown as barren of the flowers of paradise as it is of earthly weeds and grass. thank heaven for its blue sky; it needs a long, upward gaze to give us back our faith. not here can we feel ourselves immortal, where the very altars in these chapels of horrible consecration are heaps of human bones. the burial place of keats and shelley[ ] by nathaniel parker willis a beautiful pyramid, a hundred and thirteen feet high, built into the ancient wall of rome, is the proud "sepulcher of caius cestius." it is the most imperishable of the antiquities, standing as perfect after eighteen hundred years as if it were built but yesterday. just beyond it, on the declivity of a hill, over the ridge of which the wall passes, crowning it with two moldering towers, lies the protestant burying-ground. it looks toward rome, which appears in the distance, between mount aventine and a small hill called mont testaccio, and leaning to the south-east, the sun lies warm and soft upon its banks, and the grass and wild flowers are there the earliest and tallest of the campagna. i have been here to-day, to see the graves of keats and shelley. with a cloudless sky and the most delicious air ever breathed, we sat down upon the marble slab laid over the ashes of poor shelley, and read his own lament over keats, who sleeps just below, at the foot of the hill. the cemetery is rudely formed into three terraces, with walks between, and shelley's grave and one other, without a name, occupy a small nook above, made by the projections of a moldering wall-tower, and crowded with ivy and shrubs, and a peculiarly fragrant yellow flower, which perfumes the air around for several feet. the avenue by which you ascend from the gate is lined with high bushes of the marsh-rose in the most luxuriant bloom, and all over the cemetery the grass is thickly mingled with flowers of every dye. in his preface to his lament over keats, shelley says: "he was buried in the romantic and lonely cemetery of the protestants, under the pyramid which is the tomb of cestius, and the massy walls and towers, now moldering and desolate, which formed the circuit of ancient rome. it is an open space among the ruins, covered in winter with violets and daisies. it might make one in love with death, to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place." if shelley had chosen his own grave at the time, he would have selected the very spot where he has since been laid--the most sequestered and flowery nook of the place he describes so feelingly. on the second terrace of the declivity are ten or twelve graves, two of which bear the names of americans who have died in rome. a portrait carved in bas-relief, upon one of the slabs, told me, without the inscription, that one whom i had known was buried beneath. the slightly rising mound was covered with small violets, half hidden by the grass. it takes away from the pain with which one stands over the grave of an acquaintance or a friend, to see the sun lying so warm upon it, and the flowers springing so profusely and cheerfully. nature seems to have cared for those who have died so far from home, binding the earth gently over them with grass, and decking it with the most delicate flowers. we descended to the lower enclosure at the foot of the slight declivity. the first grave here is that of keats. the inscription runs thus: "this grave contains all that was mortal of a young english poet, who, on his death-bed in the bitterness of his heart at the malicious power of his enemies, desired these words to be engraved on his tomb: 'here lies one whose name was written in water.'" he died at rome in . every reader knows his history and the cause of his death. shelley says, in the preface to his elegy: "the savage criticism on his poems, which appeared in the "quarterly review," produced the most violent effect on his susceptible mind; the agitation thus originated ended in a rupture of a blood-vessel in the lungs; a rapid consumption ensued, and the succeeding acknowledgments, from more candid critics, of the true greatness of his powers, were ineffectual to heal the wound thus wantonly inflicted." keats was, no doubt, a poet of very uncommon promise. he had all the wealth of genius within him, but he had not learned, before he was killed by criticism, the received, and, therefore, the best manner of producing it for the eye of the world. had he lived longer, the strength and richness which break continually through the affected style of "endymion" and "lamia" and his other poems, must have formed themselves into some noble monuments of his powers. as it is, there is not a poet living who could surpass the material of his "endymion"--a poem, with all its faults, far more full of beauties. but this is not the place for criticism. he is buried fitly for a poet, and sleeps beyond criticism now. peace to his ashes! excursions near rome[ ] by charles dickens the excursions in the neighborhood of rome are charming, and would be full of interest were it only for the changing views they afford of the wild campagna. but every inch of ground in every direction is rich in associations, and in natural beauties. there is albano, with its lovely lake and wooded shore, and with its wine, that certainly has not improved since the days of horace, and in these times hardly justifies his panegyric. there is squalid tivoli, with the river anio, diverted from its course, and plunging down, headlong, some eighty feet in search of it, with its picturesque temple of the sibyl, perched high on a crag; its minor waterfalls glancing and sparkling in the sun; and one good cavern yawning darkly, where the river takes a fearful plunge and shoots on, low down under beetling rocks. there, too, is the villa d'este, deserted and decaying among groves of melancholy pine and cypress-trees, where it seems to lie in state. then, there is frascati, and, on the steep above it, the ruins of tusculum, where cicero lived, and wrote, and adorned his favorite house (some fragments of it may yet be seen there), and where cato was born. we saw its ruined amphitheater on a gray, dull day, when a shrill march wind was blowing, and when the scattered stones of the old city lay strewn about the lonely eminence, as desolate and dead as the ashes of a long-extinguished fire. one day we walked out, a little party of three, to albano, fourteen miles distant; possest by a great desire to go there by the ancient appian way, long since ruined and overgrown. we started at half-past seven in the morning, and within an hour or so were out upon the open campagna. for twelve miles we went climbing on, over an unbroken succession of mounds, and heaps, and hills of ruin. tombs and temples, overthrown and prostrate; small fragments of columns, friezes, pediments; great blocks of granite and marble; moldering arches grass-grown and decayed; ruin enough to build a spacious city from; lay strewn about us. sometimes loose walls, built up from these fragments by the shepherds, came across our path; sometimes a ditch, between two mounds of broken stones, obstructed our progress; sometimes, the fragments themselves, rolling from beneath our feet, made it a toilsome matter to advance; but it was always ruin. now, we tracked a piece of the old road above the ground; now traced it underneath a grassy covering, as if that were its grave; but all the way was ruin. in the distance, ruined aqueducts went stalking on their giant course along the plain; and every breath of wind that swept toward us, stirred early flowers and grasses, springing up, spontaneously, on miles of ruin. the unseen larks above us, who alone disturbed the awful silence, had their nests in ruin; and the fierce herdsmen, clad in sheepskins, who now and then scowled out upon us from their sleeping nooks, were housed in ruin. the aspect of the desolate campagna in one direction, where it was most level, reminded me of an american prairie; but what is the solitude of a region where men have never dwelt, to that of a desert, where a mighty race have left their footprints in the earth from which they have vanished; where the resting-places of their dead have fallen like their dead; and the broken hour-glass of time is but a heap of idle dust! returning by the road at sunset, and looking, from the distance, on the course we had taken in the morning, i almost felt (as i had felt when i first saw it, at that hour) as if the sun would never rise again, but looked its last, that night, upon a ruined world. to come again to rome, by moonlight, after such an expedition, is a fitting close to such a day. the narrow streets, devoid of footways, and choked, in every obscure corner, by heaps of dung-hill-rubbish, contrast so strongly, in their cramped dimensions, and their filth and darkness, with the broad square before some haughty church; in the center of which, a hieroglyphic-covered obelisk, brought from egypt in the days of the emperors, looks strangely on the foreign scene about it; or perhaps an ancient pillar, with its honored statue overthrown, supports a christian saint; marcus aurelius giving place to paul, and trajan to st. peter. then, there are the ponderous buildings reared from the spoliation of the coliseum, shutting out the moon, like mountains; while here and there are broken arches and rent walls, through which it gushes freely, as the life comes pouring from a wound. the little town of miserable houses, walled, and shut in by barred gates, is the quarter where the jews are locked up nightly, when the clock strikes eight--a miserable place, densely populated, and reeking with bad odors, but where the people are industrious and money-getting. in the daytime, as you make your way along the narrow streets, you see them all at work--upon the pavement, oftener than in their dark and frowsy shops; furbishing old clothes, and driving bargains. crossing from these patches of thick darkness out into the moon once more, the fountain of trevi, welling from a hundred jets, and rolling over mimic rocks, is silvery to the eye and ear. in the narrow little throat of street beyond, a booth drest out with flaring lamps, and boughs of trees, attracts a group of sulky romans around its smoky coppers of hot broth, and cauliflower stew; its trays of fried fish, and its flasks of wine. as you rattle around the sharply twisting corner, a lumbering sound is heard. the coachman stops abruptly, and uncovers, as a van comes slowly by, preceded by a man who bears a large cross; by a torch-bearer, and a priest; the latter chanting as he goes. it is the dead-cart, with the bodies of the poor, on their way to burial in the sacred field outside the walls, where they will be thrown into the pit that will be covered with a stone to-night, and sealed up for a year. but whether, in this ride, you pass by obelisks, or columns, ancient temples, theaters, houses, porticoes or forums, it is strange to see how every fragment, whenever it is possible, has been blended into some modern structure, and made to serve some modern purpose--a wall, a dwelling-place, a granary, a stable--some use for which it never was designed, and associated with which it can not otherwise than lamely assort. ii florence the approach by carriage road[ ] by nathaniel hawthorne immediately after leaving incisa, we saw the arno, already a considerable river, rushing between deep banks, with the greenish hue of a duck-pond diffused through its water. nevertheless, tho the first impression was not altogether agreeable, we soon became reconciled to this hue, and ceased to think it an indication of impurity; for, in spite of it, the river is still, to a certain degree, transparent, and is, at any rate, a mountain stream, and comes uncontaminated from its source. the pure, transparent brown of the new england rivers is the most beautiful color; but i am content that it should be peculiar to them. our afternoon's drive was through scenery less striking than some which we had traversed, but still picturesque and beautiful. we saw deep valleys and ravines, with streams at the bottom; long, wooded hillsides, rising far and high, and dotted with white dwellings, well toward the summits. by and by, we had a distant glimpse of florence, showing its great dome and some of its towers out of a sidelong valley, as if we were between two great waves of the tumultuous sea of hills; while, far beyond, rose in the distance the blue peaks of three or four of the apennines, just on the remote horizon. there being a haziness in the atmosphere, however, florence was little more distinct to us than the celestial city was to christian and hopeful, when they spied at it from the delectable mountains. keeping steadfastly onward, we ascended a winding road, and passed a grand villa, standing very high, and surrounded with extensive grounds. it must be the residence of some great noble; and it has an avenue of poplars or aspens, very light and gay, and fit for the passage of the bridal procession, when the proprietor or his heir brings home his bride; while in another direction from the same front of the palace stretches an avenue or grove of cypresses, very long and exceedingly black and dismal, like a train of gigantic mourners. i have seen few things more striking, in the way of trees, than this grove of cypresses. from this point we descended, and drove along an ugly, dusty avenue, with a high brick wall on one side or both, till we reached the gate of florence, into which we were admitted with as little trouble as custom-house officers, soldiers, and policemen can possibly give. they did not examine our luggage, and even declined a fee, as we had already paid one at the frontier custom-house. thank heaven, and the grand duke! as we hoped that the casa del bello had been taken for us, we drove thither in the first place, but found that the bargain had not been concluded. as the house and studio of mr. powers[ ] were just on the opposite side of the street, i went to it, but found him too much engrossed to see me at the moment; so i returned to the "vettura," and we told gaetano to carry us to a hotel. he established us at the albergo della fontana, a good and comfortable house. mr. powers called in the evening--a plain personage, characterized by strong simplicity and warm kindliness, with an impending brow, and large eyes, which kindle as he speaks. he is gray, and slightly bald, but does not seem elderly, nor past his prime. i accept him at once as an honest and trustworthy man, and shall not vary from this judgment. through his good offices, the next day we engaged the casa del bello. this journey from rome has been one of the brightest and most uncareful interludes of my life; we have all enjoyed it exceedingly, and i am happy that our children have it to look back upon. the old palace and the loggia[ ] by thÉophile gautier every great capital has its eye; at rome it is the campo vaccino; at paris, the boulevard des italiens; at venice, the place st. mark; at madrid, the prado; at london, the strand; at naples, the via di toledo. rome is more roman, paris more parisian, venice more venetian, madrid more spanish, london more english, naples more neapolitan, in that privileged locality than anywhere else. the eye of florence is the place of the grand duke--a beautiful eye. in fact, suppress that place and florence has no more meaning--it might be another city. it is at that place, therefore, that every traveler ought to begin, and, moreover, had he not that intention, the tide of pedestrians would carry him and the streets themselves would conduct him thither. the first aspect of the place of the grand duke has an effect so charming, so picturesque, so complete, that you comprehend all at once into what an error the modern capitals like london, paris, st. petersburg, fall in forming, under the pretext of squares, in their compact masses, immense empty spaces upon which they run aground all possible and impossible modes of decoration. one can touch with his finger the reason which makes of the carrousel and place de la concorde, great empty fields which absorb fountains, statues, arches of triumph, obelisks, candelabra, and little gardens. all these embellishments, very pretty on paper, very agreeable also, without doubt, viewed from a balloon, are almost lost for the spectator who can not grasp the whole, his height only rising five feet above the ground. a square, in order to produce a beautiful effect, ought not to be too big; it is also necessary that it should be bordered by varied monuments of diverse elevations. the place of the grand duke at florence unites all these conditions; bordered by monuments regular in themselves, but different from one another, it is pleasing to the eye without wearying by a cold symmetry. the palace of the seigneurie, or old palace, which by its imposing mass and severe elegance at first attracts the attention, occupies a corner of the place, instead of the middle. this idea, a happy one, in our opinion, regrettable for those who only see architectural beauty in geometrical regularity, is not fortuitous; it has a reason wholly florentine. in order to obtain perfect symmetry, it would have been necessary to build upon the detested soil of the ghibelline house, rebellious and proscribed by the uberti; something that the guelph faction, then all-powerful, were not willing to allow the architect, arnolfo di lapo, to do. learned men contest the truth of this tradition; we will not discuss here the value of their objections. it is certain, however, that the old palace gains greatly by the singularity of this location and also leaves space for the great fountain of neptune and the equestrian statue of cosmo the first. the name of fortress would be more appropriate than any other, for the old palace; it is a great mass of stone, without columns, without frontal, without order of architecture. time has gilded the walls with beautiful vermilion tints which the pure blue of the sky sets off marvelously, and the whole structure has that haughty and romantic aspect which accords well with the idea that one forms for oneself of that old palace of the seigneurie, the witness, since the date of its erection in the thirteenth century, of so many intrigues, tumults, violent acts, and crimes. the battlements of the palace, cut square, show that it was built to that height by the guelph faction; the trifurcated battlements of the belfry indicate a sudden change on the accession to power of the ghibelline faction. guelphs and ghibellines detested each other so violently that they exprest their opinions in their garments, in the cut of their hair, in their arms, in their manner of fortifying themselves. they feared nothing so much as to be captured by one another, and differed as much as they possibly could. they had a special salutation after the manner of the freemasons and the companions of duty. the opinions of the ancient owners of the old palace at florence can be recognized by this characteristic; the walls of the city are crenelated squarely in the guelph fashion, and the tower on the ramparts has the ghibelline battlements of swallow-tail shape. the vecchio palace has for its basement several steps which were used in former times as a species of tribune, from the top of which the magistrates and demagogs harangued the people. two colossal statues of marble--hercules slaying cacus, by bandinelli, and david the conqueror of goliath, by michael angelo--mount near the door their age-long watch, like two gigantic sentinels whom someone has forgotten to relieve. the statue of david by michael angelo besides the inconvenience there is in representing under a gigantic form a biblical hero of notoriously small size, seemed to us a trifle common and heavy, a rare defect with this master; his david is a great big boy, fleshy, broad-backed, with monstrous biceps, a market porter waiting to put a sack upon his back. the working of the marble is remarkable and, after all, is a fine piece of study which would do honor to any other sculptor except michael angelo; but there is lacking that olympian mastership which characterizes the works of that superhuman sculptor. one of the most curious features of the old palace is the grand salon, a hall of enormous dimensions, which has its legend. when the medici were driven from florence, in , fra girolamo savonarola, who directed the popular movement, proposed the idea of constructing an immense hall where a council of a thousand citizens would elect the magistrates and regulate the affairs of the republic. the architect cronaca had charge of this task and acquitted himself of it with a celerity so marvelous that brother savonarola caused the rumor to spread that angels descended from heaven to help the masons and continued at night the interrupted work. the invention of these angels tempering the mortar and carrying the hod is all done in the legendary style of the middle ages and would furnish a charming subject for a picture to some ingenuous painter of the school of overbeck or of hauser. in this rapid construction cronaca displayed, if not all his genius, at least all his agility. the work has been justly admired and often consulted by architects. when the medici returned to power and transferred their residence from the palace of the via larga, which they had occupied, to the palace of the seigneurie, cosmo wished to change the council hall into an audience chamber, and charged the presumptuous bacchio bandinelli, whose designs had attracted him, with various alterations of an important character; but the sculptor had undoubtedly presumed too much on his talent as an architect, and in spite of the assistance of giuliano baccio d'agnolo, whom he called to his aid, he worked for ten years without being able to conquer the difficulties which he had created for himself. it was vasari who raised the ceiling several feet, finished the work and decorated the walls with a succession of frescoes which may still be seen, and which represent different episodes in the history of florence--combats, and captures of cities, the whole being a travesty of antiquity, an intermingling of allegories. these frescos, painted with an intrepid and learned mediocrity, display the commonplace tones, swelling muscles and anatomical tricks in use at that epoch among artists. we have already called attention to the fact that colossal dimensions are not at all necessary to produce effect in architecture. the loggia de lanzi, that gem of the place of the grand duke, consists of a portico composed of four arcades, three on the façade, one in return on the gallery of the offices. it is a miniature of a monument; but the harmony of its proportions is so perfect that the eye in contemplating it experiences a sense of satisfaction. the nearness of the palace of the seigneurie, with its compact mass, admirably sets off the elegant slenderness of its arches and columns. the loggia is a species of museum in the open air. the "perseus" of benvenuto cellini, the "judith" of donatello, the "rape of the sabines" of john of bologna, are framed in the arcades. six antique statues--the cardinal and monastic virtues--by jacques, called pietro, a madonna by orgagna adorn the interior wall. two lions, one antique, the other modern, by vacca, almost as good as the greek lions of the arsenal at venice, complete the decoration. the perseus may be regarded as the masterpiece of benvenuto cellini, an artist so highly spoken of in france, without scarcely anything being known about him. this statue, a little affected in its pose, like all the works of the florentine school, has a juvenile grace which is very attractive. the origins of the city[ ] by grant allen only two considerable rivers flow from the apennines westward into the mediterranean. the tiber makes rome; the arno makes florence. in prehistoric and early historic times, the mountainous region which forms the basin of these two rivers was occupied by a gifted military race, the etruscans, who possest a singular assimilative power for oriental and hellenic culture. intellectually and artistically, they were the pick of italy. their blood still runs in the veins of the people of tuscany. almost every great thing done in the peninsula, in ancient or modern times, has been done by etruscan hands or brains. the poets and painters, in particular, with few exceptions, have been, in the wide ethnical sense, tuscans. the towns of ancient etruria were hill-top strongholds. florence was not one of these; even its neighbor, fiesole (faesulue), did not rank among the twelve great cities of the etruscan league. but with the roman conquest and the roman peace, the towns began to descend from their mountain peaks into the river valleys; roads grew important, through internal trade; and bridges over rivers assumed a fresh commercial value. florence (florentia), probably founded under sulla as a roman municipium, upon a roman road, guarded the bridge across the arno, and gradually absorbed the population of fiesole. under the later empire, it was the official residence of the "corrector" of tuscany and umbria. during the middle ages, it became, for all practical purposes, the intellectual and artistic capital of tuscany, inheriting in full the remarkable mental and esthetic excellences of the etruscan race. the valley of the arno is rich and fertile, bordered by cultivable hills, which produce the famous chianti wine. it was thus predestined by nature as the seat of the second city on the west slope of italy. florence, however, was not always that city. the seaport of pisa (now silted up and superseded by leghorn) first rose into importance; possest a powerful fleet; made foreign conquests; and erected the magnificent group of buildings just outside the town which still form its chief claim upon the attention of tourists. but florence with its bridge commanded the inland trade, and the road to rome from germany. after the destruction of fiesole in , it grew rapidly in importance; and, pisa having sustained severe defeats from genoa, the inland town soon rose to supremacy in the arno basin. nominally subject to the emperor, it became practically an independent republic, much agitated by internal quarrels, but capable of holding its own against neighboring cities. its chief buildings are thus an age or two later than those of pisa; it did not begin to produce splendid churches and palaces, in emulation of those of pisa and siena, till about the close of the th century. to the same period belongs the rise of its literature under dante, and its painting under giotto. this epoch of rapid commercial, military, and artistic development forms the main glory of early florence. the th century is chiefly interesting at florence as the period of giottesque art, finding its final crown in fra angelico. with the beginning of the th, we get the dawn of the renaissance--the age when art set out once more to recover the lost perfection of antique workmanship. in literature, this movement took the form of humanism; in architecture and sculpture, it exhibited itself in the persons of alberti, ghiberti, della robbia, and donatello; in painting, it showed itself in lippi, botticelli, ghirlandajo, and verrocchio.... we start, then, with the fact that up to nearly the close of the th century ( ), florence was a comparatively small and uninteresting town, without any buildings of importance, save the relatively insignificant baptistery; without any great cathedral, like pisa and siena; without any splendid artistic achievement of any kind. it consisted at that period of a labyrinth of narrow streets, enclosing huddled houses and tall towers of the nobles, like the two to be seen to this day at bologna. in general aspect, it could not greatly have differed from albenga or san gimignano in our own time. but commerce was active; wealth was increasing; and the population was seething with the intellectual and artistic spirit of its etruscan ancestry. during the lifetime of dante, the town began to transform itself and to prepare for becoming the glorious florence of the renaissance artists. it then set about building two immense and beautiful churches--santa croce and santa maria novella--while, shortly after, it grew to be ashamed of its tiny san giovanni (the existing baptistery), and girded itself up to raise a superb cathedral, which should cast into the shade both the one long since finished at maritime pisa and the one then still rising to completion on the height of siena. florence at that time extended no further than the area known as old florence, which means from the ponte vecchio to the cathedral in one direction, and from the ponte alla carraja to the grazie in the other. outside the wall lay a belt of fields and gardens, in which one or two monasteries had already sprung up. but italy at that moment was filled with religious enthusiasm by the advent of the friars both great orders of whom, the franciscans and the dominicans, had already established themselves in the rising commercial city of florence. both orders had acquired sites for monastic buildings in the space outside the walls and soon began to erect enormous churches. the dominicans came first, with santa maria novella, the commencement of which dates from ; the franciscans were a little later in the field, with santa croce, the first stone not being placed till . the cathedral[ ] by hippolyte adolphe taine desirous of seeing the beginnings of this renaissance we go from the palazzo-vecchio to the duomo. both form the double heart of florence, such as it beat in the middle ages, the former for politics, and the latter for religion, and the two so well united that they formed but one. nothing can be nobler than the public edict passed in for the construction of the national cathedral. "whereas, it being of sovereign prudence on the part of a people of high origin to proceed in its affairs in such a manner that the wisdom no less than the magnanimity of its proceedings can be recognized in its outward works, it is ordered that arnolfo, master architect of our commune, prepare models or designs for the restoration of santa maria reparata, with the most exalted and most prodigal magnificence, in order that the industry and power of men may never create or undertake anything whatsoever more vast and more beautiful; in accordance with that which our wisest citizens have declared and counselled in public session and in secret conclave, to wit, that no hand be laid upon the works of the commune without the intent of making them to correspond to the noble soul which is composed of the souls of all its citizens united in one will." [florence: bridge across the arno illustration: courtesy john c. winston co.] [florence: the old palace illustration: courtesy john c. winston co.] [florence: the loggia di lanzi illustration: courtesy john c. winston co.] [florence: cloister of santa maria novella illustration: courtesy john c. winston co.] [florence: cloister of san marco illustration: courtesy john c. winston co.] [florence: the pitti palace illustration: courtesy john c. winston co.] [florence: the house of dante illustration: courtesy john c. winston co.] [front of st. mark's, venice illustration: courtesy john c. winston co.] [interior of st. mark's, venice illustration: courtesy john c. winston co.] [the ducal palace, venice illustration: courtesy john c. winston co.] [venice: piazza of st. mark's, ducal palace on the left illustration: courtesy john c. winston co.] [view of venice from the campanile illustration: courtesy john c. winston co.] in this ample period breathes the grandiose pride and intense patriotism of the ancient republics. athens under pericles, and rome under the first scipio cherished no prouder sentiments. at each step, here as elsewhere, in texts and in monuments, is found, in italy, the traces, the renewal and the spirit of classic antiquity. let us, accordingly, look at the celebrated duomo--but, the difficulty is to see it. it stands upon flat ground, and, in order that the eye might embrace its mass it would be necessary to level three hundred buildings. herein appears the defect of the great medieval structure; even to-day, after so many openings, effected by modern demolishers, most of the cathedrals are visible only on paper. the spectator catches sight of a fragment, some section of a wall, or the façade; but the whole escapes him; man's work is no longer proportioned to his organs. it was not thus in antiquity; temples were small or of mediocre dimensions, and were almost always erected on an eminence; their general form and complete profile could be enjoyed from twenty different points of view. after the advent of christianity, men's conceptions transcended their forces, and the ambition of the spirit no longer took into account the limitations of the body. the human machine lost its equilibrium. with forgetfulness of the moderate there was established a love of the odd. without either reason or symmetry campaniles or bell-towers were planted, like isolated posts, in front or alongside of cathedrals; there is one of these alongside of the duomo, and this change of human equipoise must have been potent, since even here, among so many latin traditions and classic aptitudes, it declares itself. in other respects, save the ogive arcades, the monument is not gothic, but byzantine, or, rather, original; it is a creature of a new and mixed form like the new and mixed civilization of which it is the offspring. you feel power and invention in it with a touch of quaintness and fancy. walls of enormous grandeur are developed or expanded without the few windows in them happening to impair their massiveness or diminish their strength. there are no flying buttresses; they are self-sustaining. marble panels, alternately yellow and black, cover them with a glittering marquetry, and curves of arches let into their masses seem to be the bones of a robust skeleton beneath the skin. the latin cross, which the edifice figures, contracts at the top, and the chancel and transepts bubble out into rotundities and projections, in petty domes behind the church in order to accompany the grand dome which ascends above the choir, and which, the work of brunnelleschi, newer and yet more antique than that of st. peter, lifts in the air to an astonishing height its elongated form, its octagonal sides and its pointed lantern. but how can the physiognomy of a church be conveyed by words? it has one nevertheless; all its portions appearing together are combined in one chord and in one effect. if you examine the plans and old engravings you will appreciate the bizarre and captivating harmony of these grand roman walls overlaid with oriental fancies; of these gothic ogives arranged in byzantine cupolas; of these light italian columns forming a circle above a bordering of grecian caissons; of this assemblage of all forms, pointed, swelling, angular, oblong, circular and octagonal. greek and latin antiquity, the byzantine and saracenic orient, the germanic and italian middle-age, the entire past, shattered, amalgamated and transformed, seems to have been melted over anew in the human furnace in order to flow out in fresh forms in the hands of the new genius of giotto, arnolfo, brunnelleschi and dante. here the work is unfinished, and the success is not complete. the façade has not been constructed; all that we see of it is a great naked, scarified wall similar to a leper's plaster.[ ] there is no light within. a line of small round bays and a few windows fill the immensity of the edifice with a gray illumination; it is bare, and the argillaceous tone in which it is painted depresses the eye with its wan monotony. a "pieta" by michael angelo and a few statues seem like spectres; the bas-reliefs are only vague confusion. the architect, hesitating between medieval and antique taste, fell only upon a lifeless light, that between a pure light and a colored light. the more we contemplate architectural works the more do we find them adapted to express the prevailing spirit of an epoch. here, on the flank of the duomo, stands the campanile by giotto, erect, isolated, like st. michael's tower at bordeaux, or the tower of st. jacques at paris; the medieval man, in fact, loves to build high; he aspires to heaven, his elevations all tapering off into pointed pinnacles; if this one had been finished a spire of thirty feet would have surmounted the tower, itself two hundred and fifty feet high. hitherto the northern architect and the italian architect are governed by the same instinct, and gratify the same penchant; but while the northern artist, frankly gothic, embroiders his tower with delicate moldings, and complex flower-work, and a stone lacework infinitely multiplied and intersected, the southern artist, half-latin through his tendencies and his reminiscences, erects a square, strong and full pile, in which a skilful ornamentation does not efface the general structure, which is not frail sculptured bijou, but a solid durable monument, its coating of red, black and white marble covering it with royal luxuriance, and which, through its healthy and animated statues, its bas-reliefs framed in medallions, recalls the friezes and pediments of an antique temple. in these medallions giotto has symbolized the principal epochs of human civilization; the traditions of greece near those of judea; adam, tubal-cain, and noah, daedalus, hercules, and antaeus, the invention of plowing, the mastery of the horse, and the discovery of the arts and the sciences; laic and philosophic sentiment live freely in him side by side with a theological and religious sentiment. do we not already see in this renaissance of the fourteenth century that of the sixteenth? in order to pass from one to another, it will suffice for the spirit of the first to become ascendant over the spirit of the second; at the end of a century we are to see in the adornment of the edifice, in these statues of donatello, in their baldness so expressive, in the sentiment of the real and natural life displayed among the goldsmiths and sculptors, evidence of the transformation begun under giotto having been already accomplished. every step we take we encounter some sign of this persistency or precocity of a latin and classic spirit. facing the duomo is the baptistery, which at first served as a church, a sort of octagonal temple surmounted by a cupola, built, doubtless, after the model of the pantheon of rome, and which, according to the testimony of a contemporary bishop, already in the eighth century projected upward the pompous rotundities of its imperial forms. here, then, in the most barbarous epoch of the middle ages, is a prolongation, a renewal, or, at least, an imitation of roman architecture. you enter, and find that the decoration is not all gothic; a circle of corinthian columns of precious marbles with, above these, a circle of smaller columns surmounted by loftier arcades, and, on the vault, a legion of saints, and angels peopling the entire space, gathering in four rows around a grand, dull, meager, melancholy byzantine christ. on these three superposed stories the three gradual distortions of antique art appear; but, distorted or intact, it is always antique art. a significant feature, this, throughout the history of italy; she did not become germanic. in the tenth century the degraded roman still subsisted distinct and intact side by side with the proud barbarian.... sculpture, which, once before under nicholas of pisa, had anticipated painting, again anticipated it in the fifteenth century; these very doors of the baptistery enable one to see with what sudden perfection and brilliancy. three men then appeared, brunelleschi, the architect of the duomo, donatello, who decorated the campanile with statues, and ghiberti, who cast the two gates of the baptistery, all three friends and rivals, all three having commenced with the goldsmith's art and a study of the living model, and all three passionately devoted to the antique; brunelleschi drawing and measuring roman monuments, donatello at rome copying statues and bas-reliefs and ghiberti importing from greece torsos, vases and heads which he restored, imitated and worshiped. an ascent of the great dome[ ] by mr. and mrs. edwin h. blashfield the traveler who, turning his back to the gates of ghiberti, passes, for the first time, under the glittering new mosaics and through the main doors of santa maria del fiore experiences a sensation. he leaves behind him the façade, dazzling in its patterns of black and white marble, all laced with sculpture, he enters to dim, bare vastness--surely, never was bleaker lining to a splendid exterior. across a floor that seems unending, he makes long journeys, from monument to monument; to gigantic condottieri, riding ghost-like in the semi-darkness against the upper walls; to luca's saints and angels in the sacristies; to donatellos's saint john, grand and tranquil in his niche, and to michelangelo's group, grand and troubled in its rough-hewn marble. at length, in the north transept, he comes to a small door, and entering there, he may, if legs and wind hold out, climb five hundred and fifteen steps to the top of the mightiest dome in the world, the widest in span, and the highest from spring to summit. for the first one hundred and fifty steps or so, there are square turnings, and the stone looks sharp, and new, and solid; a space vaulted by a domical roof follows, and is apparently above one of the apsidal domes to the church; then a narrow spiral staircase leads to where a second door opens upon a very narrow, balustraded walk that runs around the inner side of the dome. he is at an altitude of sixty-seven meters, exactly at the spring of the cupola and the beginning of the vasari frescoes; the feet are at an elevation of one meter less than is that of the lower tops of notre dame de paris, and yet the dome follows away overhead, huge enough, high enough to contain a second church piled, pelion-like upon the first. before, in the dimness, is the vastest roof-covered void in the world; it is terrific, and if the visitor is susceptible, his knees shake, and his diaphragm seems to sink to meet them. the impression is tremendous; no wonder that the tuscans felt brunelleschi to be the central figure of the renaissance. again and again, whether in the gallery or between the walls of the dome, the thought comes; men built this, and one man dared it and planned it. not even the pyramids impress more strongly; for if brunelleschi built a lesser pyramid, he hollowed his and hung it in the air. on the other side of the space, a small black spot becomes a door when the traveler has giddily circled half the dome; it opens upon another staircase, up which he climbs between the two skins of the cupola, or rather between two of the three, like a parasite upon a monster. sometimes the place suggests a ship, with the oculi as gunports, piercing to the outer day, or else, his mind fresh from that red inferno of vasari's frescoes, the traveler is tunneling up through a volcanic crater with a whole typhonic enceladus buried below. to right and left, the smooth, cemented surface curves away and upward, brick buttresses appear constantly, but always with the courses of brick laid slanting to the earth's level, and perpendicular to the thrust of the dome. every possible effect of light and obscurity makes the strange vistas yet more weird, and, now and then, there is a feeling of standing upon the vast, rounding slope of some planet that shines at one's feet, then gradually falls away into the surrounding blackness. the famous "oaken chain" of vasari's life of brunelleschi is there, bolted together in successive beams. last of all, a long, straight staircase, straight because without turn to right or left, curves upward like an unradiant, bowed valhalla-bridge to a great burst of daylight, and the climber is upon the top of the dome. he is as completely cut off from the immediately surrounding earth as upon a cloud girdled mountain, for the dome swells so vastly below that the piazza can not be seen about transept or choir, and not one of the apsidal domes shows a tile of its covering, while the nave, that huge and tremendous nave of santa maria, looks but a narrow, and a distant roof. at one's back, the marble of the lantern is handsome and creamy in color, but battered and broken; its interior is curious--a narrow funnel of marble, little wider than a man's body, set with irons on either side, is the only ladder, so that the climb up is a close squeeze. there is a familiar something gone from the surroundings, and that something is soon remembered to be dante's baptistery, which does not exist from brunelleschi's dome, being blotted out by the façade of santa maria. one hundred feet below, showing its upper and richer portion gloriously from this novel point of view, is what from the piazza is the soaring bell tower, the campanile of giotto. arnolfo, giotto, brunelleschi[ ] by mrs. oliphant arnolfo, sometimes called di cambio and sometimes di lapi, was the first of the group of cathedral builders in florence. who arnolfo was seems to be scarcely known, tho few architects after him have left greater works or more evidence of power. his first authentic appearance in history is among the band of workmen engaged upon the pulpit in the duomo at siena, as pupil or journeyman of niccolo pisano, the great reviver of the art of sculpture--when he becomes visible in company with a certain lapo, who is sometimes called his father (as by vasari) and sometimes his instructor, but who appears actually to have been nothing more than his fellow-workman and associate.... the cathedral, the palazzo pubblico, the two great churches of santa croce and santa maria novella, all leaped into being within a few years, almost simultaneously. the duomo was founded, as some say, in , the same year in which santa croce was begun, or, according to others, in ; and between these two dates, in , the palace of the signoria, the seat of the commonwealth, the center of all public life, had its commencement. all these great buildings, arnolfo designed and began, and his genius requires no other evidence. the stern strength of the palazzo, upright and strong like a knight in mail, and the large and noble lines of the cathedral, ample and liberal and majestic in ornate robes and wealthy ornaments, show how well he knew to vary and adapt his art to the different requirements of municipal and religious life and to the necessities of the age. we are not informed who they were who carried out the design of the duomo. arnolfo only lived to see a portion of this, his greatest work, completed--"the three principal tribunes which were under the cupola," and which vasari tells us were so solid and strongly built as to be able to bear the full weight of brunelleschi's dome, which was much larger and heavier than the one the original architect had himself designed. arnolfo died when he had built his palazzo in rugged strength, as it still stands, with walls like living rock and heavy tuscan cornices--tho it was reserved to the other masters to put upon it the wonderful crown of its appropriate tower--and just as the round apse of the cathedral approached completion; a hard fate for a great builder to leave such noble work behind him half done, yet the most common of all fates. he died, so far as there is any certainty in dates, in , during the brief period of dante's power in florence, when the poet was one of the priors and much engaged in public business; and the same eventful year concluded the existence of cimabue, the first of the great school of florentine painters--he whose picture was carried home to the church in which it was to dwell for all the intervening centuries with such pride and acclamation that the borgo allegri is said to have taken its name from this wonderful rejoicing.... no more notable or distinct figure than giotto is in all the history of florence. he was born a peasant, in the village of vespignano in the mugello, the same district which afterward gave birth to fra angelico. giotto had at least part of his professional training in the great cathedral at assisi built over the bones of st. francis, was one of those homely, vigorous souls, "a natural person," like his father, whom neither the lapse of centuries nor the neighborhood of much greater and more striking persons about them, can deprive of their naive and genuine individuality. burly, homely, characteristic, he carries our attentions always with him, alike on the silent road, or in the king's palace, or his own simple shop. wherever he is, he is always the same, shrewd, humorous, plain-spoken, seeing through all pretenses, yet never ill-natured in doing so--a character not very lofty or elevated, and to which the racy ugliness of a strong, uncultivated race seems natural--but who under that homely nature carried appreciations and conceptions of beauty such as few fine minds possess. of all the beautiful things with which giotto adorned his city, not one speaks so powerfully to the foreign visitor--the forestiere whom he and his fellows never took into account, tho who occupy so large a space among the admirers of his genius nowadays--as the lovely campanile which stands by the great cathedral like the white royal lily beside the mary of the annunciation, slender and strong and everlasting in its delicate grace. it is not often that a man takes up a new trade when he is approaching sixty, or even goes into a new path out of his familiar routine. but giotto seems to have turned without a moment's hesitation from his paints and panels to the less easily-wrought materials of the builder and sculptor, without either faltering from the great enterprise or doubting his own power to do it. his frescoes and altarpieces and crucifixes, the work he had been so long accustomed to, and which he could execute pleasantly in his own workshop or on the cool new walls of church or convent, with his trained school of younger artists round to aid him, were as different as possible from the elaborate calculations and measurements by which alone the lofty tower, straight, and lightsome as a lily, could have sprung so high and stood so lightly against that italian sky. like the poet or the romancist when he turns from the flowery ways of fiction and invention, where he is unencumbered by any restrictions save those of artistic keeping and personal will, to the grave and beaten path of history--the painter must have felt when he too turned from the freedom and poetry of art to this first scientific undertaking. the cathedral was so far finished by this time, its front not scarred and bare as afterward, but adorned with statues according to old arnolfo's plan, who was dead more than thirty years before; but there was no belfry, no companion peal of peace and sweetness to balance the hoarse old vacca with its voice of iron. giotto seems to have thrown himself into work not only without reluctance but with enthusiasm. the foundation-stone of the building was laid in july of that year, with all the greatness of florence looking on; and the painter entered upon his work at once, working out the most poetic effort of his life in marble and stone, among the masons' chippings and the dust and blaze of the public street. at the same time he designed, tho it does not seem sure whether he lived long enough to execute, a new façade for the cathedral, replacing arnolfo's old statues by something better. of the campanile itself it is difficult to speak in ordinary words. the enrichments of the surface, which is covered by beautiful groups set in a graceful framework of marble, with scarcely a flat or unadorned spot from top to bottom, have been ever since the admiration of artists and of the world. but we confess, for our own part, that it is the structure itself that affords us that soft ecstasy of contemplation, sense of a perfection before which the mind stops short, silenced and filled with the completeness of beauty unbroken, which art so seldom gives, tho nature often attains it by the simplest means, through the exquisite perfection of a flower or a stretch of summer sky. just as we have looked at a sunset we look at giotto's tower, poised far above in the blue air, in all the wonderful dawns and moonlights of italy, swift darkness shadowing its white glory at the tinkle of the ave maria, and a golden glow of sunbeams accompanying the mid-day angelus. between the solemn antiquity of the old baptistery and the historical gloom of the great cathedral, it stands like the lily--if not, rather, like the great angel himself hailing her who was blest among women, and keeping up that lovely salutation, musical and sweet as its own beauty, for century after century, day after day. giotto made not only the design, but even, vasari assures us, worked at the groups and "bassi-relievi" of these "stories in marble, in which are depicted the beginning of all the arts." ... filippo of ser brunellescho of the lapi, which is, according to florentine use, his somewhat cumbrous name, or brunelleschi for short, as custom permitted him to be called, was the son of a notary, who as notaries do, hoped and expected his boy to follow in his steps and succeed to his practise. but, like other sons doomed their fathers' soul to cross, filippo took to those "figuretti" in bronze which were so captivating to the taste of the time, and preferred rather to be a goldsmith, to hang upon the skirts of art, than to work in the paternal office. he was, as vasari insinuates, small, puny, and ugly, but full of dauntless and daring energy as well as genius. from his gold and silver work, the "carvings" which old bartoluccio had been so glad to escape, and from his "figuretti," the ambitious lad took to architectural drawing, of which, according to vasari, he was one of the first amateurs, making "portraits" of the cathedral and baptistery, of the palazzo pubblico, and the other chief buildings of the city. he was so eloquent a talker that a worthy citizen declared of him that he seemed "a new st. paul;" and in his thoughts he was continually busy planning or imagining something skilful and difficult. the idea of completing the cathedral by adding to it a cupola worthy of its magnificent size and proportions seems to have been in the young man's head before the signoria or the city took any action in the matter. arnolfo's designs are said to have been lost, and all the young filippo could do was to study the picture in the spanish chapel of santa maria novella, where the cathedral was depicted according to arnolfo's intention; and this proof to the usefulness of architectural backgrounds, no doubt, moved him to those pictures of building which he was fond of making. after his failure in the competition with ghiberti for the baptistery gates, filippo went to rome, accompanied by donato. here the two friends lived and studied together for some time, one giving himself to sculpture, the other to architecture. brunelleschi, according to vasari, made this a period of very severe study. he examined all the remains of ancient buildings with the keenest care; studying the foundations and the strength of the walls, and the way in which such a prodigious load as the great dome, which already he saw in his mind's eye, could best be supported. so profound were his researches that he was called the treasure-hunter by those who saw him coming and going through the streets of rome, a title so far justified that he is said in one instance to have actually found an ancient earthenware jar full of old coins. while engaged in these studies, his money failing him, he worked for a jeweller according to the robust practise of the time, and after making ornaments and setting gems all day, set to work on his buildings, round and square, octagons, basilicas, arches, colosseums, and amphitheaters, perfecting himself in the principles of his art. in he returned to florence, and then there began a series of negotiations between the artist and the city, to which there seemed at first as if no end could come. they met, and met again, assemblies of architects, of city authorities, of competitors less hopeful and less eager than himself. his whole heart, it is evident, was set upon the business. hearing donatello at one of these assemblies mention the cathedral at orvieto, which he had visited on his way from rome, filippo, having his mantle and his hood on, without saying a word to anyone, set straight off from the piazza on foot, and got as far as cortona, from whence he returned with various pen-and-ink drawings before donato or any one else had found out that he was away. thus the small, keen, determined, ugly artist, swift and sudden as lightning, struck through all the hesitations, the consultations, the maunderings, the doubts, and the delays of the two authorities who had the matter in hand, the signoria and the operai, as who should say the working committee, and who made a hundred difficulties and shook their wise heads, and considered one foolish and futile plan after another with true burgher hesitation and wariness. at last, in , an assembly of competitors was held in florence, and a great many plans put forth, one of which was to support the proposed vault by a great central pillar, while another advised that the space to be covered should be filled with soil mixed with money, upon which the dome might be built, and which the people would gladly remove without expense afterward for the sake of the farthings! an expedient most droll in its simplicity. brunelleschi, impatient of so much folly, went off to rome, it is said, in the middle of these discussions, disgusted by the absurd ignorance which was thus put in competition with his careful study and long labor. finally the appointment was conceded to him. the greatest difficulty with which he had to contend was a strike of his workmen, of whom, however, there being no trades' unions in those days, the imperious master made short work. and thus, day by day, the great dome swelled out over the shining marble walls and rose against the beautiful italian sky. nothing like it had been seen before by living eyes. the solemn grandeur of the pantheon at rome was indeed known to many, and san giovanni[ ] was in some sort an imitation of that; but the immense structure of the cupola, so justly poised, springing with such majestic grace from the familiar walls to which it gave new dignity, flattered the pride of the florentines as something unique, besides delighting the eyes and imagination of so beauty-loving a race. with that veiled and subtle pride which takes the shape of pious fear, some even pretended to tremble, lest it should be supposed to be too near an emulation of the blue vault above, and that florence was competing with heaven; others, with the delightful magniloquence of the time, declared that the hills around the city were scarcely higher than the beautiful duomo; and vasari himself has a doubt that the heavens were envious, so persistent were the storms amid which the cupola arose. yet there it stands to this day, firm and splendid, uninjured by celestial envy, more harmonious than st. peter's, the crown of the beautiful city. its measurements and size and the secrets of its formation we do not pretend to set forth; the reader will find them in every guide-book. but the keen, impetuous, rapid figure of the architect, impatient, and justly impatient, of all rivalry, the murmurs and comments of the workmen; the troubled minds of the city authorities, not knowing how to hold their ground between that gnome of majestic genius who had fathomed all the secrets of construction and built a hundred duomos in his mind, while they were pottering over the preliminaries of one; have all the interest of life for us. through the calm fields of art he goes like a whirlwind, keen, certain, unfailing in his aim, unsparing in means, carried forward by such an impulse of will and self-confidence that nothing can withstand him. sure of his own powers, as he was when he carved in secret the crucifix which was to cover poor donatello with confusion, he saw before him, over his carvings, as he worked for the roman goldsmith, the floating vision of the great dome he was to build--and so built it, all opposition notwithstanding, clearing out of his way with the almost contemptuous impatience of that knowledge which has no doubt of itself, the competing architects. ghiberti's gates[ ] by charles yriarte the baptistery is the most ancient building in florence. if not of pagan origin it dates from the earliest ages of christianity. it was coated with marble of different colors by arnolfo di cambio in , while in the sixteenth century agnolo gaddi designed the lantern; but long before arnolfo's time it had been employed as a christian place of worship, being used as a cathedral up to , when it was converted into a baptistery. this building contains three gates, which have no parallel in the world. the oldest is that on the southern side, upon which pisano spent twenty-two years of his life, a most beautiful work representing, in twenty compartments, the life of st. john the baptist. the frieze which runs round it was commenced nearly a century afterward by ghiberti, and pollaiuolo had much to do with its completion. the northern gates are by ghiberti, and, like those of pisano, are divided into twenty compartments, the subject being the life of christ. the bronze door-posts are delicately carved with flowers, fruit, and animals. these gates were first placed on the eastern side, but in were removed to make room for ghiberti's still finer work. on the third façade, that which faces the duomo, is the porta del paradiso, so named by michael angelo, who declared that this gate was worthy to be the entrance into paradise. ghiberti divided each panel into five parts, taking the following as his subjects, after suggestions made by leonardo bruni aretino: ( ) creation of adam and eve; ( ) cain and abel; ( ) noah; ( ) abraham and isaac; ( ) jacob and esau; ( ) joseph in egypt; ( ) moses on mount sinai; ( ) the capture of jericho; ( ) david slaying goliath; ( ) the queen of sheba and soloman. the frieze contains statuettes of the prophets and prophetesses and portrait-busts of men and women still alive, including ghiberti himself, and his father; while the frame-posts, with their masses of vegetation and flora wrought in bronze, are admirable for their truth to nature. bronze groups representing the "decapitation of st. john the baptist," by danti, and the "baptism of our lord," by andrea sansovino, surmount two of the gates, which were at one time heavily gilded, tho few traces of this are now visible. the baptistery, empty as it appears to the eye upon first entering it, is replete with beautiful monuments, a description of which would fill a good-sized volume. it is built, as i have already said, upon an octagonal plan. the altar, which formerly stood beneath the cupola, has been removed. on the th of june every year the magnificent retablo in massive silver, which is preserved among the treasures in the opera del duomo, is displayed in the baptistery. the silver alone weighs pounds, including two center-pieces, two side-pieces, and a silver crucifix with two statuettes seven feet high, and weighing pounds, the group being completed by two statues of peace in engine-turned silver. many artists were employed upon the making of it. finiguerra, pollaiuolo, cione, michelozzi, verrocchio, and cennini made the lower parts and the bas-reliefs of the front, while the cross, executed in , is by betto di francesco, and the base of it by milano di domenico dei and antonio pollaiuolo. the interior of the cupola of san giovanni is ornamented with some of the oldest specimens of mosaic decoration in florence, these byzantine artists being the first, after murano and altino, to exercise their craft in italy, and being succeeded by jacopo da turita, andrea tafi, and gaddo gaddi. the handsome tomb of baldassare cossa (pope john xxiii., deposed at the time of the council of constance), was reared in the baptistery by donatello. the holy of holies is relatively modern, having been erected at the expense of the guild of the "calimala," as the men who gave the finishing touch to the woolen stuffs manufactured abroad were called. the baptismal font, in a building specially used for christening, would, as a matter of course, be intrusted to artists of great repute, and that at san giovanni is attributed to andrea pisano. upon each face is represented one of the baptisms most famous in the history of the catholic religion, an inscription beneath explaining each episode; but this font is, unfortunately, so much in the background that it escapes the notice of many visitors. donatello carved the wooden statue of the magdalen which occupies one of the niches, the thin emaciated face being typical of the artist's partiality for reproducing in their smallest details the physical defects of his subject. the exterior aspect of the baptistery does not give one the idea of a building restored in the thirteenth, but rather in the fifteenth century. the ponte vecchio[ ] by charles yriarte until the close of the ponte vecchio was built of wood, the heavy masses of timber, tho offering no steady resistance to the stream, dividing the muddy course of the waters into a thousand small currents, and breaking its force. but in occurred one of those inundations which were so frequent that traces of them may still be seen on the walls of the quays. these inundations were one of the curses of florence, and tho the evil has been, to a certain extent, cured by the construction of massive quays, they still occur in the direction of the cascine. an attempt was accordingly made in the twelfth century to obviate this inconvenience by the construction of a stone bridge. this, in turn, was carried away in , and taddeo gaddi, who had already made a name for himself by his architectural skill, was employed to build a bridge capable of resisting the highest floods. the present bridge was therefore erected in , being feet long by wide. with the double object of obtaining an income for the city and of introducing a novel feature, shops were built on the two pathways, which were feet wide, and these were let to the butchers of florence, thus realizing the eastern plan of concentrating the meat trade of a town in one place. this arrangement lasted from until , but in the latter year, under cosimo i., the "capitani di parte," who had the supervision of the streets and highways, ordered that all the goldsmiths and jewelers should take the place of the butchers, and in a few months, the ponte vecchio became the wealthiest and most crowded thoroughfare of florence. in order to avoid shutting out a view of the stream and interfering with the perspective, an open space had been reserved in the center, and when the palazzo vecchio and the uffizi were connected with the pitti palace by means of the large covered way carried over the bridge, this space was left intact so as to afford a view of the eminence of san miniato upon one side, of the windings of the stream on the other, and of the cascine shrubberies and the mountains upon the horizon. santa croce[ ] by charles yriarte built by arnolfo, then fifty-four years of age, by order of the friars of st. francis, this venerable temple was raised upon the piazza called santa croce, where formerly stood a small church belonging to the order of the franciscan monks. they had resolved to embellish and enlarge their church, and cardinal matteo d'acquasparta, general of the franciscan order, proclaimed an indulgence to all contributors toward the undertaking. the church was far enough advanced in for services to be held in it, tho the façade was then, as until a very recent period it remained, a plain brick wall, without facing or any other ornament. santa croce was not singular in this respect, for san lorenzo and many other florentine churches have never been decorated externally. in cardinal bessarion, the founder of st. mark's library at venice, was delegated to perform the ceremony of consecration. donatello and ghiberti, incomplete as was the façade, executed some statues and a stained-glass window for it, but it is only within the last few years that the city of florence completed the work, leaving untouched the grand piazza which had been the scene of so many fêtes and intestine quarrels, and upon which is now erected a statue to dante. the façade of santa croce was completed in . the expense was principally borne by mr. francis sloane, an englishman. the interior is striking from its vast size, the church being built in the shape of a latin cross with nave, aisles, and transepts, each of the seven pointed arches being supported on the octagonal column. opposite the front entrance is the high altar, while all around the walls and between the side altars--erected in by vasari by order of cosimo i.--are the monuments of the illustrious dead. first of all on the left there is domenico sestini, a celebrated numismatist, whose bust was carved by pozzetti. while in the first chapel on the right is the tomb of michael angelo, who died at rome on the th of february, ; the monument was designed by vasari, the bust was executed by battista lorenzo. two contemporary sculptors, valerio cioli and giovanni dell'opera, did the allegories of sculpture and architecture, the frescoes around the monument being by battista naldini. a nobler tomb might well have been raised to the memory of michael angelo. the body was deposited in the church on the th of march, , and lay in state, for the people of florence to come and pay him the last tribute of respect. the next tomb is only commemorative, for it does not contain the ashes of dante, in whose honor it was erected in by ricci, as a tardy homage on the part of florence to one who suffered so much for her sake in life.[ ] after dante comes victor alfieri, whose name has been borne with distinction by his descendants. this monument was erected by canova in . compared with the monuments of the fifteenth century and of the renaissance, which are to be seen in such splendid profusion in florence, these tombs seem so inferior that it is impossible not to wonder how the decadence was brought about. it is not at florence alone that this feeling manifests itself; for at venice, in the splendid temple of santa maria gloriosa dei frari, beside the tombs of doges and condottieri of the fifteenth century there stands that wretched monument upon which the great name of titian has been traced. this is evidently the result of an inevitable law to which humanity is subject. genius comes into the world, grows, spreads, and covers the earth with its shadow; then slowly the sap runs back from the verdant trunk, the tree yields less luscious fruit and flowers not so fair, until at last the branches wither and the tree dies. close beside alfieri is buried machiavelli, his tomb, like so many of the others, being of modern erection, and consequently less beautiful than if it had been the work of a sculptor who had studied in the school of ghiberti or donatello. by the side of machiavelli rests luigi lanzi, a name less generally known, tho celebrated in his time as an historiographer of painting, or an art critic as we should now call him. his friend, chevalier ornofrio boni, prepared the design for his tomb, which was executed at public cost. the pulpit--a fine specimen of fifteenth-century sculpture, carved by benedetto da maiano at the cost of pietro mellini, who presented it to the church--is well worth close inspection; and close by, between the tombs of lanzi and leonardo bruni, is a group in freestone, representing the annunciation. this was one of the first of donatello's works, and gave an earnest of his future genius. the tomb of leonardo bruni aretino is one of the five or six greatest works of this nature which ever left the sculptor's hands; it has been used as a model by the sculptors of all the tombs in santa maria del popolo at rome. the monument to leonardo bruni is the highest expression of sculptural art, combining all the taste of ancient greece with the grace, the power, the calm, the supreme harmony, and the perfection which genius alone confers, its tranquil and subdued beauty comparing favorably with the theatrical effect and garish splendor of the monuments in st. john lateran and st. peter's at rome. the superb mausoleums of leopardi and of the lombardi at venice are, perhaps, equally beautiful; but i am inclined to give the preference to the work of bernardo rossellini. he became acquainted with leonardo bruni at the papal court, where he, as well as leo battista alberti, was a director of the pontifical works. the madonna let into the upper part of the monument is by andrea verocchio.... in visiting santa croce it is impossible not to feel how erroneous are the views often held as to the exact place which will be allotted in the roll of history to the men of the day. many of the names in this pantheon are almost unknown, the tomb next to that of galileo containing the dust of mulazzi-signorini, who has never been heard of out of italy. another unavoidable reflection is that the talent of the sculptor is rarely in proportion to that of the man whose memory he is about to perpetuate. machiavelli was commemorated by two obscure sculptors like foggini and ticcati, and michael angelo by battista lorenzi. what has the world not lost by the refusal of michael angelo's offer to erect a tomb to dante when the city of florence was about to ask ravenna to restore his remains to her! the convent annexed to santa croce was also built by arnolfo. it was originally occupied by the franciscan monks, and it was here that, from to , the inquisition held its sittings. the notorious frenchman, gaulthier de brienne, duke of athens, who for a brief period ruled florence as captain of the people, selected this monastery as his residence in june, , but having in september of the same year succeeded in getting himself elected ruler of florence for life, he removed to the palazzo vecchio. his reign, however, was of only brief duration, for the year following he was expelled by the people. the uffizi gallery[ ] by hippolyte adolphe taine what can be said of a gallery containing thirteen hundred pictures? for my own part i abstain. examine catalogs and collections of engravings, or rather come here yourself. the impressions borne away from these grand store-houses are too diverse and too numerous to be transmitted by the pen. observe this, that the uffizi is a universal depot, a sort of louvre containing paintings of all times and schools, bronzes, statues, sculptures, antique and modern terracottas, cabinets of gems, an etruscan museum, artists' portraits painted by themselves, twenty-eight thousand original drawings, four thousand cameos and ivories and eighty thousand medals. one resorts to it as to a library; it is an abridgment and a specimen of everything.... we ascend the great marble staircase, pass the famous antique boar and enter the long horseshoe corridor filled with busts and tapestried with paintings. visitors, about ten o'clock in the morning, are few; the mute custodians remain in their corners; you seem to be really at home. it all belongs to you, and what convenient possessions! keepers and majordomos are here to keep things in order, well dusted and intact; it is not even necessary to give orders; matters go on of themselves without jar or confusion, nobody giving himself the slightest concern; it is an ideal world such as it ought to be. the light is excellent; bright gleams from the windows fall on some distant white statues on the rosy torso of a woman which comes out living from the shadowy obscurity. beyond, as far as the eye can see, marble gods and emperors extend away in files up to the windows through which flickers the light ripple of the arno with the silvery swell on its crests and eddies. you enter into the freedom and sweet repose of abstract life; the will relaxes, the inner tumult subsides; one feels himself becoming a monk, a modern monk. here, as formerly in the cloisters, the tender inward spirit, chafed by the necessities of action, insensibly revives in order to commune with beings emancipated from life's obligations. it is so sweet no longer to be! not to be is so natural! and how peaceful the realm of human forms withdrawn from human conflict! the pure thought which follows them is so conscious that its illusion is transient; it participates in their incorporeal serenity, and reverie, lingering in turn over their voluptuousness and violence, brings back to it plenitude without satiety. on the left of the corridors open the cabinets of precious things--the niobe hall, that of portraits, that of modern bronzes, each with its special group of treasures. you feel that you have a right to enter, that great men are awaiting you. a selection is made among them; you reenter the tribune; five antique statues form a circle here--a slave sharpening his knife; two interlocked wrestlers whose muscles are strained and expanded; a charming apollo of sixteen years whose compact form has all the suppleness of the freshest adolescence; an admirable faun instinct with the animality of his species, unconsciously joyous and dancing with all his might; and finally, the "venus de medici," a slender young girl with a small delicate head, not a goddess like her sister of milo, but a perfect mortal and the work of some praxiteles fond of "hetairae," at ease in a nude state and free from that somewhat mawkish delicacy and bashful coquetry which its copies, and the restored arms with their thin fingers by bernini, seem to impose on her. she is, perhaps, a copy of that venus of cnidus of which lucian relates an interesting story; you imagine while looking at her, the youths' kisses prest on the marble lips, and the exclamations of charicles who, on seeing it, declared mars to be the most fortunate of gods. around the statues, on the eight sides of the wall, hang the masterpieces of the leading painters. there is the "madonna of the goldfinch" by raphael, pure and candid, like an angel whose soul is a bud not yet in bloom; his "st. john," nude, a fine youthful form of fourteen, healthy and vigorous, in which the purest paganism lives over again; and especially a superb head of a crowned female, radiant as a summer noonday, with fixt and earnest gaze, her complexion of that powerful southern carnation which the emotions do not change, where the blood does not pulsate convulsively and to which passion only adds a warmer glow, a sort of roman muse in whom will still prevails over intellect, and whose vivacious energy reveals itself in repose as well as in action. in one corner a tall cavalier by van dyck, in black and with a broad frill, seems as grandly and gloriously proud in character as in proportions, primarily through a well-fed body and next through the undisputed possession of authority and command. three steps more and we come to the "flight into egypt," by correggio, the virgin with a charming spirited face wholly suffused with inward light in which the purity, archness, gentleness and wildness of a young girl combine to shed the tenderest grace and impart the most fascinating allurements. alongside of this a "sibyl" by guercino, with her carefully adjusted coiffure and drapery, is the most spiritual and refined of sentimental poetesses. i pass twenty others in order to reserve the last look for titian's two venuses. one, facing the door, reclines on a red velvet mantle, an ample vigorous torso as powerful as one of rubens' bacchantes, but firmer--an energetic and vulgar figure, a simple, strong unintellectual courtezan. she lies extended on her back, caressing a little cupid naked like herself, with the vacant seriousness and passivity of soul of an animal in repose and expectant. the other, called "venus with the dog," is a patrician's mistress, couched, adorned and ready. we recognize a palace of the day, the alcove fitted up and colors tastefully and magnificently contrasted for the pleasure of the eye; in the background are servants arranging clothes; through a window a section of blue landscape is visible; the master is about to arrive. nowadays we devour pleasure secretly like stolen fruit; then it was served up on golden salvers and people sat down to it at a table. it is because pleasure was not vile or bestial. this woman holding a bouquet in her hand in this grand columnar saloon has not the vapid smile or the wanton and malicious air of an adventuress about to commit a bad action. the calm of evening enters the palace through noble architectural openings. under the pale green of the curtains lies the figure on a white sheet, slightly flushed with the regular pulsation of life, and developing the harmony of her undulating forms. the head is small and placid; the soul does not rise above the corporal instincts; hence she can resign herself to them without shame, while the poesy of art, luxury and security on all sides comes to decorate and embellish them. she is a courtezan but also a lady; in those days the former did not efface the latter; one was as much a title as the other and, probably, in demeanor, affection and intellect one was as good as the other. the celebrated imperia had her tomb in the church of san gregorio, at rome, with this inscription: "imperia, a roman courtezan worthy of so great a name, furnished an example to men of perfect beauty, lived twenty-six years and twelve days, and died in , august ." ... on passing from the italian into the flemish galleries one is completely turned around; here are paintings executed for merchants content to remain quietly at home eating good dinners and speculating over the profits of their business; moreover in rainy and muddy countries dress has to be cared for, and by the women more than the men. the mind feels itself contracted on entering the circle of this well-to-do domestic life; such is the impression of corinne when from liberal italy she passes to rigid and dreary scotland. and yet there is a certain picture, a large landscape by rembrandt, which equals and surpasses all; a dark sky bursting with showers among flocks of screaming crows; beneath, is an infinite stretch of country as desolate as a cemetery; on the right a mass of barren rocks of so mournful and lugubrious a tint as to attain to the sublime in effect. so is it with an andante of beethoven after an italian opera. florence eighty years ago[ ] by william cullen bryant there is a great deal of prattle about italian skies; the skies and clouds of italy, so far as i have had an opportunity of judging, do not present so great a variety of beautiful appearances as our own; but the italian atmosphere is far more uniformly fine than ours. not to speak of its astonishing clearness, it is pervaded by a certain warmth of color which enriches every object. this is more remarkable about the time of sunset, when the mountains put on an aerial aspect, as if they belonged to another and fairer world; and a little after the sun has gone down, the air is flushed with a glory which seems to transfigure all that it encloses. many of the fine old palaces of florence, you know, are built in a gloomy tho grand style of architecture, of a dark-colored stone, massive and lofty, and overlooking narrow streets that lie in almost perpetual shade. but at the hour of which i am speaking, the bright warm radiance reflected from the sky to the earth, fills the darkest lanes, streams into the most shadowy nooks, and makes the prison-like structures glitter as with a brightness of their own. it is now nearly the middle of october, and we have had no frost. the strong summer heats which prevailed when i came hither, have by the slowest gradations subsided into an agreeable autumnal temperature. the trees keep their verdure, but i perceive their foliage growing thinner, and when i walk in the cascine on the other side of the arno, the rustling of the lizards, as they run among the heaps of crisp leaves, reminds me that autumn is wearing away, tho the ivy which clothes the old elms has put forth a profuse array of blossoms, and the walks murmur with bees like our orchards in spring. as i look along the declivities of the appenines, i see the raw earth every day more visible between the ranks of olive-trees and the well-pruned maples which support the vines. if i have found my expectations of italian scenery, in some respects, below the reality; in other respects, they have been disappointed. the forms of the mountains are wonderfully picturesque, and their effect is heightened by the rich atmosphere through which they are seen, and by the buildings, imposing from their architecture or venerable from time, which crown the eminences. but if the hand of man has done something to embellish this region, it has done more to deform it. not a tree is suffered to retain its natural shape, not a brook to flow in its natural channel. an exterminating war is carried on against the natural herbage of the soil. the country is without woods and green fields; and to him who views the vale of the arno "from the top of fiesole," or any of the neighboring heights, grand as he will allow the circle of the mountains to be, and magnificent the edifices with which the region is adorned, it appears, at any time after mid-summer, a huge valley of dust, planted with low rows of the pallid and thin-leaved olive, or the more dwarfish maple on which vines are trained. the simplicity of nature, so far as can be done, is destroyed; there is no fine sweep of forest, no broad expanse of meadow or pasture ground, no ancient and towering trees clustered about the villas, no rows of natural shrubbery following the course of the brooks and rivers. the streams, which are often but the beds of torrents dry during the summer, are confined in straight channels by stone walls and embankments; the slopes are broken up and disfigured by terraces; and the trees are kept down by constant pruning and lopping, until half way up the sides of the appenines, where the limit of cultivation is reached, and thence to the summit is a barren steep of rock, without herbage or soil. the grander features of the landscape, however, are fortunately beyond the power of man to injure; the lofty mountain-summits, bare precipices cleft with chasms, and pinnacles of rock piercing the sky, betokening, far more than any thing i have seen elsewhere, a breaking up of the crust of the globe in some early period of its existence. i am told that in may and june the country is much more beautiful than at present, and that owing to a drought it now appears under disadvantage.... florence, from being the residence of the court,[ ] and from the vast number of foreigners who throng to it, presents during several months of the year an appearance of great bustle and animation. four thousand english, an american friend tells me, visit florence every winter, to say nothing of the occasional residents from france, germany, and russia. the number of visitors from the latter country is every year increasing, and the echoes of the florence gallery have been taught to repeat the strange accents of the slavonic. let me give you the history of a fine day in october, passed at the window of my lodgings on the lung arno, close to the bridge. waked by the jangling of all the bells in florence and by the noise of carriages departing loaded with travelers, for rome and other places in the south of italy, i rise, dress myself, and take my place at the window. i see crowds of men and women from the country, the former in brown velvet jackets, and the latter in broad-brimmed straw hats, driving donkeys loaded with panniers or trundling hand-carts before them, heaped with grapes, figs, and all the fruits of the orchard, the garden, and the field. they have hardly passed, when large flocks of sheep and goats make their appearance, attended by shepherds and their families, driven by the approach of winter from the appenines, and seeking the pastures of the maremma, a rich, but, in the summer, an unhealthy tract on the coast. the men and the boys are drest in knee-breeches, the women in bodices, and both sexes wear capotes with pointed hoods, and felt hats with conical crowns; they carry long staves in their hands, and their arms are loaded with kids and lambs too young to keep pace with their mothers. after the long procession of sheep and goats and dogs and men and women and children, come horses loaded with cloths and poles for tents, kitchen utensils, and the rest of the younglings of the flock. a little after sunrise i see well-fed donkeys, in coverings of red cloth, driven over the bridge to be milked for invalids. maid-servants, bare-headed, with huge high carved combs in their hair, waiters of coffee-houses carrying the morning cup of coffee or chocolate to their customers, baker's boys with a dozen loaves on a board balanced on their heads, milkmen with rush baskets filled with flasks of milk, are crossing the streets in all directions. a little later the bell of the small chapel opposite to my window rings furiously for a quarter of an hour, and then i hear mass chanted in a deep strong nasal tone. as the day advances, the english, in white hats and white pantaloons, come out of their lodgings, accompanied sometimes by their hale and square-built spouses, and saunter stiffly along the arno, or take their way to the public galleries and museums. their massive, clean, and brightly-polished carriages also begin to rattle through the streets, setting out on excursions to some part of the environs of florence--to fiesole, to the pratolino, to the bello sguardo, to the poggio imperiale. sights of a different kind now present themselves. sometimes it is a troop of stout franciscan friars, in sandals and brown robes, each carrying his staff and wearing a brown broad-brimmed hat with a hemispherical crown. sometimes it is a band of young theological students, in purple cassocks with red collars and cuffs, let out on a holiday, attended by their clerical instructors, to ramble in the cascine. there is a priest coming over the bridge, a man of venerable age and great reputation for sanctity--the common people crowd around him to kiss his hand, and obtain a kind word from him as he passes. but what is that procession of men in black gowns, black gaiters, and black masks, moving swiftly along, and bearing on their shoulders a litter covered with black cloth? these are the brethren of mercy, who have assembled at the sound of the cathedral bell, and are conveying some sick or wounded person to the hospital. as the day begins to decline, the numbers of carriages in the streets, filled with gaily-drest people attended by servants in livery, increases. the grand duke's equipage, an elegant carriage drawn by six horses, with coachmen, footmen, and out-riders in drab-colored livery, comes from the pitti palace, and crosses the arno, either by the bridge close to my lodgings, or by that called alla santa trinità, which is in full sight from the windows. the florentine nobility, with their families, and the english residents, now throng to the cascine, to drive at a slow pace through its thickly-planted walks of elms, oaks, and ilexes. as the sun is sinking i perceive the quay, on the other side of the arno, filled with a moving crowd of well-drest people, walking to and fro, and enjoying the beauty of the evening. travelers now arrive from all quarters, in cabriolets, in calashers, in the shabby "vettura," and in the elegant private carriage drawn by post-horses, and driven by postillions in the tightest possible deer-skin breeches, the smallest red coats, and the hugest jack-boots. the streets about the doors of the hotels resound with the cracking of whips and the stamping of horses, and are encumbered with carriages, heaps of baggage, porters, postillions, couriers, and travelers. night at length arrives--the time of spectacles and funerals. the carriages rattle toward the opera-houses. trains of people, sometimes in white robes and sometimes in black, carrying blazing torches and a cross elevated on a high pole before a coffin, pass through the streets chanting the service for the dead. the brethren of mercy may also be seen engaged in their office. the rapidity of their pace, the flare of their torches, the gleam of their eyes through their masks, and their sable garb, give them a kind of supernatural appearance. i return to bed, and fall asleep amid the shouts of people returning from the opera, singing as they go snatches of the music with which they had been entertained during the evening. iii venice the approach from the sea[ ] by charles yriarte to taste in all their fulness his first impressions of venice, the traveler should arrive there by sea, at mid-day, when the sun is high. by degrees, as the ship which carries him enters the channels, he will see the unparalleled city emerging from the lap of the lagoon, with its proud campaniles, its golden spires, its gray or silvery domes and cupolas. advancing along the narrow channels of navigation, posts and piles dot here and there with black that sheet of steel, and give substance to the dream, making solid and tangible the foreground of the illusive distance. just now, all that enchanted world and fairy architecture floated in the air; little by little all has become distinct; those points of dark green turn into gardens; that mass of deep red is the line of the ship-building yards, with their leprous-looking houses and with the dark-colored stocks on which are erected the skeletons of polaccas and feluccas in course of construction; the white line showing so bright in the sun is the riva dei schiavoni, all alive with its world of gondoliers, fruit-sellers, greek sailors, and chioggiotes in their many-colored costumes. the rose-colored palace with the stunted colonnade is the ducal palace. the vessel, on its way to cast anchor off the piazzetta, coasts round the white and rose-colored island which carries palladio's church of santa maria maggiore, whose firm campanile stands out against the sky with grecian clearness and grace. looking over the bow, the traveler has facing him the grand canal, with the custom house where the figure of fortune veers with the wind above her golden ball; beyond rise the double domes of the salute with their great reversed consoles, forming the most majestic entrance to this watery avenue bordered by palaces. he who comes for the first time to venice by this route realizes a dream--his only dream perhaps ever destined to be surpassed by the reality; and if he knows how to enjoy the beauty of nature, if he can take delight in silver-gray and rose-colored reflections in water, if he loves light and color, the picturesque life of italian squares and streets, the good humor of the people and their gentle speech which seems like the twittering of birds, let him only allow himself to live for a little time under the sky of venice, and he has before him a season of happiness without alloy. the approach by train[ ] by the editor after leaving padua the land for several miles is flat sand. no grass or tree grows here. lagoons and canals intersect the land. at the right are marshes bordering the adriatic. along the horizon, light smoky clouds blend imperceptibly with the water. other clouds, floating overhead, are reflected in the brown and waveless water. far across this expanse glides here and there a small boat, propelled by a man standing erect. through dim mists, settled over the bay, we sight flying birds that call loudly as they increase their flight. absolutely without motion is this water. the sole objects that move are boats and birds. the water shimmers and sparkles wherever the sun, passing in and out of clouds, lights it up. the shallow bay broadens until our view includes no land. everywhere extends a realm of waveless waters, in which fishing stakes stand erect, and tall plants grow. how strangely all this differs from the blue mediterranean we saw a fortnight ago when riding from genoa to leghorn, under that cloudless sky of blue; in that stirring breeze, and an almost tropical temperature, tho it was late in december; along that rocky, tunnel-pierced coast, with deep olive groves bordering the way; the sea a boundless vision of water moving and resounding against the shore; whitecaps everywhere visible on its broad expanse. here on this road to venice is complete repose, lifeless, sleepy repose--as of the dead--not without poetry, but of the orient and of mystics, rather than of provence, or the ligurian shore and active, stalwart men. we sight in the distance over the lagoon, the white walls and roof line of venice. the railway starts on its long course over one of the noblest bridges in the world. it is more than two miles long. some , piles were used in its foundations, the superstructure entirely of stone, with arches of feet span each, and in number. along the roadway, on either side is a stone balustrade. at each pier a balcony curves outward. for four years a thousand men were engaged in building this viaduct, and the total cost was $ , , . having crossed, we reach an island; then cross another, but shorter, bridge and pass to another island. our train thereafter comes to a stop for we have reached venice and enter a magnificent station, built of stone, with high semi-circular roof, lofty waiting rooms, mosaic floors. we pass out through a spacious doorway, and directly below, and in front, see the grand canal, bordered on its farther shore by palaces and other noble structures of white marble. a wide and broad plaza here fronts the water, and a stairway at its edge leads downward to where are waiting a score of gondolas. we step into one of these boats, and begin our first gondola ride in adriatic waters. it is late afternoon. the western sun lies dying in a mass of yellow and soft brown clouds. on the high walls of the great white station its rays fall with startling brightness and cast long shadows of waiting gondoliers upon the plaza floor. the white palaces opposite are shrouded in somber hues. a warm mist seems to rise from the water. all is still as in the mid-atlantic. when a sound is made, echoes sharp and clear come from shore to shore. our boat glides away from this scene. adjusting ourselves to its motion, we roll from side to side in our little house of glass on a downy seat and could pass the whole night here contentedly. such rest, such appalling silence, we never knew before. those gondoliers do their work with consummate skill. they have all the ease that comes of practise in any calling however difficult. the sharp cut of an oar as it enters the water is for a moment heard, but never a splash. the boat rolls constantly, but we feel no strain. it moves as if it were a toy swan drawn by a magnet in a child's hand. from the grand canal we enter a narrow street. sharp corners are turned quickly, swift-moving boats are passed, narrow passages entered, and we glide into deep shadows under bridges, but never a collision, or danger of one, occurs. the gondolier at crossings cries out his warning. we hear, but do not see, another who calls aloud in similar tones. the two voices are heard again, each in an echo. far away in this watery but populous solitude, a church bell tolls. we have had a quarter-hour's ride when the gondola comes to rest before broad stone steps leading upward to a wide doorway. here is our hotel, an ancient palace, rich in marble and granite, with broad corridor, a noble stairway, and mosaic floors. it is sunday on st. mark's place--a bright, warm sunday it has been, such as winter can not give in our own country. here, indeed, is a foreign land, its life and spirit more foreign than rome. no scene in the wide world can rival this st. mark's scene, with the islands across the way in the broad lagoon--a magnificent piazza, bordered by the façades of splendid palaces, by statues, columns, and ornate capitals, another piazza near it surrounded on three sides by noble arcaded structures and on the fourth by the half gothic, half byzantine church of st. mark's, the most resplendent christian edifice in europe. in one corner rises the stupendous campanile, high above palace roofs, arcades and church domes, its bells sounding their notes upon an otherwise silent world. a tour of the grand canal[ ] by thÉophile gautier the grand canal of venice is the most wonderful thing in the world. no other city affords a spectacle so fine, so bizarre, so fairy-like. as remarkable bits of architecture, perhaps, can be found elsewhere, but nowhere located under such picturesque conditions. there each palace has a mirror in which to gaze at its beauty, like a coquettish woman. the superb reality is doubled by a charming reflection. the water lovingly caresses the feet of these beautiful façades, which a white light kisses on the forehead, and cradles them in a double sky. the small boats and big ships which are able to ascend it seem to be made fast for the express purpose of serving as set-offs or ground-plans for the convenience of the decorators.... each bit of wall narrates a story; every house is a palace; at each stroke of the oars the gondolier mentions a name which was as well known in the times of the crusades as it is to-day; and this continues both to left and right for a distance of more than half a league. we have made a list of these palaces, not of all, but the most remarkable, and we do not dare to transcribe it here on account of its length. it covers five or six pages: pierre lombard, scamozzi, sansovino, sebastiano mazzoni, sammichelli, the great architect of verona; selva, domenico rossi, visentini, have drawn the plans and directed the construction of these princely dwellings, without reckoning the unknown artists of the middle ages who built the most picturesque and most romantic of them--those which give venice its stamp and its originality. on both banks, façades altogether charming and beautifully diversified succeed one another without interruption. after an architecture of the renaissance with its columns comes a palace of the middle ages in gothic arab style, of which the ducal palace is the prototype, with its balconies, lancet windows, trefoils, and acroteria. further along is a façade adorned with marble placques of various colors, garnished with medallions and consoles; then a great rose-colored wall in which is cut a large window with columnets; all styles are found there--the byzantine, the saracen, the lombard, the gothic, the roman, the greek, and even the rococo; the column and the columnet; the lancet and the semicircle; the fanciful capital, full of birds and of flowers, brought from acre or from jaffa; the greek capital found in athenian ruins; the mosaic and the bas-relief; the classic severity and elegant fantasy of the renaissance. it is an immense gallery open to the sky, where one can study from the bottom of his gondola the art of seven or eight centuries. what treasures of genius, talent, and money have been expended on this space which may be traversed in less than a quarter of an hour! what tremendous artists, but also what intelligent and munificent patrons! what a pity that the patricians who knew how to achieve such beautiful things no longer exist save on the canvases of titian, of tintoretto, and du moro! even before reaching the rialto, you have, on the left, in ascending the canal, the palace dario, in gothic style; the palace venier, which presents itself by an angle, with its ornamentation, its precious marbles and medallions, in the lombard style; the fine arts, a classic façade joined to the old ecole de la charité and surmounted by a figure riding upon a lion; the contarini palace, in architectural style of scamozzi; the rezzonico palace with three superimposed orders; the triple giustiniani palace, in the style of the middle ages, in which resides m. natale schiavoni, a descendant of the celebrated painter schiavoni, who possesses a gallery of pictures and a beautiful daughter, the living reproduction of a canvas painted by her ancestor; the foscari palace, recognizable by its low door, by its two stories of columnets supporting lancets and trefoils, where in other days were lodged the sovereigns who visited venice, but now abandoned; the balbi palace, from the balcony of which the princes leaned to watch the regattas which took place upon the grand canal with so much pomp and splendor, in the palmy days of the republic; the pisani palace, in the german style of the beginning of the fifteenth century; and the tiepolo palace, very smart and relatively modern. on the right, there nestles between two big buildings, a delicious little palace which is composed of a window and a balcony; but such a window and balcony! a guipure of stone, of scrolls, of guillochages, and of open-work, which would seem possible of execution only with a punching machine upon one of those sheets of paper which cover baptismal sugar-plums, or are placed upon globes of lamps. we greatly regretted not having twenty-five thousand francs about us to buy it, since that was all that was demanded for it.... the rialto, which is the most beautiful bridge in venice, with a very grandiose and monumental air, bestrides the canal by a single span with a powerful and graceful curve. it was built in , under the dogeship of pasquale cigogna, by antonio da ponte, and replaced the ancient wooden drawbridge. two rows of shops, separated in the middle by a portico in the form of an arcade and permitting a glimpse of the sky, burden the sides of the bridge, which can be crossed by three paths; that in the center and the exterior passageways furnished with balustrades of marble. around the bridge of the rialto, one of the most picturesque spots of the grand canal, are gathered the oldest houses in venice, with platformed roofs, on which poles are planted to hang banners; their long chimneys, their bulging balconies, their stairways with disjointed steps, and their plaques of red coating, the fallen flakes of which lay bare the brick walls and the foundations made green by contact with the water. there is always near the rialto a tumult of boats and gondolas and of stagnant islets of tied-up craft drying their tawny sails, which are sometimes traversed by a large cross.... below and beyond the rialto are grouped on both banks the ancient fondaco dei tedeschi, upon the colored walls of which, in uncertain tints, may be devined some frescoes of titian and tintoretto, like dreams which come only to vanish; the fish-market, the vegetable market, and the old and new buildings of scarpagnino and of sansovino, almost fallen in ruins, in which are installed various courts.... on the right rises the palace della cà d'oro, one of the most charming on the grand canal. it belongs to mademoiselle taglioni,[ ] who has restored it with most intelligent care. it is all embroidered, fringed, carved in a greek, gothic, barbaric style, so fantastic, so light, so aerial, that it might be fancied to have been built expressly for the nest of a sylph. mlle. taglioni has pity for these poor, abandoned palaces. she has several of them en pension, which she maintains out of pure commiseration for their beauty; we were told of three or four upon which she has bestowed this charity of repair.... in going to a distance from the heart of the city, life is extinct. many windows are closed or barred with boards; but this sadness has its beauty; it is more perceptible to the soul than to the eyes, regaled without cessation by the most unforeseen accidents of light and shade, by buildings so varied that even their dilapidation only renders them more picturesque, by the perpetual movement of the waters, and that blue and rose tint which composes the atmosphere of venice. st. mark's church[ ] by john ruskin beyond those troops of ordered arches there rises a vision out of the earth, and all the great square seems to have opened from it in a kind of awe, that we may see it far away--a multitude of pillars and white domes, clustered into a long low pyramid of colored light; a treasure-heap, it seems, partly of gold, and partly of opal and mother-of-pearl, hollowed beneath into five great vaulted porches, ceiled with fair mosaic, and beset with sculpture of alabaster, clear as amber and delicate as ivory--sculpture fantastic and involved, of palm leaves and lilies, and grapes and pomegranates, and birds clinging and fluttering among the branches, all twined together into an endless network of buds and plumes; and, in the midst of it, the solemn forms of angels, sceptered and robed to the feet, and leaning to each other across the gates, their figures indistinct among the gleaming of the golden ground through the leaves beside them, interrupted and dim, like the morning light as it faded back among the branches of eden, when first its gates were angel-guarded long ago. and round the walls of the porches there are set pillars of variegated stones, jasper and porphyry, and deep-green serpentine spotted with flakes of snow, and marbles, that half refuse and half yield to the sunshine, cleopatra-like, "their bluest veins to kiss"--the shadow, as it steals back from them, revealing line after line of azure undulation, as a receding tide leaves the waved sand; their capitals rich with interwoven tracery, rooted knots of herbage, and drifting leaves of acanthus and vine, and mystical signs, all beginning and ending in the cross; and above them, in the broad archivolts, a continuous chain of language and of life--angels, and the signs of heaven, and the labors of men, each in its appointed season upon the earth; and above these, another range of glittering pinnacles, mixed with white arches edged with scarlet flowers--a confusion of delight, amid which the breasts of the greek horses are seen blazing in their breadth of golden strength, and the st. mark's lion, lifted on a blue field covered with stars, until at last, as if in ecstasy, the crests of the arches break into a marble foam, and toss themselves far into the blue sky in flashes and wreaths of sculptured spray, as if the breakers on the lido shore had been frost-bound before they fell, and the sea-nymphs had inlaid them with coral and amethyst. between that grim cathedral of england and this, what an interval! there is a type of it in the very birds that haunt them; for, instead of the restless crowd, hoarse-voiced and sable-winged, drifting on the bleak upper air, the st. mark's porches are full of doves, that nestle among the marble foliage, and mingle the soft iridescence of their living plumes, changing at every motion, with the tints, hardly less lovely, that have stood unchanged for seven hundred years. and what effect has this splendor on those who pass beneath it? you may walk from sunrise to sunset, to and fro, before the gateway of st. mark's, and you will not see an eye lifted to it, nor a countenance brightened by it. priest and layman, soldier and civilian, rich and poor, pass by it alike regardlessly. up to the very recesses of the porches, the meanest tradesmen of the city push their counters; nay, the foundations of its pillars are themselves the seats--not "of them that sell doves" for sacrifice, but of the venders of toys and caricatures. round the whole square in front of the church there is almost a continuous line of cafés, where the idle venetians of the middle classes lounge, and read empty journals; in its center the austrian bands[ ] play during the time of vespers, their martial music jarring with the organ notes--the march drowning the miserere, and the sullen crowd thickening round them--a crowd, which, if it had its will, would stiletto every soldier that pipes to it. and in the recesses of the porches, all day long, knots of men of the lowest classes, unemployed and listless, lie basking in the sun like lizards; and unregarded children--every heavy glance of their young eyes full of desperation and stony depravity, and their throats hoarse with cursing--gamble, and fight, and snarl, and sleep, hour after hour, clashing their bruised centesimi upon the marble ledges of the church porch. and the images of christ and his angels look down upon it continually.... let us enter the church itself. it is lost in still deeper twilight, to which the eye must be accustomed for some moments before the form of the building can be traced; and then there opens before us a vast cave, hewn out into the form of a cross, and divided into shadowy aisles by many pillars. round the domes of its roof the light enters only through narrow apertures like large stars; and here and there a ray or two from some far away casement wanders into the darkness, and casts a narrow phosphoric stream upon the waves of marble that heave and fall in a thousand colors along the floor. what else there is of light is from torches, or silver lamps burning ceaselessly in the recesses of the chapels; the roof sheeted with gold, and the polished walls covered with alabaster, give back at every curve and angle some feeble gleaming to the flames; and the glories round the heads of the sculptured saints flash out upon us as we pass them, and sink again into the gloom. under foot and over head, a continual succession of crowded imagery, one picture passing into another, as in a dream; forms beautiful and terrible mixed together; dragons and serpents, and ravening beasts of prey, and graceful birds that in the midst of them drink from running fountains and feed from vases of crystal; the passions and the pleasures of human life symbolized together, and the mystery of its redemption; for the mazes of interwoven lines and changeful pictures lead always at last to the cross, lifted and carved in every place and upon every stone; sometimes with the serpent of eternity wrapt round it, sometimes with doves beneath its arms, and sweet herbage growing forth from its feet; but conspicuous most of all on the great rood that crosses the church before the altar, raised in bright blazonry against the shadow of the apse. and altho in the recesses of the aisles and chapels, when the mist of the incense hangs heavily, we may see continually a figure traced in faint lines upon their marble, a woman standing with her eyes raised to heaven, and the inscription above her, "mother of god," she is not here the presiding deity. it is the cross that is first seen, and always, burning in the center of the temple; and every dome and hollow of its roof has the figure of christ in the utmost height of it, raised in power, or returning in judgment. nor is this interior without effect on the minds of the people. at every hour of the day there are groups collected before the various shrines, and solitary worshipers scattered through the darker places of the church, evidently in prayer both deep and reverent, and, for the most part, profoundly sorrowful. the devotees at the greater number of the renowned shrines of romanism may be seen murmuring their appointed prayers with wandering eyes and unengaged gestures; but the step of the stranger does not disturb those who kneel on the pavement of st. mark's; and hardly a moment passes from early morning to sunset in which we may not see some half-veiled figure enter beneath the arabian porch, cast itself into long abasement on the floor of the temple, and then rising slowly with more confirmed step, and with a passionate kiss and clasp of the arms given to the feet of the crucifix, by which the lamps burn always in the northern aisle, leave the church, as if comforted.... it must therefore be altogether without reference to its present usefulness, that we pursue our inquiry into the merits and meaning of the architecture of this marvelous building; and it can only be after we have terminated that inquiry, conducting it carefully on abstract grounds, that we can pronounce with any certainty how far the present neglect of st. mark's is significative of the decline of the venetian character, or how far this church is to be considered as the relic of a barbarous age, incapable of attracting the admiration, or influencing the feelings of a civilized community. now the first broad characteristic of the building, and the root nearly of every other important peculiarity in it, is its confessed incrustation. it is the purest example in italy of the great school of architecture in which the ruling principle is the incrustation of brick with more precious materials. consider the natural circumstances which give rise to such a style. suppose a nation of builders, placed far from any quarries of available stone, and having precarious access to the mainland where they exist; compelled therefore either to build entirely with brick, or to import whatever stone they use from great distances, in ships of small tonnage, and for the most part dependent for speed on the oar rather than the sail. the labor and cost of carriage are just as great, whether they import common or precious stone, and therefore the natural tendency would always be to make each shipload as valuable as possible. but in proportion to the preciousness of the stone, is the limitation of its possible supply; limitation not determined merely by cost, but by the physical conditions of the material, for of many marbles pieces above a certain size are not to be had for money. there would also be a tendency in such circumstances to import as much stone as possible ready sculptured, in order to save weight; and therefore, if the traffic of their merchants led them to places where there were ruins of ancient edifices, to ship the available fragments of them home. out of this supply of marble, partly composed of pieces of so precious a quality that only a few tons of them could be on any terms obtained, and partly of shafts, capitals, and other portions of foreign buildings, the island architect has to fashion, as best he may, the anatomy of his edifice. how the old campanile was built[ ] by horatio f. brown the wide discrepancy of the dates, to , may perhaps be accounted for by the conjecture that the work of the building [the campanile] proceeded slowly, either with a view to allowing the foundations to consolidate, or owing to lack of funds, and that the chroniclers recorded each resumption of work as the beginning of the work. one point may, perhaps, be fixt. the campanile must have been some way above ground by the year , for the hospital founded by the sainted doge, pietro orseolo, which is said to have been attached to the base of the tower, was consecrated in that year. the campanile was finished, as far as the bell-chamber at least, in , under the doge domenico moresini, whose sarcophagus and bust surmount the portal of the san nicoll del lido. the chroniclers are at variance among themselves as to the date of the foundation, nor has an examination of the foundations themselves led to any discovery which enables us to determine that date; but one or two considerations would induce us to discard the earlier epochs. the foundations must have been designed to carry a tower of the same breadth, tho possibly not of the same height, as that which has recently fallen. but in the year of had the venetians such a conception of their greatness as to project a tower far more massive than any which had been hitherto constructed in italy? did they possess the wealth to justify them in such an enterprise? would they have designed such a tower to match st. mark's, which was at that time a small church with walls of wood? it is more probable that the construction of the campanile belongs to the period of the second church of st. mark, which was begun after the fire of and consecrated in . the height of the campanile at the time of its fall was . meters ( ft.), from the base to the head of the angel, tho a considerable portion of this height was not added till ; its width at the base of the shaft . meters ( ft. in.), and one meter ( ft. in.) less at the top of the shaft. the weight has been calculated at about , tons. thanks to excavations at the base of the tower made by com. giacomo boni, at the request of mr. c. h. blackall, of boston, u. s. a., in the year , a report of which was printed in the archivio veneto, we possess some accurate knowledge about a portion of the foundation upon which this enormous mass rested. the subsoil of venice is composed of layers of clay, sometimes traversed by layers of peat, overlying profound strata of watery sand. this clay is, in places, of a remarkably firm consistency; for example, in the quarter of the town known as dorsoduro or "hard-back," and at the spot where the campanile stood. a bore made at that point brought up a greenish, compact clay mixed with fine shells. this clay, when dried, offered the resisting power of half-baked brick. it is the remarkable firmness of this clay which enabled the venetians to raise so ponderous a structure upon so narrow a foundation. the builders of the campanile proceeded as follows: into this bed of compact clay they first drove piles of about / in. in diameter with a view to consolidate still further, by pressure, the area selected. that area only extends . meter, or about ft. beyond the spring of the brickwork shaft of the tower. how deep these piles reach boni's report does not state. the piles, at the point where he laid the foundation bare, were found to be of white poplar, in remarkably sound condition, retaining their color, and presenting closely twisted fiber. the clay in which they were embedded has preserved them almost intact. the piles extended for one row only beyond the superimposed structure. on the top of these piles the builders laid a platform consisting of two layers of oak beams, crosswise. the lower layer runs in the line of the piazza, east to west, the upper in the line of the piazzetta, north to south. each beam is square and a little over in. thick. this oak platform appears to be in bad condition; the timbers are blackened and friable. while the excavation was in progress sea-water burst through the interstices, which had to be plugged. upon this platform was laid the foundation proper. this consisted of seven courses of stone of various sizes and of various kinds--sandstone of two qualities, limestone from istria and verona, probably taken from older buildings on the mainland, certainly not fresh-hewn from the quarry. the seventh or lowest course was the deepest, and was the only one which escaped, and that but slightly; the remaining six courses were intended to be perpendicular. these courses varied widely from each other in thickness--from . to . meters. they were composed of different and ill-assorted stone, and were held together in places by shallow-biting clamps of iron, and by a mortar of white istrian lime, which, not being hydraulic, and having little affinity for sand, had become disintegrated. boni calls attention to the careless structure of this foundation proper, and maintains that it was designed to carry a tower of about two-thirds of the actual height imposed upon it, but not more. above the foundation proper came the base. this consisted of five courses of stone set in stepwise. these courses of the base were all the same kind of stone, in fairly regular blocks, and of fairly uniform thickness. they were all intended to be seen, and originally rose from the old brick pavement of the piazza; but the gradual subsidence of the soil--which is calculated as proceeding at the rate of nearly a meter per , years--caused two and a half of these stepped courses to disappear, and only two and a half emerged from the present pavement. thus the structure upon which the brick shaft of the campanile rested was composed of ( ) the base of five stepped courses, ( ) the foundations of seven courses almost perpendicular, ( ) the platform of oak beams, and ( ) the piles. the height of the foundation, including the base, was . meters, about ft., or one-twentieth of the height they carried. not only is this a very small proportion, but it will be further observed that the tradition of star-shaped supports to the foundations is destroyed, and that they covered a very restricted area. in fact, the foundations of the campanile belonged to the primitive or narrow kind. the foundations of the ducal palace, on the other hand, belonged to the more recent or extended kind. those foundations do not rest on piles, but on a very broad platform of larch beams--much thicker than the oak beams of the campanile platform--reposing directly on the clay. upon this platform, foundations with a distended escarpment were built to carry the walls, the weight of which was thus distributed equally over a wide area. little of the old foundations of the campanile will remain when the work on the new foundations is completed. the primitive piles and platform are to stand; but new piles have been driven in all round the original nucleus, and on them are being laid large blocks of istrian stone, which will be so deeply bonded into the old foundations that hardly more than a central core of the early work will be left ... in a peculiar fashion the campanile of san marco summed up the whole life of the city--civil, religious, commercial, and military--and became the central point of venetian sentiment. for the tower served the double needs of the ecclesiastic and the civic sides of the republic. its bells marked the canonical hours; rang the workman to his work, the merchant to his desk, the statesman to the senate; they pealed for victory or tolled for the demise of a doge. the tower, moreover, during the long course of its construction, roughly speaking, from the middle of the tenth to the opening of the sixteenth centuries, was contemporary with all that was greatest in venetian history; for the close of the tenth century saw the conquest of dalmatia, and the foundations of venetian supremacy in the adriatic--that water-avenue to the levant and the orient--while by the opening of the sixteenth the cape route had been discovered, the league of cambray was in sight, and the end at hand. the tower, too, was a landmark to those at sea, and when the mariner had the campanile of san nicolo on the lido covering the campanile of st. marks, he knew he had the route home and could make the lido port. the tower was the center of popular festivals, such as that of the svolo on giovedi grasso, when an acrobat descended by a rope from the summit of the campanile to the feet of the doge, who was a spectator from the loggia of the ducal palace. how the campanile fell[ ] by horatio t. brown we come now to the dolorous moment of the fall in july, . infiltration of water had been observed in the roof of sansovino's loggetta where that roof joined the shaft of the campanile. at this point a thin ledge of stone, let into the wall of the campanile, projected over the junction between the leaden roof of the loggetta and the shaft of the tower. in order to remedy the mischief of infiltration it was resolved to remove and replace this projecting ledge. to do this a chase was made in the wall of the campanile, which, at this point, consisted of a comparatively modern surface of masonry, placed there to repair the damage caused by lightning strokes. this chase was cut, not piecemeal, but continuously. the work was carried out on monday, july th. during the process the architect in charge became alarmed at the condition of the inner part of the wall laid bare by the cut. he exprest his fears to his superiors, but apparently no examination of the tower was made till the thursday following. even then the imminence of the danger does not seem to have been grasped. on saturday, the th, a crack was observed spreading upward in a sloping direction from the cut above the roof of the loggetta toward the northeast angle of the shaft, then crossing the angle and running up almost perpendicularly in the line of the little windows that gave light to the internal passage from the base to the bell-chamber. this crack assumed such a threatening aspect, and was making such visible progress, that the authorities in charge of the tower felt bound to inform the prefect, tho the danger was represented as not immediate, and the worst they expected was the fall of the angle where the crack had appeared. a complete collapse of the whole tower was absolutely excluded. as a precautionary measure the music in the piazza was suspended on saturday evening. on sunday orders were issued to endeavor to bind the threatened angle. but by monday morning early (july th) it was evident that the catastrophe could not be averted. dust began to pour out of the widening crack, and bricks to fall. a block of istrian stone crashed down from the bell-chamber, then a column from the same site. at . the ominous fissure opened, the face of the campanile toward the church and the ducal palace bulged out, the angle on the top and the pyramid below it swayed once or twice, and threatened to crush either the sansovino's library or the basilica of san marco in their fall, then the whole colossus subsided gently, almost noiselessly, upon itself, as it were in a curtsey, the ruined brick and mortar spread out in a pyramidal heap, a dense column of white powder rose from the piazza, and the campanile was no more. it is certainly remarkable, and by the people of venice it is reckoned as a miracle, that the tower in its fall did so little harm. not a single life was lost, tho the crowd in the piazza was unaware of its danger till about ten minutes before the catastrophe. the palace of the doges[ ] by john ruskin the ducal palace, which was the great work of venice, was built successively in the three styles. there was a byzantine ducal palace, a gothic ducal palace, and a renaissance ducal palace. the second superseded the first totally; a few stones of it (if indeed so much) are all that is left. but the third superseded the second in part only, and the existing building is formed by the union of the two. we shall review the history of each in succession. st. the byzantine palace. in the year of the death of charlemagne, , the venetians determined to make the island of rialto the seat of the government and capital of their state. their doge, angelo or agnello participazio, instantly took vigorous means for the enlargement of the small group of buildings which were to be the nucleus of the future venice. he appointed persons to superintend the raising of the banks of sand, so as to form more secure foundations, and to build wooden bridges over the canals. for the offices of religion, he built the church of st. mark; and on, or near, the spot where the ducal palace now stands, he built a palace for the administration of the government. the history of the ducal palace therefore begins with the birth of venice, and to what remains of it, at this day, is entrusted the last representation of her power.... in the year , it was for the second time injured by fire, but repaired before , when it received another emperor, henry v. (of germany), and was again honored by imperial praise. between and the close of the century, it seems to have been again repaired and much enlarged by the doge sebastian ziani. sansovino says that this doge not only repaired it, but "enlarged it in every direction;" and, after this enlargement, the palace seems to have remained untouched for a hundred years, until, in the commencement of the fourteenth century, the works of the gothic palace were begun. venice was in the zenith of her strength, and the heroism of her citizens was displaying itself in every quarter of the world. the acquiescence in the secure establishment of the aristocratic power was an expression, by the people, of respect for the families which had been chiefly instrumental in raising the commonwealth to such a height of prosperity.... in the first year of the fourteenth century, the gothic ducal palace of venice was begun; and as the byzantine palace was, in its foundation, coeval with that of the state, so the gothic palace was, in its foundation, coeval with that of the aristocratic power. considered as the principal representation of the venetian school of architecture, the ducal palace is the parthenon of venice, and gradenigo its pericles. before it was finished, occasion had been discovered for farther improvements. the senate found their new council chamber inconveniently small, and, about thirty years after its completion, began to consider where a larger and more magnificent one might be built. the government was now thoroughly established, and it was probably felt that there was some meanness in the retired position, as well as insufficiency in the size, of the council chamber on the rio. it appears from the entry still preserved in the archivio, and quoted by cadorin, that it was on the th of december, , that the commissioners appointed to decide on this important matter gave in their report to the grand council, and that the decree passed thereupon for the commencement of a new council chamber on the grand canal. the room then begun is the one now in existence, and its building involved the building of all that is best and most beautiful in the present ducal palace, the rich arcades of the lower stories being all prepared for sustaining this sala del gran consiglio. in saying that it is the same now in existence, i do not mean that it has undergone no alterations; it has been refitted again and again, and some portions of its walls rebuilt; but in the place and form in which it first stood, it still stands; and by a glance at the position which its windows occupy, the spectator will see at once that whatever can be known respecting the design of the sea façade, must be gleaned out of the entries which refer to the building of this great council chamber. cadorin quotes two of great importance, made during the progress of the work in and ; then one of , resolving that the works at the ducal palace, which had been discontinued during the plague, should be resumed; and finally one in , which speaks of the great council chamber as having been neglected and suffered to fall into "great desolation," and resolves that it shall be forthwith completed. the interruption had not been caused by the plague only, but by the conspiracy of faliero, and the violent death of the master builder. the work was resumed in , and completed within the next three years, at least so far as that guariento was enabled to paint his paradise on the walls, so that the building must, at any rate, have been roofed by this time. its decorations and fittings, however, were long in completion; the paintings on the roof being only executed in .... the works of addition or renovation had now been proceeding, at intervals, during a space of a hundred and twenty-three years. three generations at least had been accustomed to witness the gradual advancement of the form of the ducal palace into more stately symmetry, and to contrast the works of sculpture and painting with which it was decorated--full of the life, knowledge, and hope of the fourteenth century--with the rude byzantine chiselling of the palace of the doge ziani. the magnificent fabric just completed, of which the new council chamber was the nucleus, was now habitually known in venice as the "palazzo nuovo;" and the old byzantine edifice, now ruinous, and more manifest in its decay by its contrast with the goodly stones of the building which had been raised at its side, was of course known as the "palazzo vecchio." that fabric, however, still occupied the principal position in venice. the new council chamber had been erected by the side of it toward the sea; but there was not then the wide quay in front, the riva dei schiavoni, which now renders the sea façade as important as that to the piazzetta. there was only a narrow walk between the pillars and the water; and the old palace of ziani still faced the piazzetta, and interrupted, by its decrepitude, the magnificence of the square where the nobles daily met. every increase of the beauty of the new palace rendered the discrepancy between it and the companion building more painful; and then began to arise in the minds of all men a vague idea of the necessity of destroying the old palace, and completing the front of the piazzetta with the same splendor as the sea façade. but no such sweeping measure of renovation had been contemplated by the senate when they first formed the plan of their new council chamber. first a single additional room, then a gateway, then a larger room; but all considered merely as necessary additions to the palace, not as involving the entire reconstruction of the ancient edifice. the exhaustion of the treasury, and the shadows upon the political horizon, rendered it more imprudent to incur the vast additional expense which such a project involved; and the senate, fearful of itself, and desirous to guard against the weakness of its own enthusiasm, passed a decree, like the effort of a man fearful of some strong temptation to keep his thoughts averted from the point of danger. it was a decree, not merely that the old palace should not be rebuilt, but that no one should propose rebuilding it. the feeling of the desirableness of doing so was too strong to permit fair discussion, and the senate knew that to bring forward such a motion was to carry it. the decree, thus passed in order to guard against their own weakness, forbade any one to speak of rebuilding the old palace, under the penalty of a thousand ducats. but they had rated their own enthusiasm too low; there was a man among them whom the loss of a thousand ducats could not deter from proposing what he believed to be for the good of the state. some excuse was given him for bringing forward the motion, by a fire which occurred in , and which injured both the church of st. mark's, and part of the old palace fronting the piazzetta. what followed, i shall relate in the words of sanuto. "therefore they set themselves with all diligence and care to repair and adorn sumptuously, first god's house; but in the prince's house things went on more slowly, for it did not please the doge to restore it in the form in which it was before; and they could not rebuild it altogether in a better manner, so great was the parsimony of these old fathers; because it was forbidden by laws, which condemned in a penalty of a thousand ducats any one who should propose to throw down the old palace, and to rebuild it more richly and with greater expense. "but the doge, who was magnanimous, and who desired above all things what was honorable to the city, had the thousand ducats carried into the senate chamber, and then proposed that the palace should be rebuilt; saying: that, since the late fire had ruined in great part the ducal habitation (not only his own private palace, but all the places used for public business), this occasion was to be taken for an admonishment sent from god, that they ought to rebuild the palace more nobly, and in a way more befitting the greatness to which, by god's grace, their dominions had reached; and that his motive in proposing this was neither ambition, nor selfish interest; that, as for ambition, they might have seen in the whole course of his life, through so many years, that he had never done anything for ambition, either in the city, or in foreign business; but in all his actions had kept justice first in his thoughts, and then the advantage of the state, and the honor of the venetian name; and that, as far as regarded his private interest, if it had not been for this accident of the fire, he would never have thought of changing anything in the palace into either a more sumptuous or a more honorable form; and that during the many years in which he had lived in it, he had never endeavored to make any change, but had always been content with it as his predecessors had left it; and that he knew well that, if they took in hand to build it as he exhorted and besought them, being now very old, and broken down with many toils, god would call him to another life before the walls were raised a pace from the ground. and that therefore they might perceive that he did not advise them to raise this building for his own convenience, but only for the honor of the city and its dukedom; and that the good of it would never be felt by him, but by his successors." ... then he said, that 'in order, as he had always done, to observe the laws, he had brought with him the thousand ducats which had been appointed as the penalty for proposing such a measure, so that he might prove openly to all men that it was not his own advantage that he sought, but the dignity of the state.' there was no one (sanuto goes on to tell us) who ventured, or desired to oppose the wishes of the doge; and the thousand ducats were unanimously devoted to the expenses of the work. "and they set themselves with much diligence to the work; and the palace was begun in the form and manner in which it is at present seen; but, as mocenigo[ ] had prophesied, not long after, he ended his life, and not only did not see the work brought to a close, but hardly even begun." there are one or two expressions in the above extracts which, if they stood alone, might lead the reader to suppose that the whole palace had been thrown down and rebuilt. we must however remember, that, at this time, the new council chamber, which had been one hundred years in building, was actually unfinished, the council had not yet sat in it; and it was just as likely that the doge should then propose to destroy and rebuild it, as in this year, , it is that any one should propose in our house of commons to throw down the new houses of parliament, under the title of the "old palace," and rebuild them.... it was in the year that the decree passed to rebuild the palace; mocenigo died in the following year, and francesco foscari was elected in his room. the great council chamber was used for the first time on the day when foscari entered the senate as doge--the rd of april, , according to the "caroldo chronicle;" the d, which is probably correct, by an anonymous ms., no. , in the correr museum; and the following year, on the th of march, the first hammer was lifted up against the old palace of ziani. that hammer stroke was the first act of the period properly called the "renaissance." it was the knell of the architecture of venice--and of venice herself. the central epoch of her life was past; the decay had already begun; i date its commencement from the death of mocenigo. a year had not yet elapsed since that great doge had been called to his account; his patriotism, always sincere, had been in this instance mistaken; in his zeal for the honor of future venice, he had forgotten what was due to the venice of long ago. a thousand palaces might be built upon her burdened islands, but none of them could taken the place, or recall the memory, of that which was first built upon her unfrequented shore. it fell; and, as if it had been the talisman of fortune, the city never flourished again. i have no intention of following out, in their intricate details, the operations which were begun under foscari and continued under succeeding doges till the palace assumed its present form, for i am not in this work concerned, except by occasional reference, with the architecture of the fifteenth century; but the main facts are the following. the palace of ziani was destroyed; the existing façade to the piazzetta built, so as both to continue and to resemble, in most particulars, the work of the great council chamber. it was carried back from the sea as far as the judgment angle; beyond which is the porta della carta, begun in , and finished in two years, under the doge foscari; the interior buildings connected with it were added by the doge christopher moro (the othello of shakespeare) in . some remnants of the ziani palace were perhaps still left between the two extremities of the gothic palace; or, as is more probable, the last stones of it may have been swept away after the fire of , and replaced by new apartments for the doge. but whatever buildings, old or new, stood on this spot at the time of the completion of the porta della carta were destroyed by another great fire in , together with so much of the palace on the rio that, tho the saloon of gradenigo, then known as the sala de pregadi, was not destroyed, it became necessary to reconstruct the entire façades of the portion of the palace behind the bridge of sighs, both toward the court and canal. the palace was not long permitted to remain in finished form. another terrific fire, commonly called the great fire, burst out in , and destroyed the inner fittings and all the precious pictures of the great council chamber, and of all the upper rooms on the sea façade, and most of those on the rio façade, leaving the building a mere shell, shaken and blasted by the flames. it was debated in the great council whether the ruin should not be thrown down, and an entirely new palace built in its stead. the opinions of all the leading architects of venice were taken, respecting the safety of the walls, or the possibility of repairing them as they stood. these opinions, given in writing, have been preserved, and published by the abbé cadorin, and they form one of the most important series of documents connected with the ducal palace. i can not help feeling some childish pleasure in the accidental resemblance to my own name in that of the architect whose opinion was first given in favor of the ancient fabric, giovanni rusconi. others, especially palladio, wanted to pull down the old palace, and execute designs of their own; but the best architects in venice, and, to his immortal honor, chiefly francesco sansovino, energetically pleaded for the gothic pile, and prevailed. it was successfully repaired, and tintoret painted his noblest picture on the wall from which the paradise of guariento had withered before the flames. the repairs necessarily undertaken at this time were however extensive, and interfere in many directions with the earlier work of the palace; still the only serious alteration in its form was the transposition of the prisons, formerly at the top of the palace, to the other side of the rio del palazzo; and the building of the bridge of sighs, to connect them with the palace, by antonio da ponte. the completion of this work brought the whole edifice into its present form; with the exception of alterations in doors, partitions, and staircases among the inner apartments, not worth noticing, and such barbarisms and defacements as have been suffered within the last fifty years, by, i suppose, nearly every building of importance in italy. the lagoons[ ] by horatio f. brown the colonization of the venetian estuary is usually dated from the year , the period of the hunnish invasion under attila, when the scourge of god, as he was named by his terror-stricken opponents, sacked the rich roman cities of aquileia, concordia, opitergium, and padua. in one sense the date is correct. the hunnish invasion certainly gave an enormous increase to the lagoon population, and called the attention of the mainlanders, to the admirable asylum which the estuary offered in times of danger. when alcuin, the great scholar from yorkshire, was teaching charlemagne's son and heir, pepin, he drew up for his pupil's use a curious catechism of questions and answers. among others this occurs: "what is the sea." "a refuge in time of danger." surely a strange answer, and one which can hardly be reckoned as true except in the particular case of the venetian lagoons. for the mainlanders were caught between the devil of attila and the deep sea of the adriatic, and had they not found the lagoons ready at hand to offer them an asylum and to prove a refuge in time of danger, it must have fared hard with them. but this date of is not to be taken as the date of the very earliest occupation of the lagoon. long before attila and his huns swept down upon italy, we know that there was a sparse population occupying the estuary, engaged in fishing and in the salt trade. cassiodorus, the secretary of the gothic king theodoric the great, has left us a picture of this people, hardy, independent, toughened by their life on the salt water; their means of living; the fish of the lagoons; their source of wealth; the salt which they extracted from its waters; their houses, wattled cabins built upon piles driven into the mud; their means of locomotion light boats which were tied to the door posts like horses on mainland. "thus you live in your sea-birds' home," he exclaims, "rich and poor under equal laws; a common food supports you; house is like unto house; and envy, that curse of all the world, hath no place there." no doubt this early population of the lagoons, already intimately associated with its dwelling-place, modified by it and adapted to it, helped to form the basis upon which the latter strata of population, the result of the hunnish invasion, could rest; and in all probability some of the characteristics of this early population, its independence and its hardihood, passed into the composition of the full-grown venetian race. but beyond the brief words of cassiodorus we know little about these early lagoon-dwellers. it is really with the hunnish invasion that the history of venice begins its first period of growth. the population which flocked from the mainland to seek refuge in the estuary of venice came from many different cities--from aquileia, from concordia, from padua; and tho the inhabitants of all these, no doubt, bore the external stamp which rome never failed to impose, yet, equally doubtless, they brought with them their own particular customs, their mutual hates and rivalries. while living on the mainland these animosities had wider space in which to play, and were therefore less dangerous, less explosive. but in the lagoons, under stress of suffering, and owing to confinement and juxtaposition, they became intensified, exaggerated, and perilous. there was a double problem before the growing venetian population which required to be solved before venice and the venetians could, with any justice, be considered a place and a people. first, the various and largely hostile populations who had taken refuge in the lagoon had to be reconciled to each other; and secondly, they had to be reconciled to their new home, to be identified with it and made one with it. the lagoon achieved both reconciliations; the isolation of its waters, their strangeness, gradually created the feeling of unity, of family connection, among the diverse and hostile components of the population, till a fusion took place between the original and the immigrant inhabitants, and between the people and their home, and venice and the venetians emerge upon the history of the world as an individual and full-grown race. but this reconciliation and identification were not accomplished at once. they cost many years of struggle and of danger. the unification of venice is the history of a series of compromises, an historical example of the great law of selection and survival. the decline amid splendor[ ] by hippolyte adolphe taine venice the beautiful city ended, pagan-like, as did its sisters the greek republics, through nonchalance and voluptuousness. we find, indeed, from time to time, a francis morosini, who like aratus and philopoemen, renews the heroism and victories of ancient days; but, after the seventeenth century, its bright career is over. the city, municipal and circumscribed, is found to be weak, like athens and corinth, against powerful military neighbors who either neglect or tolerate it; the french and the germans violate its neutrality with impunity; it subsists and that is all, and it pretends to do no more. its nobles care only to amuse themselves; war and politics with them recede in the background; she becomes gallant and worldly.... but the evening of this fallen city is as mellow and as brilliant as a venetian sunset. with the absence of care gaiety prevails. one encounters nothing but public and private fêtes in the memoirs of their writers and in the pictures of their painters. at one time it is a pompous banquet in a superb saloon festooned with gold, with tall lustrous windows and pale crimson curtains, the doge in his simarre dining with the magistrates in purple robes, and masked guests gliding over the floor; nothing is more elegant than the exquisite aristocracy of their small feet, their slender necks and their jaunty little three-cornered hats among skirts flounced with yellow or pearly gray silks. at another it is a regatta of gondolas and we see on the sea between san-marco and san-giorgio, around the huge bucentaur[ ] like a leviathan cuirassed with scales of gold, flotillas of boats parting the water with their steel becks. a crowd of pretty dominos, male and female, flutter over the pavements; the sea seems to be of polished slate under a tender azure sky spotted with cloud-flocks while all around, as in a precious frame, like a fantastic border carved and embroidered, the procuraties, the domes, the palaces and the quays thronged with a joyous multitude, encircle the great maritime venetian sheet.... in truth they never concern themselves with religion except to repress the pope; in theory and in practise, in ideas and in instincts, they inherit the manners, customs and spirit of antiquity, and their christianity is only a name. like the ancients, they were at first heroes and artists, and then voluptuaries and dilettanti; in one as in the other case they, like the ancients, confined life to the present. in the eighteenth century they might be compared to the thebans of the decadence who, leagued together to consume their property in common, bequeathed what remained of their fortunes on dying to the survivors at their banquets. the carnival lasts six months; everybody, even the priests, the guardian of the capucins, the nuncio, little children, all who frequent the markets, wear masks. people pass by in processions disguised in the costumes of frenchmen, lawyers, gondoliers, calabrians and spanish soldiery, dancing and with musical instruments; the crowd follows jeering or applauding them. there is entire liberty; prince or artizan, all are equal; each may apostrophize a mask. pyramids of men form "pictures of strength" on the public squares; harlequins in the open air perform parades. seven theaters are open. improvizators declaim and comedians improvize amusing scenes. "there is no city where license has such sovereign rule." ... the chiogga campaign is the last act of the old heroic drama; there, as in the best days of the ancient republics, a besieged people is seen to save itself against all hope, artizans equipping vessels, a pisani conqueror undergoing imprisonment and only released to renew the victory, a carlo zeno, surviving forty wounds, and a doge of seventy years of age; a contarini, who makes a vow not to leave his vessel so long as the enemy's fleet is uncaptured, thirty families, apothecaries, grocers, vintners, tanners admitted among the nobles, a bravery, a public spirit like that of athens under themistocles and of rome under fabius cunctator. if, from this time forth, the inward fire abates we still feel its warmth for many long years, longer kept up than in the rest of italy, and sometimes demonstrating its power by sudden outbursts. the nobles, on their side, are always ready to fight. during the whole of the sixteenth century, even up to the seventeenth and beyond, we see them in dalmatia, in the morea, over the entire mediterranean, defending the soil inch by inch against the infidels. the garrison of famagouste yields only to famine, and its governor, bragadino, burned alive, is a hero of ancient days. at the battle of lepanto the venetians alone furnish one half of the christian fleet. thus on all sides, and notwithstanding their gradual decline, peril, energy, love of country, all, in brief, which constitutes or sustains the grand life of the soul here subsists, while throughout the peninsula foreign dominion, clerical oppression and voluptuous or academical inertia reduces man to the system of the antechamber, the subtleties of dilettantism and the babble of sonnets. but if the human spring is not broken at venice, it is seen insensibly losing its elasticity. the government, changed into a suspicious despotism, elects a mocenigo doge, a shameless speculator profiting on the public distress, instead of that charles zeno who had saved the country; it holds zeno prisoner two years and entrusts the armies on the mainland to condottieri; it is tied up in the hands of three inquisitors, provokes accusations, practises secret executions and commands the people to confine themselves to indulgences of pleasure. on the other hand luxury arises. about the year the houses "were quite small;" but a thousand nobles were enumerated in venice possessing from four to seventy thousand ducats rental, while three thousand ducats were sufficient to purchase a palace. henceforth this great wealth is no longer to be employed in enterprises and in self-devotion, but in pomp and magnificence. in , commine admires "the grand canal, the most beautiful street, i think, in the world, and with the best houses; the houses are very grand, high and of excellent stone--and these have been built within a century. all have fronts of white marble, which comes from istria, a hundred miles away, and yet many more great pieces of porphyry and of serpentine on them; inside they have, most of them, at least two chambers with gilded ceilings, rich screens of chimneys with carved marble, the bedsteads gilded and the 'ostevents' painted and gilded and well furnished within." on his arrival twenty-five gentlemen attired in silk and scarlet come to meet him; they conduct him to a boat decked with crimson silk; "it is this most triumphant city i ever saw." finally, while the necessity of pleasure grows the spirit of enterprise diminishes; the passage of the cape in the beginning of the sixteenth century places the commerce of asia in the hands of the portuguese; on the mediterranean and the atlantic the financial measures of charles v., joined to bad usage by the turks, render abortive the great maritime caravans which the state dispatches yearly between alexandria and bruges. in respect to industrial matters, the hampered artizans, watched and cloistered in their country, cease to perfect their arts and allow foreign competitors to surpass them in processes and in furnishing supplies to the world. thus, on all sides, the capacity for activity becomes lessened and the desire for enjoyment greater without one entirely effacing the other, but in a way that, both commingling, they produce that ambiguous state of mind similar to a mixed temperature which is never too severe and in which the arts are generated. indeed, it is from to , between the institution of state inquisitors and the battle of lepanto, between the accomplishment of internal despotism and the last of the great outward victories, that the brilliant productions of venetian art appear. john bellini was born in , giorgone died in , titian in , veronese in and tintoretto in . in this interval of one hundred and fifty years this warrior city, this mistress of the mediterranean, this queen of commerce and of industry became a casino for masqueraders and a den of courtezans. the doves of st. mark's[ ] by horatio f. brown in venice the pigeons do not allow you to forget them, even if one desired to forget a bird that is so intimately connected with the city and with a great ceremony of that ancient republic which has passed away. they belong so entirely to the place, and especially to the great square; they have made their homes for so many generations among the carvings of the basilica, at the feet of the bronze horses, and under the massive cornices of the new procuratie, that the great campanile itself is hardly more essential to the character of the piazza than are these delicate denizens of saint mark's. in the structure of the ducal palace, the wants of the pigeons have been taken into account, and near the two great wells which stand in the inner courtyard little cups of istrian stone have been let into the pavement for the pigeons to drink from. on cold, frosty mornings you may see them tapping disconsolately at the ice which covers their drinking troughs, and may win their thanks by breaking it for them. or if the wind blows hard from the east, the pigeons sit in long rows under the eaves of the procuratie; their necks drawn into their shoulders, and the neck feathers ruffled round their heads, till they have lost all shape, and look like a row of slate-colored cannon-balls. from saint mark's the pigeons have sent out colonies to the other churches and campi of venice. they have crossed the grand canal, and roost and croon among the volutes of the salute, or, in wild weather, wheel high and airly above its domes. they have even found their way to malamocco and mazzorbo; so that all venice in the sea owns and protects its sacred bird. but it is in saint mark's that the pigeons "most do congregate;" and one can not enter the piazza, and stand for a moment at the corner, without hearing the sudden rush of wings upon the air, and seeing the white under-feathers of their pinions, as the doves strike backward to check their flight, and flutter down at one's feet in expectation of peas or grain. they are boundlessly greedy, and will stuff themselves till they can hardly walk, and the little red feet stagger under the loaded crop. they are not virtuous, but they are very beautiful. there is a certain fitness in the fact that the dove should be the sacred bird of the sea city. both english "dove" and latin "columba" mean the diver; and the dove uses the air much as the fish uses the sea, it glides, it dives, it shoots through its airy ocean; it hovers against the breeze, or presses its breast against the sirocco storm, as you may see fish poised in their course against the stream; then with a sudden turn it relaxes the strain and sweeps away down the wind. the dove is an airy emblem of the sea upon which venice and the venetians live, but more than that--the most permanent quality in the color of the lagoons, where the lights are always shifting, is the dove-tone of sea and sky; a tone which holds all colors in solution, and out of which they emerge as the water-ripples or the cloud-flakes pass--just as the colors are shot and varied on a young dove's neck. there is some doubts as to the origin of these flocks of pigeons which shelter in saint mark's. according to one story, henry dandolo, the crusader, was besieging candia; he received valuable information from the interior of the island by means of carrier-pigeons, and, later on, sent news of his successes home to venice by the same messengers. in recognition of these services the government resolved to maintain the carriers at the public cost; and the flocks of to-day are the descendants of the fourteenth-century pigeons. the more probable tradition, however, is that which connects these pigeons with the antique ceremonies of palm sunday. on that festival the doge made the tour of the piazza, accompanied by all the officers of state, the patriarch, the foreign ambassadors, the silver trumpets, all the pomp of the ducal dignity. among other largess of that day, a number of pigeons, weighted by pieces of paper tied to their legs, used to be let loose from the gallery where the bronze horses stand, above the western door of the church. most of the birds were easily caught by the crowd, and kept for their easter dinner; but some escaped, and took refuge in the upper parts of the palace and among the domes of saint mark's. the superstition of the people was easily touched, and the birds that had sought the protection of the saint were thenceforth dedicated to the patron of venice. the charge of supporting them was committed to the superintendents of the corn stores, and the usual hour for feeding the pigeons was nine o'clock in the morning. during the revolution of , the birds fared as badly as the aristocracy, and were left to take care of themselves; but when matters settled down again the feeding of the pigeons was resumed by the municipality, and takes place at two in the afternoon, tho the incessant largess of strangers can leave the birds but little appetite for their regular meal. in spite of the multitudes of pigeons that haunt the squares of the city, a dead pigeon is as rare to see as a dead donkey on the mainland. it is a pious opinion that no venetian ever kills a pigeon, and apparently they never die; but the fact that they do not increase so rapidly as to become a nuisance instead of a pleasure, lends some color to the suspicion that pigeon pies are not unknown at certain tables during the proper season. torcello, the mother city[ ] by john ruskin seven miles to the north of venice, the banks of sand, which near the city rise little above low-water mark, attain by degrees a higher level, and hoist themselves at last into fields of salt morass, raised here and there into shapeless mounds, and interrupted by narrow creeks of sea. one of the feeblest of these inlets, after winding for some time among buried fragments of masonry, and knots of sunburned weeds whitened with webs of fucas, stays itself in an utterly stagnant pool beside a plot of greener grass covered with ground-ivy and violets. on this mound is built a rude brick campanile, of the commonest lombardic type, which if we ascend toward evening (and there are none to hinder us, the door of its ruinous staircase swinging idly on its hinges), we may command from it one of the most notable scenes in this wide world of ours. far as the eye can reach, a waste of wild sea moor, of a lurid ashen-gray; not like our northern moors with their jet-black pools and purple heath, but lifeless, the color of sackcloth, with the corrupted sea-water soaking through the roots of its acrid weeds, and gleaming hither and thither through its snaky channels. no gathering of fantastic mists, nor coursing of clouds across it; but melancholy clearness of space in the warm sunset, oppressive, reaching to the horizon of its level gloom. to the very horizon, on the northeast; but to the north and west, there is a blue line of higher land along the border of it, and above this, but farther back, a misty band of mountains, touched with snow. to the east, the paleness and roar of the adriatic, louder at momentary intervals as the surf breaks on the bar of sand; to the south, the widening branches of the calm lagoon, alternately purple and pale green, as they reflect the evening clouds or twilight sky; and almost beneath our feet, on the same field which sustains the tower we gaze from, a group of four buildings, two of them little larger than cottages (tho built of stone, and one adorned by a quaint belfry), the third an octagonal chapel, of which we can see but little more than the flat red roof with its rayed tiling, the fourth, a considerable church with nave and aisles, but of which, in like manner, we can see little but the long central ridge and lateral slopes of roof, which the sunlight separates in one glowing mass from the green field beneath and gray moor beyond. there are no living creatures near the buildings, nor any vestige of village or city round about them. they lie like a little company of ships becalmed on a faraway sea. then look farther to the south. beyond the widening branches of the lagoon, and rising out of the bright lake into which they gather, there are a multitude of towers, dark, and scattered among square-set shapes of clustered palaces, a long irregular line fretting the southern sky. mother and daughter, you behold them both in their widowhood--torcello and venice. thirteen hundred years ago, the gray moorland looked as it does this day, and the purple mountains stood as radiantly in the deep distances of evening; but on the line of the horizon, there were strange fires mixed with the light of sunset, and the lament of many human voices mixed with the fretting of the waves on their ridges of sand. the flames rose from the ruins of altinum; the lament from the multitude of its people, seeking, like israel of old, a refuge from the sword in the paths of the sea. the cattle are feeding and resting upon the site of the city that they left; the mower's scythe swept this day at dawn over the chief street of the city that they built, and the swathes of soft grass are now sending up their scent into the night air, the only incense that fills the temple of their ancient worship. cadore, titian's birthplace[ ] by amelia b. edwards we reached pieve di cadore about half-past eleven a.m., delays included. the quaint old piazza with its gloomy arcades, its antique houses with venetian windows, its cafés, its fountain, and its loungers, is just like the piazzas of serravalle, longarone, and other provincial towns of the same epoch. with its picturesque prefettura and belfry-tower one is already familiar in the pages of gilbert's "cadore." there, too, is the fine old double flight of steps leading up to the principal entrance on the first floor, as in the town-hall at heilbronn--a feature by no means italian; and there, about midway up the shaft of the campanile, is the great, gaudy, well-remembered fresco, better meant than painted, wherein titian, some twelve feet in height, robed and bearded, stands out against an ultramarine background, looking very like the portrait of a caravan giant at a fair.... turning aside from the glowing piazza and following the downward slope of a hill to the left of the prefettura, we come, at the distance of only a few yards, upon another open space, grassy and solitary, surrounded on three sides by rambling, dilapidated-looking houses, and opening on the fourth to a vista of woods and mountains. in this little piazza stands a massive stone fountain, time-worn and water-worn, surmounted by a statue of saint tiziano in the robes and square cap of an ecclesiastic. the water trickling through two metal pipes in the pedestal beneath saint tiziano's feet, makes a pleasant murmuring in the old stone basin; while, half hidden behind this fountain, and leaning up as if for shelter against a larger house adjoining, stands-a small whitewashed cottage upon the side-wall of which an incised tablet bears the following record: "nel mcccclxxvii fra queste vmili mura tiziano vecellio vene a celebre vita donde vsciva gia presso a cento anni in venezia addi xxvii agosto mdlxxvi." a poor, mean-looking, low-roofed dwelling, disfigured by external chimney-shafts and a built-out oven; lit with tiny, blinking, medieval windows; altogether unlovely; altogether unnoticeable; but--the birthplace of titian! it looked different, no doubt, when he was a boy and played outside here on the grass. it had probably a high, steep roof, like the homesteads in his own landscape drawings; but the present old brown tiles have been over it long enough to get mottled with yellow lichens. one would like to know if the fountain and the statue were there in his time; and if the water trickled ever to the same low tune; and if the women came there to wash their linen and fill their brazen water jars, as they do now. this lovely green hill, at all events, sheltered the home from the east winds; and monte duranno lifted his strange crest yonder against the southern horizon; and the woods dipt down to the valley, then as now, where the bridle-path slopes away to join the road to venice. we went up to the house, and knocked. the door was opened by a sickly, hunchbacked lad who begged us to walk in, and who seemed to be quite alone there. the house was very dark, and looked much older inside than from without. a long, low, gloomy upstairs chamber with a huge penthouse fire-place jutting into the room, was evidently as old as the days of titian's grandfather, to whom the house originally belonged; while a very small and very dark adjoining closet, with a porthole of window sunk in a slope of massive wall, was pointed out as the room in which the great painter was born. "but how do you know that he was born here?" i asked. the hunchback lifted his wasted hand with a deprecating gesture. "they have always said so, signora," he replied. "they have said so for more than four hundred years." "they?" i repeated, doubtfully. "the vecelli, signora." "i had understood that the vecellio family was extinct." "scusate, signora," said the hunchback. "the last direct descendant of 'il tiziano' died not long ago--a few years before i was born; and the collateral vecelli are citizens of cadore to this day. if the signora will be pleased to look for it, she will see the name of vecellio over a shop on the right-hand side, as she returns to the piazza." i did look for it; and there, sure enough, over a small shop-window i found it. it gave one an odd sort of shock, as if time were for the moment annihilated; and i remember how, with something of the same feeling, i once saw the name of rubens over a shop-front in the market-place at cologne. i left the house less incredulous than i entered it. of the identity of the building there has never been any kind of doubt; and i am inclined to accept with the house the identity of the room. titian, it should be remembered, lived long enough to become, long before he died, the glory of his family. he became rich; he became noble; his fame filled italy. hence the room in which he was born may well have acquired, half a century before his death--perhaps even during the lifetime of his mother--that sort of sacredness which is generally of post-mortem growth. the legend, handed down from vecellio to vecellio in uninterrupted succession, lays claim, therefore, to a more reliable pedigree than most traditions of a similar character. footnotes: [ ] from "travels in italy." translated by a. j. w. morrison and charles nisbet. goethe's visit to italy was made in . he was then only thirty-seven years of age. the visit had important influence on his subsequent career. the greatest of his works were still to be written. it was not until after that goethe devoted himself entirely to literature. [ ] goethe at this time had published several short plays besides "the sorrows of werthé," "wilhelm meister," and a few other works less important. [ ] by that name italians know the pantheon. [ ] from "remarks on several parts of italy in the years , , ." at the time of his departure for italy, addison was twenty-nine years old. none of his important works had then been written. [ ] addison's belief has been amply justified by the extensive excavations made since his time. [ ] from "ancient rome, in the light of recent discoveries." by special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, houghton, mifflin co. copyright, . [ ] lanciani here has referred to the catholic church, in which historians have seen, in the spiritual sense, a survival of imperial rome. [ ] from "six months in italy." published by houghton, mifflin co. [ ] from "six months in italy." published by houghton, mifflin co. [ ] mr. hillard was writing in . [ ] from "the ruins and excavations of ancient rome." by special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, houghton, mifflin co. copyright, . [ ] this mausoleum, built by augustus on the bank of the tiber for himself and his family, had long been used as the imperial sepulcher. [ ] from "rome." by arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, john c. winston co. copyright, . [ ] from "italy: rome and naples." by special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, henry holt & co. copyright, . translated by john durand. [ ] from "the ruins and excavations of ancient rome." by special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, houghton, mifflin co. copyright, . [ ] from "the ruins and excavations of ancient rome." by special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, houghton, mifflin co. copyright, . [ ] from "haps and mishaps of a tour in europe." mrs. lippincott's visit was made in . [ ] from "recollections of the last four popes, and of rome in their times." nicholas patrick stephen wiseman ( - ), an english cardinal, was famous during his lifetime for intellectual vigor and scholarly attainments. in presenting an intimate view of a papal election it was his unusual privilege to describe not only "the things he saw," but also, as his later destiny revealed, to tell of the things of which he formed a part. the election pictured is that of leo xii. [ ] from "six novices on the grand tour, by one of them." privately printed. ( .) by permission of the author. [ ] from "six months in italy." published by houghton, mifflin co. [ ] from "italy: rome and naples." by special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, henry holt & co. copyright, . translated by john durand. [ ] from "pictures from italy." [ ] from "the marble faun." published by houghton, mifflin co. [ ] from "pencillings by the way." [ ] from "pictures from italy." [ ] from "french and italian note-books." by special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers of hawthorne's works, houghton, mifflin co. copyright, , , . [ ] hiram powers, the american sculptor, who lived long in florence, and is best known for his "greek slave." [ ] from "journeys in italy." by special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, brentano's. copyright, . [ ] from "florence." [ ] from taine's "italy: florence and venice." by special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers. henry holt & co. translated by john durand. copyright, . [ ] since taine wrote, the façade has been added. [ ] from "italian cities." by special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, charles scribner's sons. copyright, . [ ] from "the makers of florence." published by the macmillan co. [ ] that is, the baptistery at florence. [ ] from "florence." by permission of the publishers, john c. winston co. copyright, . [ ] from "florence." by permission of the publishers, john c. winston co. copyright, . [ ] from "florence." by permission of the publishers, john c. winston co. copyright, . [ ] dante was buried at ravenna. the reader will recall byron's lines: "ungrateful florence! dante sleeps afar, like scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore." [ ] from "italy: florence and venice." by special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, henry holt & co. copyright, . translated by john durand. [ ] from "letters of a traveller." bryant's letter is dated in may, . [ ] the court of the austrian grand duke leopold iii. in leopold was expelled, and florence, with tuscany, was annexed to the sardinian kingdom. [ ] from "venice: its history, art, industries and modern life." published by john c. winston co. [ ] from "two months abroad." privately printed. ( .) [ ] from "journeys in italy." by arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, brentano's. copyright, . [ ] marie taglioni, the ballet dancer, who was born in stockholm of italian parents in and married to count gilbert de voisons in , when she retired from the stage. she died in . [ ] from "the stones of venice." st. mark's is merely a church. it is not a cathedral; that is, it is not the "cathedra" of a bishop. originally it was the private chapel of the doge. likewise, st. peter's at rome is a church only--the church of the pope. the cathedral of the pope (who is the bishop of rome), is st. john lateran. [ ] venice and territory adjacent to it were long in subjection to austria. having put an end to the republic in (the republic had then had an unbroken existence for about thirteen hundred years), napoleon, by the treaty of campo formio, ceded this territory to austria. in , however, venetia was added by napoleon to his kingdom of italy. in , after the first fall of napoleon, it was ceded back to austria and in became part of the lombardo-venetian kingdom. under the leadership of manin, in , a republic was proclaimed in venice, but austria laid siege to the city and captured it. it was not until , at the conclusion of the war against austria, that venice was annexed to the new italian kingdom of victor emmanuel. [ ] from "in and around venice." published by charles scribner's sons. [ ] from "in and around venice." published by charles scribner's sons. after its fall, the venetians set about raising funds for rebuilding the campanile. in the course of several years, the new structure was finished and the event duly commemorated. [ ] from "the stones of venice." [ ] several men of this name are famous in venetian annals, as soldiers, statesmen and doges. the one here referred to is tommaso, who defeated the turks, added dalmatia to the venetian domain, greatly encouraged commerce and founded the venetian library. [ ] from "life on the lagoons." published by the macmillan co. [ ] from "italy: florence and venice." by special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers. henry holt & co. copyright, . [ ] the state ship of venice. [ ] from "life on the lagoons." published by the macmillan co. [ ] from "the stones of venice." [ ] from "untrodden peaks and unfrequented valleys: a midsummer ramble in the dolomites." published by e. p. dutton & co. [illustration: the parthenon] seeing europe with famous authors selected and edited with introductions, etc. by francis w. halsey _editor of "great epochs in american history" associate editor of "the world's famous orations" and of "the best of the world's classics," etc._ in ten volumes illustrated vol. viii italy, sicily, and greece part two funk & wagnalls company new york and london copyright, , by funk & wagnalls company [_printed in the united states of america_] contents of volume viii italy, sicily, and greece--part two iv. three famous cities page in the streets of genoa--by charles dickens milan cathedral--by hippolyte adolphe taine pisa's four glories--by hippolyte adolphe taine the walls and "skyscrapers" of pisa--by janet ross and nelly erichson v. naples and its environs in and about naples--by charles dickens the tomb of virgil--by augustus j. c. hare two ascents of vesuvius--by johann wolfgang von goethe another ascent--by charles dickens castellamare and sorrento--by hippolyte adolphe taine capri--by augustus j. c. hare pompeii--by percy bysshe shelley vi. other italian scenes verona--by charles dickens padua--by theophile gautier ferrara--by theophile gautier lake lugano--by victor tissot lake como--by percy bysshe shelley bellagio on lake como--by w. d. m'crackan the republic of san marino--by joseph addison perugia--by nathaniel hawthorne siena---by mr. and mrs. edwin h. blashfield the assissi of st. francis--by hippolyte adolphe taine ravenna--by edward a. freeman benedictine subiaco--by augustus j. c. hare etruscan volterra--by william cullen bryant the paestum of the greeks--by edward a. freeman vii. sicilian scenes palermo--by will s. monroe girgenti--by edward a. freeman segeste--by johann wolfgang von goethe taormina--by johann wolfgang von goethe mount Ætna--by will s. monroe syracuse--by rufus b. richardson malta--by theophile gautier viii. the mainland of greece arriving in athens--the acropolis--by j. p. mahaffy a winter in athens half a century ago--by bayard taylor the acropolis as it was--by pausanias the elgin marbles--by j. p. mahaffy the theater of dionysus--by j. p. mahaffy where st. paul preached--by j. p. mahaffy from athens to delphi on horseback--by bayard taylor corinth--by j. p. mahaffy olympia--by philip s. marden the temple of zeus at olympia as it was--by pausanias thermopylÆ--by rufus b. richardson salonica--by charles dudley warner from the pierian plain to marathon--by charles dudley warner sparta and maina--by bayard taylor messenia--by bayard taylor tiryns and mycenÆ--by j. p. mahaffy ix. the greek islands a tour of crete--by bayard taylor the colossal ruins at cnossos--by philip s. marden corfu--by edward a. freeman rhodes--by charles dudley warner mt. athos--by charles dudley warner list of illustrations volume viii frontispiece the parthenon preceding page venice: santa maria del salute feeding the doves in front of st. mark's venice: statue of colleoni palace in st. mark's place gondola on the grand canal general view of florence palace of the dukes of este, ferrara lake lugano titian's birthplace at cadore the bridge of sighs verona: tomb of the scaligers milan cathedral baptistery, cathedral, and leaning tower of pisa following page city and bay of naples with vesuvius in the distance temple of theseus at athens palermo, sicily, from the sea greek theater, segesta, sicily temple of concord, girgenti, sicily temple of juno, girgenti, sicily amphitheater at syracuse, sicily greek temple at segesta, sicily harbor of syracuse, sicily the so-called "ship of ulysses," off corfu temple of the olympian zeus at athens the plain below delphi the road near delphi entrance to the stadium at olympia throne of minos in crete [illustration: venice: santa maria del salute] [illustration: feeding the doves in front of st. mark's (see vol. vii for article on these doves)] [illustration: venice: statue of colleoni courtesy john c. winston co.] [illustration: palace in st. mark's place, venice (base of the old campanile at the right)] [illustration: gondola on the grand canal, venice] [illustration: general view of florence] [illustration: palace of the dukes of este. ferrara] [illustration: lake lugano] [illustration: titian's birthplace at cadore (cadore is in the italian part of the dolomites)] [illustration: the bridge of sighs, venice] [illustration: tomb of the scalÍgers at verona] [illustration: milan cathedral (see vol. vii for article on milan cathedral)] [illustration: baptistery, cathedral, and leaning tower of pisa (see vol. vii for article on pisa)] iv three famous cities in the streets of genoa[ ] by charles dickens the great majority of the streets are as narrow as any thoroughfare can well be, where people (even italian people) are supposed to live and walk about; being mere lanes, with here and there a kind of well, or breathing-place. the houses are immensely high, painted in all sorts of colors, and are in every stage and state of damage, dirt, and lack of repair. they are commonly let off in floors, or flats, like the houses in the old town of edinburgh, or many houses in paris.... when shall i forget the streets of palaces: the strada nuova and the strada baldi! the endless details of these rich palaces; the walls of some of them, within, alive with masterpieces by vandyke! the great, heavy, stone balconies, one above another, and tier over tier; with here and there, one larger than the rest, towering high up--a huge marble platform; the doorless vestibules, massively barred lower windows, immense public staircases, thick marble pillars, strong dungeon-like arches, and dreary, dreaming, echoing vaulted chambers; among which the eye wanders again, and again, and again, as every palace is succeeded by another--the terrace gardens between house and house, with green arches of the vine, and groves of orange-trees, and blushing oleander in full bloom, twenty, thirty, forty feet above the street--the painted halls, moldering and blotting, and rotting in the damp corners, and still shining out in beautiful colors and voluptuous designs, where the walls are dry--the faded figures on the outsides of the houses, holding wreaths, and crowns, and flying upward, and downward, and standing in niches, and here and there looking fainter and more feeble than elsewhere, by contrast with some fresh little cupids, who on a more recently decorated portion of the front, are stretching out what seems to be the semblance of a blanket, but is, indeed, a sun-dial--the steep, steep, up-hill streets of small palaces (but very large palaces for all that), with marble terraces looking down into close by-ways--the magnificent and innumerable churches; and the rapid passage from a street of stately edifices, into a maze of the vilest squalor, steaming with unwholesome stenches, and swarming with half-naked children and whole worlds of dirty people--make up, altogether, such a scene of wonder; so lively, and yet so dead; so noisy, and yet so quiet; so obtrusive, and yet so shy and lowering; so wide-awake, and yet so fast asleep; that it is a sort of intoxication to a stranger to walk on, and on, and on, and look about him. a bewildering phantasmagoria, with all the inconsistency of a dream, and all the pain and all the pleasure of an extravagant reality!... in the streets of shops, the houses are much smaller, but of great size notwithstanding, and extremely high. they are very dirty; quite undrained, if my nose be at all reliable; and emit a peculiar fragrance, like the smell of very bad cheese, kept in very hot blankets. notwithstanding the height of the houses, there would seem to have been a lack of room in the city, for new houses are thrust in everywhere. wherever it has been possible to cram a tumble-down tenement into a crack or corner, in it has gone. if there be a nook or angle in the wall of a church, or a crevice in any other dead wall, of any sort, there you are sure to find some kind of habitation; looking as if it had grown there, like a fungus. against the government house, against the old senate house, round about any large building, little shops stick close, like parasite vermin to the great carcass. and for all this, look where you may; up steps, down steps, anywhere, everywhere; there are irregular houses, receding, starting forward, tumbling down, leaning against their neighbors, crippling themselves or their friends by some means or other, until one, more irregular than the rest, chokes up the way, and you can't see any further. milan cathedral[ ] by hippolyte adolphe taine the cathedral, at the first sight, is bewildering. gothic art, transported entire into italy at the close of the middle ages,[ ] attains at once its triumph and its extravagance. never had it been seen so pointed, so highly embroidered, so complex, so overcharged, so strongly resembling a piece of jewelry; and as, instead of coarse and lifeless stone, it here takes for its material the beautiful lustrous italian marble, it becomes a pure chased gem as precious through its substance as through the labor bestowed on it. the whole church seems to be a colossal and magnificent crystallization, so splendidly do its forests of spires, its intersections of moldings, its population of statues, its fringes of fretted, hollowed, embroidered and open marblework, ascend in multiple and interminable bright forms against the pure blue sky. truly is it the mystic candelabra of visions and legends, with a hundred thousand branches bristling and overflowing with sorrowing thorns and ecstatic roses, with angels, virgins, and martyrs upon every flower and on every thorn, with infinite myriads of the triumphant church springing from the ground pyramidically even into the azure, with its millions of blended and vibrating voices mounting upward in a single shout, hosannah!... we enter, and the impression deepens. what a difference between the religious power of such a church and that of st. peter's at rome! one exclaims to himself, this is the true christian temple! four rows of enormous eight-sided pillars, close together, seem like a serried hedge of gigantic oaks. their strange capitals, bristling with a fantastic vegetation of pinnacles, canopies, foliated niches and statues, are like venerable trunks crowned with delicate and pendent mosses. they spread out in great branches meeting in the vault overhead, the intervals of the arches being filled with an inextricable network of foliage, thorny sprigs and light branches, twining and intertwining, and figuring the aerial dome of a mighty forest. as in a great wood, the lateral aisles are almost equal in height to that of the center, and, on all sides, at equal distances apart, one sees ascending around him the secular colonnades. here truly is the ancient germanic forest, as if a reminiscence of the religious groves of irmensul. light pours in transformed by green, yellow and purple panes, as if through the red and orange tints of autumnal leaves. this, certainly, is a complete architecture like that of greece, having, like that of greece, its root in vegetable forms. the greek takes the trunk of the tree, drest, for his type; the german the entire tree with all its leaves and branches. true architecture, perhaps, always springs out of vegetal nature, and each zone may have its own edifices as well as plants; in this way oriental architectures might be comprehended--the vague idea of the slender palm and of its bouquet of leaves with the arabs, and the vague idea of the colossal, prolific, dilated and bristling vegetation of india. in any event i have never seen a church in which the aspect of northern forests was more striking, or where one more involuntarily imagines long alleys of trunks terminating in glimpses of daylight, curved branches meeting in acute angles, domes of irregular and commingling foliage, universal shade scattered with lights through colored and diaphanous leaves. sometimes a section of yellow panes, through which the sun darts, launches into the obscurity its shower of rays and a portion of the nave glows like a luminous glade. a vast rosace behind the choir, a window with tortuous branchings above the entrance, shimmer with the tints of amethyst, ruby, emerald and topaz like leafy labyrinths in which lights from above break in and diffuse themselves in shifting radiance. near the sacristy a small door-top, fastened against the wall, exposes an infinity of intersecting moldings similar to the delicate meshes of some marvelous twining and climbing plant. a day might be passed here as in a forest, in the presence of grandeurs as solemn as those of nature, before caprices as fascinating, amid the same intermingling of sublime monotony and inexhaustible fecundity, before contrasts and metamorphoses of light as rich and as unexpected. a mystic reverie, combined with a fresh sentiment of northern nature, such is the source of gothic architecture. pisa's four glories[ ] by hippolyte adolphe taine there are two pisas--one in which people have lapsed into ennui, and live from hand to mouth since the decadence, which is in fact the entire city, except a remote corner; the other is this corner, a marble sepulcher where the duomo, baptistery, leaning tower and campo-santo silently repose like beautiful dead beings. this is the genuine pisa, and in these relics of a departed life, one beholds a world. in in order to honor the virgin, who had given them a victory over the saracens of sardignia, they [the pisans] laid the foundations of their duomo. this edifice is almost a roman basilica, that is to say a temple surmounted by another temple, or, if you prefer it, a house having a gable for its façade which gable is cut off at the peak to support another house of smaller dimensions. five stories of columns entirely cover the façade with their superposed porticos. two by two they stand coupled together to support small arcades; all these pretty shapes of white marble under their dark arcades form an aerial population of the utmost grace and novelty. nowhere here are we conscious of the dolorous reverie of the medieval north; it is the fête of a young nation which is awakening, and, in the gladness of its recent prosperity, honoring its gods. it has collected capitals, ornaments, entire columns obtained on the distant shores to which its wars and its commerce have led it, and these ancient fragments enter into its work without incongruity; for it is instinctively cast in the ancient mold, and only developed with a tinge of fancy on the side of finesse and the pleasing. every antique form reappears, but reshaped in the same sense by a fresh and original impulse. the outer columns of the greek temple are reduced, multiplied and uplifted in the air, and from a support have become an ornament. the roman or byzantine dome is elongated and its natural heaviness diminished under a crown of slender columns with a miter ornament, which girds it midway with its delicate promenade. on the two sides of the great door two corinthian columns are enveloped with luxurious foliage, calyxes and twining or blooming acanthus; and from the threshold we see the church with its files of intersecting columns, its alternate courses of black and white marble and its multitude of slender and brilliant forms, rising upward like an altar of candelabra. a new spirit appears here, a more delicate sensibility; it is not excessive and disordered as in the north, and yet it is not satisfied with the grave simplicity, the robust nudity of antique architecture. it is the daughter of the pagan mother, healthy and gay, but more womanly than its mother. she is not yet an adult, sure in all her steps--she is somewhat awkward. the lateral façades on the exterior are monotonous; the cupola within is a reversed funnel of a peculiar and disagreeable form. the junction of the two arms of the cross is unsatisfactory and so many modernized chapels dispel the charm due to purity, as at sienna. at the second glance however all this is forgotten, and we again regard it as a complete whole. four rows of corinthian columns, surmounted with arcades, divide the church into five naves, and form a forest. a second passage, as richly crowded, traverses the former crosswise, and, above the beautiful grove, files of still smaller columns prolong and intersect each other in order to uphold in the air the prolongation and intersection of the quadruple gallery. the ceiling is flat; the windows are small, and for the most part, without sashes; they allow the walls to retain the grandeur of their mass and the solidity of their position; and among these long, straight and simple lines, in this natural light, the innumerable shafts glow with the serenity of an antique temple.... nothing more can be added in relation to the baptistery or the leaning tower; the same ideas prevail in these, the same taste, the same style. the former is a simple, isolated dome, the latter a cylinder, and each has an outward dress of small columns. and yet each has its own distinct and expressive physiognomy; but description and writing consume too much time, and too many technical terms are requisite to define their differences. i note, simply, the inclination of the tower. some suppose that, when half constructed, the tower sank in the earth on one side, and that the architects continued on; seeing that they did continue this deflection was only a partial obstacle to them. in any event, there are other leaning towers in italy, at bologna, for example; voluntarily or involuntarily this feeling for oddness, this love of paradox, this yielding to fancy is one of the characteristics of the middle ages. in the center of the baptistery stands a superb font with eight panels; each panel is incrusted with a rich complicated flower in full bloom, and each flower is different. around it a circle of large corinthian columns supports round-arch arcades; most of them are antique and are ornamented with antique bas-reliefs; meleager with his barking dogs, and the nude torsos of his companions in attendance on christian mysteries. on the left stands a pulpit similar to that of sienna, the first work of nicholas of pisa ( ), a simple marble coffer supported by marble columns and covered with sculptures. the sentiment of force and of antique nudity comes out here in striking features. the sculptor comprehended the postures and torsions of bodies. his figures, somewhat massive, are grand and simple; he frequently reproduces the tunics and folds of the roman costume; one of his nude personages, a sort of hercules bearing a young lion on his shoulders, has the broad breast and muscular tension which the sculptors of the sixteenth century admired. the last of these edifices, the campo-santo, is a cemetery, the soil of which, brought from palestine, is holy ground. four high walls of polished marble surround it with their white and crowded panels. inside, a square gallery forms a promenade opening into the court through arcades trellised with ogive windows. it is filled with funereal monuments, busts, inscriptions and statues of every form and of every age. nothing could be simpler and nobler. a framework of dark wood supports the arch overhead, and the crest of the roof cuts sharp against the crystal sky. at the angles are four rustling cypress trees, tranquilly swayed by the breeze. grass is growing in the court with a wild freshness and luxuriance. here and there a climbing flower twined around a column, a small rosebush, or a shrub glows beneath a gleam of sunshine. there is no noise; this quarter is deserted; only now and then is heard the voice of some promenader which reverberates as under the vault of a church. it is the veritable cemetery of a free and christian city; here, before the tombs of the great, people might well reflect over death and public affairs. the walls and "skyscrapers" of pisa[ ] by janet ross and nelly erichson few cities have preserved their medieval walls with such loving care as pisa. the circuit is complete save where the traveler enters the city; and there, alas, a wide breach has been made by the restless spirit of modernity. but once past the paltry barrier and the banal square, with its inevitable statue of victor emanuel, that take the place of the old porta romana, one quickly perceives that the city is a walled one. glimpses of battlements close the vistas of the streets, and green fields peep through the open gates, marking that abrupt transition between town and country peculiar to a fortified city. the walls are best seen from without. an admirable impression of them can be had on leaving the city by the porta lucchese. turning to the left, after passing a crucifix overshadowed by cypresses, we come to the edge of a stretch of level marshy meadows, gaily pied in spring with orchids and grape hyacinths. above our heads the high air vibrates with the song of larks. before us is the long line of the city walls. strong, grim and gray, they look with nothing to break the outline of square battlements against the sky, but that majestic groups of domes and towers for whose defense they were built. at the angle of the wall to the right is a square watch-tower, backed by groups of cypresses that rise into the air like dark flames. its little windows command the flat plain as far as the horizon. how easy to imagine the warning blast of the warder's trumpet as he caught sight of a distant enemy, and the wall springing into life at the sound. armed men buckling on their harness would swarm up ladders to the battlements, the catapult groan and squeak as its lever was forced backward, and at the sharp word of command the first flight of arrows would be loosed. but the dream fades, and we pass on to the angle of the wall where the cypresses stand. from the picturesque jews' cemetery, to which access is easy, the structure of the walls can be studied in detail because the hand of the restorer has been perforce withheld within its gates. the wall is some forty feet high, built of stone from the pisan hills, weathered for the most part to a grayish hue. the masonry of the lower half is good. the blocks of stone are large and well laid. those of the upper half are smaller and the masonry is in places careless and irregular. the red brick battlements are square. at short intervals there are walled-up gateways, round-headed or ogival in form, and the whole surface is rent and patched. centuries of war and earthquakes, rain and fire, have given it a pleasant irregularity, the record of violent and troublous times. the city can be reentered by the porta nuova, only a few yards to the left of the cemetery. so venerable do these battered walls look that we need the full evidence of history to realize that they had more than one predecessor. the memory even of the first walls of pisa, an ancient city when rome was young, has been lost. the earliest record of which we know anything appears on a map of the ninth century drawn by one bonanno; a map, we should rather say professing to be of the ninth century, for churches of the thirteenth century are marked upon it, so it must either have been made, or the churches inserted, then.... the ancient walls were practically swept away by the prosperity of pisa. beside the balearic islands she had conquered carthage, the lipari islands, elba, corsica, and palermo, and her galleys poured their spoils into the pisan port. she traded with the east, and was successful in commerce as in war. her inhabitants increased rapidly. they could no longer be penned within the narrow limits of the old wall, but overflowed in all directions beyond it. not only was the borgo thickly populated, but a whole new region called forisportae, sprang up. so masked was the wall by houses, built into it and huddling against it both on the outside and the inside, that it seems to have been actually invisible. so much so that contemporary chroniclers spoke of pisa as without walls, and attributed her safety to the valor of her citizens and the multitude of her towers. the ancient wall was evidently so hidden and decayed that pisa must be regarded as a defenseless city in the twelfth century. it is curious that her citizens should have neglected their own safety at a time when they were masters of fortification and defense; when their fame in these arts had reached as far as egypt and syria, and when the milanese came to them to beg for engineers.... the external appearance of an italian city in the twelfth century was so unlike anything we are accustomed to in modern times that a strong effort of the imagination is needed to conceive it. seen from a distance the walls enclosed, not houses, but a forest of tall square shafts, rising into the sky like the crowded chimney stacks in a manufacturing town but far more thickly set together. the city appeared, to use a graphic contemporary metaphor, like a sheaf of corn bound together by its walls. [illustration: panel in the cathedral, showing part of the medieval wall and towers of pisa] san gimignano, tho most of its towers have perished long ago, helps us to imagine faintly what italian towns were like in the days of frederick barbarossa or his grandson frederick ii. for most of the houses were actually towers, long rectangular columns, vying with each other in height and crowded close together on either side of the narrow, airless, darkened streets. sometimes they were connected with one another by wooden bridges, and all were furnished with wooden balconies used in defensive and offensive warfare with their neighbors. cities full of towers were common all over southern france and central italy, but tuscany had more than any other state, and those of pisa were the most famous of all. the habit of building and dwelling in towers rather than in houses may have arisen from the difficulty of expanding laterally within an enclosed city; but a stronger reason may be found in the dangers and uncertainty of life in a period when a man might be attacked at any moment by his fellow-citizen, as well as by the enemy of the state. it was a distinct military advantage to overlook one's neighbor, who might be an enemy; and towers rose higher and higher. the spirit of emulation entered, and rich nobles gloried in adding tower to tower and in looking down on all rivals. but whatever the cause of their existence, they were picturesque, and must have presented a gallant sight on the eve of a high festival. the tall shafts were tinged with gold by the western sun, their battlements crowned with three fluttering banners--the eagle of the emperor, the white cross of the commune, and the device of the people--looking as tho a cloud of many-colored butterflies were hovering over the city. again, how dramatic the scene when the city was rent by one of the perpetually recurring faction-fights. light bridges with grappling-irons were thrown from tower to tower, doors and windows were barricaded, balconies and battlements lined with men in shining mail, bearing the fantastic device of their leader on helm and shield. mangonels, or catapults, huge engines stationed on the roofs of the towers, sent masses of stone hurtling through the air, whistling arbelast bolts and clothyard shafts flew in thick showers, boiling oil or lead rained down on the heads of those who ventured down to attack the doors, and arrows, with greek fire attached, were shot with nice aim into the wooden balconies and bridges. vile insults were hurled where missiles failed to strike. the shouts and shrieks of the combatants were mingled with the crash of a falling tower or with the hissing of a fire-arrow. where those struck, a red glow arose and a thick cloud of smoke enveloped the defenders. altho it is evident that towers were very numerous in pisa, it is difficult to arrive at their precise number. the chroniclers differ greatly in their estimates. benjamin da tudela, for instance, says that there were , in the twelfth century; while marangone puts the number at , and tronci at , . these are round numbers such as the medieval mind loved, but we have abundant evidence that they are not much exaggerated. an intarsia panel in the duomo, shows how closely the towers were packed together, while the mass of legislation relating to them was directed against abuses that could only have arisen if their number was very large. v naples and its environs in and about the city[ ] by charles dickens so we go, rattling down-hill, into naples. a funeral is coming up the street, toward us. the body, on an open bier, borne on a kind of palanquin, covered with a gay cloth of crimson and gold. the mourners, in white gowns and masks. if there be death abroad, life is well represented too, for all naples would seem to be out of doors, and tearing to and fro in carriages. some of these, the common vetturino vehicles, are drawn by three horses abreast, decked with smart trappings and great abundance of brazen ornament, and always going very fast. not that their loads are light; for the smallest of them has at least six people inside, four in front, four or five more hanging behind, and two or three more, in a net or bag below the axle-tree, where they lie half-suffocated with mud and dust. exhibitors of punch, buffo singers with guitars, reciters of poetry, reciters of stories, a row of cheap exhibitions with clowns and showmen, drums, and trumpets, painted cloths representing the wonders within, and admiring crowds assembled without, assist the whirl and bustle. ragged lazzaroni lie asleep in doorways, archways, and kennels; the gentry, gaily drest, are dashing up and down in carriages on the chiaja, or walking in the public gardens; and quiet letter-writers, perched behind their little desks and inkstands under the portico of the great theater of san carlo, in the public street, are waiting for clients. why do the beggars rap their chins constantly, with their right hands, when you look at them? everything is done in pantomime in naples, and that is the conventional sign for hunger. a man who is quarreling with another, yonder, lays the palm of his right hand on the back of his left, and shakes the two thumbs--expressive of a donkey's ears--whereat his adversary is goaded to desperation. two people bargaining for fish, the buyer empties an imaginary waistcoat pocket when he is told the price, and walks away without a word, having thoroughly conveyed to the seller that he considers it too dear. two people in carriages, meeting, one touches his lips, twice or thrice, holding up the five fingers of his right hand, and gives a horizontal cut in the air with the palm. the other nods briskly, and goes his way. he has been invited to a friendly dinner at half-past five o'clock, and will certainly come. all over italy, a peculiar shake of the right hand from the wrist, with the forefinger stretched out, expresses a negative--the only negative beggars will ever understand. but, in naples, those five fingers are a copious language. all this, and every other kind of out-door life and stir, and maccaroni-eating at sunset, and flower-selling all day long, and begging and stealing everywhere and at all hours, you see upon the bright sea-shore, where the waves of the bay sparkle merrily.... capri--once made odious by the deified beast tiberius--ischia, procida, and the thousand distant beauties of the bay, lie in the blue sea yonder, changing in the mist and sunshine twenty times a day; now close at hand, now far off, now unseen. the fairest country in the world, is spread about us. whether we turn toward the miseno shore of the splendid watery amphitheater, and go by the grotto of posilipo to the grotto del cane and away to baiae, or take the other way, toward vesuvius and sorrento, it is one succession of delights. in the last-named direction, where, over doors and archways, there are countless little images of san gennaro, with this canute's hand stretched out, to check the fury of the burning mountain, we are carried pleasantly, by a railroad on the beautiful sea beach, past the town of torre del greco, built upon the ashes of the former town destroyed by an eruption of vesuvius, within a hundred years; and past the flat-roofed houses, granaries, and maccaroni manufacturies; to castellamare, with its ruined castle, now inhabited by fishermen, standing in the sea upon a heap of rocks. here, the railroad terminates; but, hence we may ride on, by an unbroken succession of enchanting bays, and beautiful scenery, sloping from the highest summit of saint angelo, the highest neighboring mountain, down to the water's edge--among vineyards, olive-trees, gardens of oranges and lemons, orchards, heaped-up rocks, green gorges in the hills--and by the bases of snow-covered heights, and through small towns with handsome, dark-haired women at the doors--and pass delicious summer villas--to sorrento, where the poet tasso drew his inspiration from the beauty surrounding him. returning, we may climb the heights above castellamare, and looking down among the boughs and leaves, see the crisp water glistening in the sun; and clusters of white houses in distant naples, dwindling, in the great extent of prospect, down to dice. the coming back to the city, by the beach again, at sunset; with the glowing sea on one side, and the darkening mountain (vesuvius), with its smoke and flame, upon the other, is a sublime conclusion to the glory of the day. that church by the porta capuna--near the old fisher-market in the dirtiest quarter of dirty naples, where the revolt of masaniello began--is memorable for having been the scene of one of his earliest proclamations to the people, and is particularly remarkable for nothing else, unless it be its waxen and bejeweled saint in a glass case, with two odd hands; or the enormous number of beggars who are constantly rapping their chins there, like a battery of castanets. the cathedral with the beautiful door, and the columns of african and egyptian granite that once ornamented the temple of apollo, contains the famous sacred blood of san gennaro or januarius, which is preserved in two phials in a silver tabernacle, and miraculously liquefies three times a year, to the great admiration of the people. at the same moment, the stone (distant some miles) where the saint suffered martyrdom, becomes faintly red. it is said that the officiating priests turn faintly red also, sometimes, when these miracles occur. the old, old men who live in hovels at the entrance of these ancient catacombs, and who, in their age and infirmity, seem waiting here, to be buried themselves, are members of a curious body, called the royal hospital, who are the official attendants at funerals. two of these old specters totter away, with lighted tapers, to show the caverns of death--as unconcerned as if they were immortal. they were used as burying-places for three hundred years; and, in one part, is a large pit full of skulls and bones, said to be the sad remains of a great mortality occasioned by a plague. in the rest, there is nothing but dust. they consist, chiefly, of great wide corridors and labyrinths, hewn out of the rock. at the end of some of these long passages, are unexpected glimpses of the daylight, shining down from above. it looks as ghastly and as strange; among the torches, and the dust, and the dark vaults; as if it, too, were dead and buried. the present burial-place lies out yonder, on a hill between the city and vesuvius. the old campo santo with its three hundred and sixty-five pits, is only used for those who die in hospitals, and prisons, and are unclaimed by their friends. the graceful new cemetery, at no great distance from it, tho yet unfinished, has already many graves among its shrubs and flowers, and airy colonnades. it might be reasonably objected elsewhere, that some of the tombs are meretricious and too fanciful; but the general brightness seems to justify it here; and mount vesuvius, separated from them by a lovely slope of ground, exalts and saddens the scene. if it be solemn to behold from this new city of the dead, with its dark smoke hanging in the clear sky, how much more awful and impressive is it, viewed from the ghostly ruins of herculaneum and pompeii! stand at the bottom of the great market-place of pompeii, and look up the silent streets, through the ruined temples of jupiter and isis, over the broken houses with their inmost sanctuaries open to the day, away to mount vesuvius, bright and snowy in the peaceful distance; and lose all count of time, and heed of other things, in the strange and melancholy sensation of seeing the destroyed and the destroyer making this quiet picture in the sun. then, ramble on, and see, at every turn, the little familiar tokens of human habitation and everyday pursuits, the chafing of the bucket-rope in the stone rim of the exhausted well; the track of carriage-wheels in the pavement of the street; the marks of drinking-vessels on the stone counter of the wine-shop; the amphoræ in private cellars, stored away so many hundred years ago, and undisturbed to this hour--all rendering the solitude and deadly lonesomeness of the place, ten thousand times more solemn, than if the volcano, in its fury, had swept the city from the earth, and sunk it in the bottom of the sea. the tomb of virgil[ ] by augustus j. c. hare a road to the right at the end of the chiaja, leads to the mouth of the grotto of posilipo, above which those who do not wish to leave their carriages may see, high on the left, close above the grotto, the ruined columbarium known as the tomb of virgil. a door in the wall, on the left of the approach to the grotto, and a very steep staircase, lead to the columbarium, which is situated in a pretty fruit-garden. virgil desired that his body should be brought to naples from brundusium, where he died, b.c. , and there is every probability that he was buried on this spot, which was visited as virgil's burial-place little more than a century after his death by the poet statius, who was born at naples, and who describes composing his own poems while seated in the shadow of the tomb. if further confirmation were needed of the story that virgil was laid here, it would be found in the fact that silius italicus, who lived at the same time with statius, purchased the tomb of virgil, restored it from the neglect into which it had fallen, and celebrated funeral rites before it. the tomb was originally shaded by a gigantic bay-tree, which is said to have died on the death of dante. petrarch, who was brought hither by king robert, planted another, which existed in the time of sannazaro, but was destroyed by relic-collectors in the last century. a branch was sent to frederick the great by the margravine of baireuth, with some verses by voltaire. if from no other cause, the tomb would be interesting from its visitors; here boccaccio renounced the career of a merchant for that of a poet, and a well-known legend, that st. paul visited the sepulcher of virgil at naples, was long commemorated in the verse of a hymn used in the service for st. paul's day at mantua. the tomb is a small, square, vaulted chamber with three windows. early in the sixteenth century a funeral urn, containing the ashes of the poet, stood in the center, supported by nine little marble pillars. some say that robert of anjou removed it, in , for security to the castel nuovo, others that it was given by the government to a cardinal from mantua, who died at genoa on his way home. in either event the urn is now lost. it is just beneath the tomb that the road to pozzuoli enters the famous grotto of posilipo, a tunnel about half a mile long, in breadth from to feet, and varying from about feet in height near the entrance, to little more than feet at points of the interior. petronius and seneca mention its narrow gloomy passage with horror, in the reign of nero, when it was so low that it could only be used for foot-passengers, who were obliged to stoop in passing through. in the fifteenth century king alphonso i. gave it height by lowering the floor, which was paved by don pedro di toledo a hundred years later. in the middle ages the grotto was ascribed to the magic arts of virgil. in recent years it has been the chief means of communication between naples and baiae, and is at all times filled with dust and noise, the flickering lights and resounding echoes giving it a most weird effect. however much one may abuse neapolitans, we may consider in their favor, as swinburne observes, "what a terror this dark grotto would be in london!" two ascents of vesuvius[ ] by johann wolgang von goethe at the foot of the steep ascent, we were received by two guides, one old, the other young, but both active fellows. the first pulled me up the path, the other tischbein[ ]--pulled i say, for these guides are girded round the waist with a leathern belt, which the traveler takes hold of, and being drawn up by his guide, makes his way the easier with foot and staff. in this manner we reached the flat from which the cone rises; toward the north lay the ruins of the summit. a glance westward over the country beneath us, removed, as well as a bath could, all feeling of exhaustion and fatigue, and we now went round the ever-smoking cone, as it threw out its stones and ashes. wherever the space allowed of our viewing it at a sufficient distance, it appeared a grand and elevating spectacle. in the first place, a violent thundering toned forth from its deepest abyss, then stones of larger and smaller sizes were showered into the air by thousands, and enveloped by clouds of ashes. the greatest part fell again into the gorge; the rest of the fragments, receiving a lateral inclination, and falling on the outside of the crater, made a marvelous rumbling noise. first of all the larger masses plumped against the side, and rebounded with a dull heavy sound; then the smaller came rattling down; and last of all, drizzled a shower of ashes. all this took place at regular intervals, which by slowly counting, we were able to measure pretty accurately. between the summit, however, and the cone the space is narrow enough; moreover, several stones fell around us, and made the circuit anything but agreeable. tischbein now felt more disgusted than ever with vesuvius, as the monster, not content with being hateful, showed an inclination to become mischievous also. as, however, the presence of danger generally exercises on man a kind of attraction, and calls forth a spirit of opposition in the human breast to defy it, i bethought myself that, in the interval of the eruptions, it would be possible to climb up the cone to the crater, and to get back before it broke out again. i held a council on this point with our guides under one of the overhanging rocks of the summit, where, encamped in safety, we refreshed ourselves with the provisions we had brought with us. the younger guide was willing to run the risk with me; we stuffed our hats full of linen and silk handkerchiefs, and, staff in hand, we prepared to start, i holding on to his girdle. the little stones were yet rattling around us, and the ashes still drizzling, as the stalwart youth hurried forth with me across the hot glowing rubble. we soon stood on the brink of the vast chasm, the smoke of which, altho a gentle air was bearing it away from us, unfortunately veiled the interior of the crater, which smoked all round from a thousand crannies. at intervals, however, we caught sight through the smoke of the cracked walls of the rock. the view was neither instructive nor delightful; but for the very reason that one saw nothing, one lingered in the hope of catching a glimpse of something more; and so we forgot our slow counting. we were standing on a narrow ridge of the vast abyss; of a sudden the thunder pealed aloud; we ducked our heads involuntarily, as if that would have rescued us from the precipitated masses. the smaller stones soon rattled, and without considering that we had again an interval of cessation before us, and only too much rejoiced to have outstood the danger, we rushed down and reached the foot of the hill together with the drizzling ashes, which pretty thickly covered our heads and shoulders.... the news [two weeks later] that an eruption of lava had just commenced, which, taking the direction of ottajano, was invisible at naples, tempted me to visit vesuvius for the third time. scarcely had i jumped out of my cabriolet at the foot of the mountain, when immediately appeared the two guides who had accompanied us on our previous ascent. i had no wish to do without either, but took one out of gratitude and custom, the other for reliance on his judgment--and the two for the greater convenience. having ascended the summit, the older guide remained with our cloaks and refreshment, while the younger followed me, and we boldly went straight toward a dense volume of smoke, which broke forth from the bottom of the funnel; then we quickly went downward by the side of it, till at last, under the clear heaven, we distinctly saw the lava emitted from the rolling clouds of smoke. we may hear an object spoken of a thousand times, but its peculiar features will never be caught till we see it with our own eyes. the stream of lava was small, not broader perhaps than ten feet, but the way in which it flowed down a gentle and tolerably smooth plain was remarkable. as it flowed along, it cooled both on the sides and on the surface, so that it formed a sort of canal, the bed of which was continually raised in consequence of the molten mass congealing even beneath the fiery stream, which, with uniform action, precipitated right and left the scoria which were floating on its surface. in this way a regular dam was at length thrown up, in which the glowing stream flowed on as quietly as any mill-stream. we passed along the tolerably high dam, while the scoria rolled regularly off the sides at our feet. some cracks in the canal afforded opportunity of looking at the living stream, from below, and as it rushed onward, we observed it from above. a very bright sun made the glowing lava look dull; but a moderate steam rose from it into the pure air. i felt a great desire to go nearer to the point where it broke out from the mountain; there my guide averred, it at once formed vaults and roofs above itself, on which he had often stood. to see and experience this phenomenon, we again ascended the hill, in order to come from behind to this point. fortunately at this moment the place was cleared by a pretty strong wind, but not entirely, for all round it the smoke eddied from a thousand crannies; and now at last we stood on the top of the solid roof (which looked like a hardened mass of twisted dough), but which, however, projected so far outward, that it was impossible to see the welling lava. we ventured about twenty steps further, but the ground on which we stept became hotter and hotter, while around us rolled an oppressive steam, which obscured and hid the sun; the guide, who was a few steps in advance of me, presently turned back, and seizing hold of me, hurried out of this stygian exhalation. after we had refreshed our eyes with the clear prospect, and washed our gums and throat with wine, we went round again to notice any other peculiarities which might characterize this peak of hell, thus rearing itself in the midst of a paradise. i again observed attentively some chasms, in appearance like so many vulcanic forges, which emitted no smoke, but continually shot out a steam of hot glowing air. they were all tapestried, as it were, with a kind of stalactite, which covered the funnel to the top, with its knobs and chintz-like variation of colors. in consequence of the irregularity of the forges, i found many specimens of this sublimation hanging within reach, so that, with our staves and a little contrivance, we were able to hack off a few, and to secure them. i saw in the shops of the dealers in lava similar specimens, labeled simply "lava"; and i was delighted to have discovered that it was volcanic soot precipitated from the hot vapor, and distinctly exhibiting the sublimated mineral particles which it contained. another ascent[ ] by charles dickens no matter that the snow and ice lie thick upon the summit of vesuvius, or that we have been on foot all day at pompeii, or that croakers maintain that strangers should not be on the mountain by night, in such unusual season. let us take advantage of the fine weather; make the best of our way to resina, the little village at the foot of the mountain; prepare ourselves, as well as we can, on so short a notice, at the guide's house, ascend at once, and have sunset half-way up, moonlight at the top, and midnight to come down in! at four o'clock in the afternoon, there is a terrible uproar in the little stable-yard of signor salvatore, the recognized head guide, with the gold band round his cap; and thirty under-guides who are all scuffling and screaming at once, are preparing half-a-dozen saddled ponies, three litters, and some stout staves, for the journey. every one of the thirty quarrels with the other twenty-nine, and frightens the six ponies; and as much of the village as can possibly squeeze itself into the little stable-yard, participates in the tumult, and gets trodden on by the cattle. after much violent skirmishing, and more noise than would suffice for the storming of naples, the procession starts. the head guide, who is liberally paid for all the attendants, rides a little in advance of the party; the other thirty guides proceed on foot. eight go forward with the litters that are to be used by and by; and the remaining two-and-twenty beg. we ascend, gradually, by stony lanes like rough broad flights of stairs, for some time. at length, we leave these, and the vineyards on either side of them, and emerge upon a bleak, bare region where the lava lies confusedly, in enormous rusty masses; as if the earth had been plowed up by burning thunder-bolts. and now, we halt to see the sunset. the change that falls upon the dreary region and on the whole mountain, as its red light fades, and the night comes on--and the unutterable solemnity and dreariness that reign around, who that has witnessed it, can ever forget! it is dark, when after winding, for some time, over the broken ground, we arrive at the foot of the cone, which is extremely steep, and seems to rise, almost perpendicularly, from the spot where we dismount. the only light is reflected from the snow, deep, hard, and white, with which the cone is covered. it is now intensely cold, and the air is piercing. the thirty-one have brought no torches, knowing that the moon will rise before we reach the top. two of the litters are devoted to the two ladies; the third, to a rather heavy gentleman from naples, whose hospitality and good-nature have attached him to the expedition, and determined him to assist in doing the honors of the mountain. the rather heavy gentleman is carried by fifteen men; each of the ladies by half-a-dozen. we who walk, make the best use of our staves; and so the whole party begin to labor upward over the snow--as if they were toiling to the summit of an antediluvian twelfth-cake. we are a long time toiling up; and the head guide looks oddly about him when one of the company--not an italian, tho an habitué of the mountain for many years: whom we will call, for our present purpose, mr. pickle of portici--suggests that, as it is freezing hard, and the usual footing of ashes is covered by the snow and ice, it will surely be difficult to descend. but the sight of the litters above, tilting up, and down, and jerking from this side to that, as the bearers continually slip, and tumble, diverts our attention, more especially as the whole length of the rather heavy gentleman is, at that moment, presented to us alarmingly foreshortened, with his head downward. the rising of the moon soon afterward, revives the flagging spirits of the bearers. stimulating each other with their usual watchword, "courage, friend! it is to eat maccaroni!" they press on, gallantly, for the summit. from tingeing the top of the snow above us with a band of light, and pouring it in a stream through the valley below, while we have been ascending in the dark, the moon soon lights the whole white mountain side, and the broad sea down below, and tiny naples in the distance, and every village in the country round. the whole prospect is in this lovely state, when we come upon the platform on the mountain-top--the region of fire--an exhausted crater formed of great masses of gigantic cinders, like blocks of stone from some tremendous waterfall, burned up; from every chink and crevice of which, hot, sulfurous smoke is pouring out; while, from another conical-shaped hill, the present crater, rising abruptly from this platform at the end, great sheets of fire are streaming forth; reddening the night with flame, blackening it with smoke, and spotting it with red-hot stones and cinders, that fly up into the air like feathers, and fall down like lead. what words can paint the gloom and grandeur of this scene! the broken ground; the smoke; the sense of suffocation from the sulfur; the fear of falling down through the crevices in the yawning ground; the stopping, every now and then, for somebody who is missing in the dark (for the dense smoke now obscures the moon); the intolerable noise of the thirty; and the hoarse roaring of the mountain; make it a scene of such confusion, at the same time, that we reel again. but, dragging the ladies through it, and across another exhausted crater to the foot of the present volcano, we approach close to it on the windy side, and then sit down among the hot ashes at its foot, and look up in silence; faintly estimating the action that is going on within, from its being full a hundred feet higher, at this minute, than it was six weeks ago. there is something in the fire and roar, that generates an irresistible desire to get nearer to it. we can not rest long, without starting off, two of us on our hands and knees, accompanied by the head guide, to climb to the brim of the flaming crater, and try to look in. meanwhile, the thirty yell, as with one voice, that it is a dangerous proceeding, and call to us to come back; frightening the rest of the party out of their wits. what with their noise, and what with the trembling of the thin crust of ground, that seems about to open underneath our feet and plunge us in the burning gulf below (which is the real danger, if there be any); and what with the flashing of the fire in our faces, and the shower of red-hot ashes that is raining down, and the choking smoke and sulfur; we may well feel giddy and irrational, like drunken men. but, we contrive to climb up to the brim, and look down, for a moment, into the hell of boiling fire below. then, we all three come rolling down; blackened, and singed, and scorched, and hot, and giddy; and each with his dress alight in half-a-dozen places. you have read, a thousand times, that the usual way of descending, is, by sliding down the ashes; which, forming a gradually-increasing ledge below the feet, prevent too rapid a descent. but, when we have crossed the two exhausted craters on our way back, and are come to this precipitous place, there is (as mr. pickle has foretold) no vestige of ashes to be seen; the whole being a smooth sheet of ice. in this dilemma, ten or a dozen of the guides cautiously join hands, and make a chain of men; of whom the foremost beat, as well as they can, a rough track with their sticks, down which we prepare to follow. the way being fearfully steep, and none of the party--even of the thirty--being able to keep their feet for six paces together, the ladies are taken out of their litters, and placed, each between two careful persons; while others of the thirty hold by their skirts, to prevent their falling forward--a necessary precaution, tending to the immediate and hopeless dilapidation of their apparel. the rather heavy gentleman is abjured to leave his litter too, and be escorted in a similar manner; but he resolves to be brought down as he was brought up, on the principle that his fifteen bearers are not likely to tumble all at once, and that he is safer so, than trusting to his own legs. in this order, we begin the descent; sometimes on foot, sometimes shuffling on the ice; always proceeding much more quietly and slowly than on our upward way; and constantly alarmed by the falling among us of somebody from behind, who endangers the footing of the whole party, and clings pertinaciously to anybody's ankles. it is impossible for the litter to be in advance, too, as the track has to be made; and its appearance behind us, overhead--with some one or other of the bearers always down, and the rather heavy gentleman with his legs always in the air--is very threatening and frightful. we have gone on thus, a very little way, painfully and anxiously, but quite merrily, and regarding it as a great success--and have all fallen several times, and have all been stopt, somehow or other, as we were sliding away when mr. pickle of portici, in the act of remarking on these uncommon circumstances as quite beyond his experience, stumbles, falls, disengages himself, with quick presence of mind, from those about him, plunges away head foremost, and rolls, over and over, down the whole surface of the cone! giddy, and bloody, and a mere bundle of rags, is pickle of portici when we reach the place where we dismounted, and where the horses are waiting; but, thank god, sound in limb! and never are we likely to be more glad to see a man alive and on his feet, than to see him now--making light of it too, tho sorely bruised and in great pain. the boy is brought into the hermitage on the mountain, while we are at supper, with his head tied up; and the man is heard of, some hours afterward. he, too, is bruised and stunned, but has broken no bones; the snow having, fortunately, covered all the larger blocks of rock and stone, and rendered them harmless. castellamare and sorrento[ ] by hippolyte adolphe taine the sky is almost clear. only above naples hangs a bank of clouds, and around vesuvius huge white masses of smoke, moving and stationary. i never yet saw, even in summer at marseilles, the blue of the sea so deep, bordering even on hardness. above this powerful lustrous azure, absorbing three-quarters of the visible space, the white sky seems to be a firmament of crystal. as we recede we obtain a better view of the undulating coast, embraced in one grand mountain form, all its parts uniting like the members of one body. ischia and the naked promontories on the extreme end repose in their lilac envelop, like a slumbering pompeiian nymph under her veil. veritably, to paint such nature as this, this violet continent extending around this broad luminous water, one must employ the terms of the ancient poets, and represent the great fertile goddess embraced and beset by the eternal ocean, and above them the serene effulgence of the dazzling jupiter. we encounter on the road some fine faces with long elegant features, quite grecian; some intelligent noble-looking girls, and here and there hideous mendicants cleaning their hairy breasts. but the race is much superior to that of naples, where it is deformed and diminutive, the young girls there appearing like stunted, pallid grisets. the railroad skirts the sea a few paces off and almost on a level with it. a harbor appears blackened with lines of rigging, and then a mole, consisting of a small half-ruined fort, reflecting a clear sharp shadow in the luminous expanse. surrounding this rise square houses, gray as if charred, and heaped together like tortoises under round roofs, serving them as a sort of thick shell. on this fertile soil, full of cinders, cultivation extends to the shore and forms gardens; a simple reed hedge protects them from the sea and the wind; the indian fig with its clumsy thorny leaves clings to the slopes; verdure begins to appear on the branches of the trees, the apricots showing their smiling pink blossoms; half-naked men work the friable soil without apparent effort; a few square gardens contain columns and small statues of white marble. everywhere you behold traces of antique beauty and joyousness. and why wonder at this when you feel that you have the divine vernal sun for a companion, and on the right, whenever you turn to the sea, its flaming golden waves. with what facility you here forget all ugly objects! i believe i passed at castellamare some unsightly modern structures, a railroad station, hotels, a guard-house, and a number of rickety vehicles hurrying along in quest of fares. this is all effaced from my mind; nothing remains but impressions of obscure porches with glimpses of bright courts filled with glossy oranges and spring verdure, of esplanades with children playing on them and nets drying, and happy idlers snuffing the breeze and contemplating the capricious heaving of the tossing sea. on leaving castellamare the road forms a corniche[ ] winding along the bank. huge white rocks, split off from the cliffs above, lie below in the midst of the eternally besieging waves. on the left the mountains lift their shattered pinnacles, fretted walls, and projecting crags, all that scaffolding of indentations which strike you as the ruins of a line of rocked and tottering fortresses. each projection, each mass throws its shadow on the surrounding white surfaces, the entire range being peopled with tints and forms. sometimes the mountain is rent in twain, and the sides of the chasm are lined with cultivation, descending in successive stages. sorrento is thus built on three deep ravines. all these hollows contain gardens, crowded with masses of trees overhanging each other. nut-trees, already lively with sap, project their white branches like gnarled fingers; everything else is green; winter lays no hand on this eternal spring. the thick lustrous leaf of the orange-tree rises from amid the foliage of the olive, and its golden apples glisten in the sun by thousands, interspersed with gleams of the pale lemon; often in these shady lanes do its glittering leaves flash out above the crest of the walls. this is the land of the orange. it grows even in miserable court-yards, alongside of dilapidated steps, spreading its luxuriant tops everywhere in the bright sunlight. the delicate aromatic odor of all these opening buds and blossoms is a luxury of kings, which here a beggar enjoys for nothing. i passed an hour in the garden of the hotel, a terrace overlooking the sea about half-way up the bank. a scene like this fills the imagination with a dream of perfect bliss. the house stands in a luxurious garden, filled with orange and lemon-trees, as heavily laden with fruit as those of a normandy orchard; the ground at the foot of the trees is covered with it. clusters of foliage and shrubbery of a pale green, bordering on blue, occupy intermediate spaces. the rosy blossoms of the peach, so tender and delicate, bloom on its naked branches. the walks are of bright blue porcelain, and the terrace displays its round verdant masses overhanging the sea, of which the lovely azure fills all space. i have not yet spoken of my impressions after leaving castellamare. the charm was only too great. the pure sky, the pale azure almost transparent, the radiant blue sea as chaste and tender as a virgin bride, this infinite expanse so exquisitely adorned as if for a festival of rare delight, is a sensation that has no equal. capri and ischia on the line of the sky lie white in their soft vapory tissue, and the divine azure gently fades away surrounded by this border of brightness. where find words to express all this? the gulf seemed like a marble vase purposely rounded to receive the sea. the satin sheen of a flower, the soft luminous petals of the velvet orris with shimmering sunshine on their pearly borders, such are the images that fill the mind, and which accumulate in vain and are ever inadequate. the water at the base of these rocks is now a transparent emerald, reflecting the tints of topaz and amethyst; again a liquid diamond, changing its hue according to the shifting influences of rock and depth; or again a flashing diadem, glittering with the splendor of this divine effulgence. capri[ ] by augustus j. c. hare the island of capri (in the dialect of the people crapi), the ancient capreae, is a huge limestone rock, a continuation of the mountain range which forms the southern boundary of the bay of naples. legend says that it was once inhabited by a people called teleboae, subject to a king called telon. augustus took possession of capreae as part of the imperial domains, and repeatedly visited it. his stepson tiberius (a.d. ) established his permanent residence on the island, and spent the latter years of his life there, abandoning himself to the voluptuous excesses which gave him the name of caprineus.... the first point usually visited in capri is the blue grotto (grotta azzurra), which is entered from the sea by an arch under the wall of limestone cliff, only available when the sea is perfectly calm. visitors have to lie flat down in the boat, which is carried in by the wave and is almost level with the top of the arch. then they suddenly find themselves in a magical scene. the water is liquid sapphire, and the whole rocky vaulting of the cavern shimmers to its inmost recesses with a pale blue light of marvelous beauty. a man stands ready to plunge into the water when the boats from the steamers arrive, and to swim about; his body, in the water, then sparkles like a sea-god with phosphorescent silver; his head, out of the water, is black like that of a moor. nothing can exaggerate the beauty of the blue grotto, and perhaps the effect is rather enhanced than spoiled by the shouting of the boatmen, the rush of boats to the entrance, the confusion on leaving and reaching the steamers. that the grotta azzurra was known to the romans is evinced by the existence of a subterranean passage, leading to it from the upper heights, and now blocked up; it was also well known in the seventeenth century, when it was described by capraanica. there are other beautiful grottoes in the cliffs surrounding the island, the most remarkable being the natural tunnel called the green grotto (grotta verde), under the southern rocks, quite as splendid in color as the grotta azzurra itself--a passage through the rocks, into which the boat glides (through no hole, as in the case of the grotta azzurra) into water of the most exquisite emerald. the late afternoon is the best time for visiting this grotto. occasionally a small steamer makes the round of the island, stopping at the different caverns. on landing at the marina, a number of donkey women offer their services, and it will be well to accept them, for the ascent of about one mile, to the village of capri is very hot and tiring. on the left we pass the church of st. costanzo, a very curious building with apse, cupola, stone pulpit, and several ancient marble pillars and other fragments taken from the palaces of tiberius. the little town of capri, overhung on one side by great purple rocks, occupies a terrace on the high ridge between the two rocky promontories of the island. close above the piazza stands the many-domed ancient church, like a mosque, and so many of the houses--sometimes of dazzling whiteness, sometimes painted in gay colors--have their own little domes, that the appearance is quite that of an oriental village, which is enhanced by the palm-trees which flourish here and there. in the piazza is a tablet to major hamill, who is buried in the church. he fell under french bayonets, when the troops of murat, landing at orico, recaptured the island, which had been taken from the french two years and a half before (may, ) by sir sidney smith. through a low wide arch in the piazza is the approach to the principal hotels. there is a tiny english chapel. an ascent of half an hour by stony donkey-paths leads from capri to the ruins called the villa tiberiana, on the west of the island, above a precipitous rock feet high, which still bears the name of il salto.... the visitor who lingers in capri may interest himself in tracing out the remains of all the twelve villas of tiberius. a relief exhibiting tiberius riding a led donkey, as modern travelers do now, was found on the island, and is now in the museum at naples. capri has a delightful winter climate, and is most comfortable as a residence. the natives are quite unlike the neapolitans, pleasant and civil in their manners, and full of courtesies to strangers. the women are frequently beautiful. pompeii[ ] by percy bysshe shelley we have been to see pompeii, and are waiting now for the return of spring weather, to visit, first, paestum, and then the islands; after which we shall return to rome. i was astonished at the remains of this city; i had no conception of anything so perfect yet remaining. my idea of the mode of its destruction was this: first, an earthquake shattered it, and unroofed almost all its temples, and split its columns; then a rain of light small pumice-stones fell; then torrents of boiling water, mixed with ashes, filled up all its crevices. a wide, flat hill, from which the city was excavated, is now covered by thick woods, and you see the tombs and the theaters, the temples and the houses, surrounded by the uninhabited wilderness. we entered the town from the side toward the sea, and first saw two theaters; one more magnificent than the other, strewn with the ruins of the white marble which formed their seats and cornices, wrought with deep, bold sculpture. in the front, between the stage and the seats, is the circular space, occasionally occupied by the chorus. the stage is very narrow, but long, and divided from this space by a narrow enclosure parallel to it, i suppose for the orchestra. on each side are the consuls' boxes, and below, in the theater at herculaneum, were found two equestrian statues of admirable workmanship, occupying the same place as the great bronze lamps did at drury lane. the smallest of the theaters is said to have been comic, tho i should doubt. from both you see, as you sit on the seats, a prospect of the most wonderful beauty. you then pass through the ancient streets; they are very narrow, and the houses rather small, but all constructed on an admirable plan, especially for this climate. the rooms are built round a court, or sometimes two, according to the extent of the house. in the midst is a fountain, sometimes surrounded with a portico, supported on fluted columns of white stucco; the floor is paved with mosaic, sometimes wrought in imitation of vine leaves, sometimes in quaint figures, and more or less beautiful, according to the rank of the inhabitant. there were paintings on all, but most of them have been removed to decorate the royal museums. little winged figures, and small ornaments of exquisite elegance, yet remain. there is an ideal life in the forms of these paintings of an incomparable loveliness, tho most are evidently the work of very inferior artists. it seems as if, from the atmosphere of mental beauty which surrounded them, every human being caught a splendor not his own. in one house you see how the bed-rooms were managed; a small sofa was built up, where the cushions were placed; two pictures, one representing diana and endymion, the other venus and mars, decorate the chamber; and a little niche, which contains the statue of a domestic god. the floor is composed of a rich mosaic of the rarest marbles, agate, jasper, and porphyry; it looks to the marble fountain and the snow-white columns, whose entablatures strew the floor of the portico they supported. the houses have only one story, and the apartments, tho not large, are very lofty. a great advantage results from this, wholly unknown in our cities. the public buildings, whose ruins are now forests, as it were, of white fluted columns, and which then supported entablatures, loaded with sculptures, were seen on all sides over the roofs of the houses. this was the excellence of the ancients. their private expenses were comparatively moderate; the dwelling of one of the chief senators of pompeii is elegant indeed, and adorned with most beautiful specimens of art, but small. but their public buildings are everywhere marked by the bold and grand designs of an unsparing magnificence. in the little town of pompeii (it contained about twenty thousand inhabitants), it is wonderful to see the number and the grandeur of their public buildings. another advantage, too, is that, in the present case, the glorious scenery around is not shut out, and that, unlike the inhabitants of the cimmerian ravines of modern cities, the ancient pompeiians could contemplate the clouds and the lamps of heaven; could see the moon rise high behind vesuvius, and the sun set in the sea, tremulous with an atmosphere of golden vapor, between inarime and misenum. we next saw the temples. of the temples of aesculapius little remains but an altar of black stone, adorned with a cornice imitating the scales of a serpent. his statue, in terra-cotta, was found in the cell. the temple of isis is more perfect. it is surrounded by a portico of fluted columns, and in the area around it are two altars, and many ceppi for statues; and a little chapel of white stucco, as hard as stone, of the most exquisite proportion; its panels are adorned with figures in bas-relief, slightly indicated, but of a workmanship the most delicate and perfect that can be conceived. they are egyptian subjects, executed by a greek artist, who has harmonized all the unnatural extravagances of the original conception into the supernatural loveliness of his country's genius. they scarcely touch the ground with their feet, and their wind-uplifted robes seem in the place of wings. the temple in the midst raised on a high platform, and approached by steps, was decorated with exquisite paintings, some of which we saw in the museum at portici. it is small, of the same materials as the chapel, with a pavement of mosaic, and fluted ionic columns of white stucco, so white that it dazzles you to look at it. thence through the other porticos and labyrinths of walls and columns (for i can not hope to detail everything to you), we came to the forum. this is a large square, surrounded by lofty porticos of fluted columns, some broken, some entire, their entablatures strewed under them. the temple of jupiter, of venus, and another temple, the tribunal, and the hall of public justice, with their forest of lofty columns, surround the forum. two pedestals or altars of an enormous size (for, whether they supported equestrian statues, or were the altars of the temple of venus, before which they stand, the guide could not tell), occupy the lower end of the forum. at the upper end, supported on an elevated platform, stands the temple of jupiter. under the colonnade of its portico we sat and pulled out our oranges, and figs, and bread, and medlars (sorry fare, you will say), and rested to eat. here was a magnificent spectacle. above and between the multitudinous shafts of the sun-shining columns was seen the sea, reflecting the purple heaven of noon above it, and supporting, as it were, on its line the dark lofty mountains of sorrento, of a blue inexpressibly deep, and tinged toward their summits with streaks of new-fallen snow. between was one small green island. to the right was capreae, inarime, prochyta, and misenum. behind was the single summit of vesuvius, rolling forth volumes of thick white smoke, whose foam-like column was sometimes darted into the clear dark sky, and fell in little streaks along the wind. between vesuvius and the nearer mountains, as through a chasm, was seen the main line of the loftiest apennines, to the east. the day was radiant and warm. every now and then we heard the subterranean thunder of vesuvius; its distant deep peals seemed to shake the very air and light of day, which interpenetrated our frames with the sullen and tremendous sound. this sound was what the greeks beheld (pompeii, you know, was a greek city). they lived in harmony with nature; and the interstices of their incomparable columns were portals, as it were, to admit the spirit of beauty which animates this glorious universe to visit those whom it inspired. if such is pompeii, what was athens? what scene was exhibited from the acropolis, the parthenon, and the temples of hercules, and theseus, and the winds? the island and the Ægean sea, the mountains of argolis, and the peaks of pindus and olympus, and the darkness of the boeotian forests interspersed? from the forum we went to another public place; a triangular portico, half enclosing the ruins of an enormous temple. it is built on the edge of the hill overlooking the sea. that black point is the temple. in the apex of the triangle stands an altar and a fountain, and before the altar once stood the statue of the builder of the portico. returning hence, and following the consular road, we came to the eastern gate of the city. the walls are of an enormous strength, and enclose a space of three miles. on each side of the road beyond the gate are built the tombs. how unlike ours! they seem not so much hiding-places for that which must decay, as voluptuous chambers for immortal spirits. they are of marble, radiantly white; and two, especially beautiful, are loaded with exquisite bas-reliefs. on the stucco-wall that encloses them are little emblematic figures, of a relief exceedingly low, of dead and dying animals, and little winged genii, and female forms bending in groups in some funereal office. the high reliefs represent, one a nautical subject, and the other a bacchanalian one. within the cell stand the cinerary urns, sometimes one, sometimes more. it is said that paintings were found within, which are now, as has been everything movable in pompeii, removed, and scattered about in royal museums. these tombs were the most impressive things of all. the wild woods surround them on either side; and along the broad stones of the paved road which divides them, you hear the late leaves of autumn shiver and rustle in the stream of the inconstant wind, as it were, like the step of ghosts. the radiance and magnificence of these dwellings of the dead, the white freshness of the scarcely-finished marble, the impassioned or imaginative life of the figures which adorn them, contrast strangely with the simplicity of the houses of those who were living when vesuvius overwhelmed them. i have forgotten the amphitheater, which is of great magnitude, tho much inferior to the coliseum. i now understand why the greeks were such great poets; and, above all, i can account, it seems to me, for the harmony, the unity, the perfection, the uniform excellence, of all their works of art. they lived in a perpetual commerce with external nature, and nourished themselves upon the spirit of its forms. their theaters were all open to the mountains and the sky. their columns, the ideal types of a sacred forest, with its roof of interwoven tracery, admitted the light and wind; the odor and the freshness of the country penetrated the cities. their temples were mostly upaithric; and the flying clouds, the stars, or the deep sky, were seen above. vi other italian scenes verona[ ] by charles dickens i had been half afraid to go to verona, lest it should at all put me out of conceit with romeo and juliet. but, i was no sooner come into the old market-place, than the misgiving vanished. it is so fanciful, quaint, and picturesque a place, formed by such an extraordinary and rich variety of fantastic buildings, that there could be nothing better at the core of even this romantic town; scene of one of the most romantic and beautiful of stories. it was natural enough, to go straight from the market-place, to the house of the capulets, now degenerated into a most miserable little inn. noisy vetturini and muddy market-carts were disputing possession of the yard, which was ankle-deep in dirt, with a brood of splashed and bespattered geese; and there was a grim-visaged dog, viciously panting in a doorway, who would certainly have had romeo by the leg, the moment he put it over the wall, if he had existed and been at large in those times. the orchard fell into other hands, and was parted off many years ago; but there used to be one attached to the house--or at all events there may have been--and the hat (cappello), the ancient cognizance of the family, may still be seen, carved in stone, over the gateway of the yard. the geese, the market-carts, their drivers, and the dog, were somewhat in the way of the story, it must be confessed; and it would have been pleasanter to have found the house empty, and to have been able to walk through the disused rooms. but the hat was unspeakably comfortable; and the place where the garden used to be, hardly less so. besides, the house is a distrustful, jealous-looking house as one would desire to see, tho of a very moderate size. so i was quite satisfied with it, as the veritable mansion of old capulet, and was correspondingly grateful in my acknowledgments to an extremely unsentimental middle-aged lady, the padrona of the hotel, who was lounging on the threshold looking at the geese. from juliet's home, to juliet's tomb, is a transition as natural to the visitor, as to fair juliet herself, or to the proudest juliet that ever has taught the torches to burn bright in any time. so, i went off, with a guide, to an old, old garden, once belonging to an old, old convent, i suppose; and being admitted, at a shattered gate, by a bright-eyed woman who was washing clothes, went down some walks where fresh plants and young flowers were prettily growing among fragments of old wall, and ivy-covered mounds; and was shown a little tank, or water-trough, which the bright-eyed woman--drying her arms upon her 'kerchief--called "la tomba di giulietta la sfortunáta." with the best disposition in the world to believe, i could do no more than believe that the bright-eyed woman believed; so i gave her that much credit, and her customary fee in ready money. it was a pleasure, rather than a disappointment, that juliet's resting-place was forgotten. however consolatory it may have been to yorick's ghost, to hear the feet upon the pavement overhead, and, twenty times a day, the repetition of his name, it is better for juliet to lie out of the track of tourists, and to have no visitors but such as come to graves in spring-rain, and sweet air, and sunshine. pleasant verona! with its beautiful old palaces, and charming country in the distance, seen from terrace walks, and stately, balustraded galleries. with its roman gates, still spanning the fair street, and casting, on the sunlight of to-day, the shade of fifteen hundred years ago. with its marble-fitted churches, lofty towers, rich architecture, and quaint old quiet thoroughfares, where shouts of montagues and capulets once resounded. and made verona's ancient citizens cast by their grave, beseeming ornaments, to wield old partisans. with its fast-rushing river, picturesque old bridge, great castle, waving cypresses, and prospect so delightful, and so cheerful! pleasant verona! in the midst of it, in the piazza di brá--a spirit of old time among the familiar realities of the passing hour--is the great roman amphitheater. so well preserved, and carefully maintained, that every row of seats is there, unbroken. over certain of the arches, the old roman numerals may yet be seen; and there are corridors, and staircases, and subterranean passages for beasts, and winding ways, above ground and below, as when the fierce thousands hurried in and out, intent upon the bloody shows of the arena. nestling in some of the shadows and hollow places of the walls, now, are smiths with their forges, and a few small dealers of one kind or other; and there are green weeds, and leaves, and grass, upon the parapet. but little else is greatly changed. when i had traversed all about it, with great interest, and had gone up to the topmost round of seats, and turning from the lovely panorama closed in by the distant alps, looked down into the building, it seemed to lie before me like the inside of a prodigious hat of plaited straw, with an enormously broad brim and a shallow crown; the plaits being represented by the four-and-forty rows of seats. the comparison is a homely and fantastic one, in sober remembrance and on paper, but it was irresistibly suggested at the moment, nevertheless. padua[ ] by thÉophile gautier padua is an ancient city and exhibits a rather respectable appearance against the horizon with its bell-turrets, its domes, and its old walls upon which myriads of lizards run and frisk in the sun. situated near a center which attracts life to itself, padua is a dead city with an almost deserted air. its streets, bordered by two rows of low arcades, in nowise recall the elegant and charming architecture of venice. the heavy, massive structures have a serious, somewhat crabbed aspect, and its somber porticos in the lower stories of the houses resemble black mouths which yawn with ennui. we were conducted to a big inn, established probably in some ancient palace, and whose great halls, dishonored by vulgar uses, had formerly seen better company. it was a real journey to go from the vestibule to our room by a host of stairways and corridors; a map of ariadne's thread would have been needed to find one's way back. our windows opened upon a very pleasant view; a river flows at the foot of the wall--the brenta or the bacchiglione, i know not which, for both water padua. the banks of this watercourse were adorned with old houses and long walls, and trees, too, overhung the banks; some rather picturesque rows of piles, from which the fishermen cast their lines with that patience characteristic of them in all countries; huts with nets and linen hanging from the windows to dry, formed under the sun's rays a very pretty subject for a water-color. after dinner we went to the café pedrocchi, celebrated throughout all italy for its magnificence. nothing could be more monumentally classic. there are nothing but pillars, columnets, ovolos, and palm leaves of the percier and fontain kind, the whole very fine and lavish of marble. what was most curious was some immense maps forming a tapestry and representing the different divisions of the world on an enormous scale. this somewhat pedantic decoration gives to the hall an academic air; and one is surprized not to see a chair in place of the bar, with a professor in his gown in place of a dispenser of lemonade. the university of padua was formerly famous. in the thirteenth century eighteen thousand young men, a whole people of scholars, followed the lessons of the learned professors, among whom later galileo figured, one of whose bones is preserved there as a relic, a relic of a martyr who suffered for the truth. the façade of the university is very beautiful; four doric columns give it a severe and monumental air; but solitude reigns in the class-rooms where to-day scarcely a thousand students can be reckoned.... we paid a visit to the cathedral dedicated to saint anthony, who enjoys at padua the same reputation as saint januarius at naples. he is the "genius loci," the saint venerated above all others. he used to perform not less than thirty miracles each day, if casanova[ ] is to be believed. such a performance fairly earned for him his surname of thaumaturge, but this prodigious zeal has fallen off greatly. nevertheless, the reputation of the saint has not suffered, and so many masses are paid for at his altar that the number of the priests of the cathedral and of days in the year are not sufficient. to liquidate the accounts, the pope has granted permission, at the end of the year, for masses to be said, each, one of which is of the value of a thousand; in this fashion saint anthony is saved from being bankrupt to his faithful devotees. on the place which adjoins the cathedral, a beautiful equestrian statue by donatello, in bronze, rises to view, the first which had been cast since the days of antiquity, representing a leader of banditti: gattamelata, a brigand who surely did not deserve that honor. but the artist has given him a superb bearing and a spirited figure with his baton of a roman emperor, and it is entirely sufficient.... one thing which must not be neglected in passing through padua is a visit to the old church of the arena, situated at the rear of a garden of luxuriant vegetation, where it would certainly not be conjectured to be located unless one were advised of the fact. it is entirely painted in its interior by giotto. not a single column, not a single rib, nor architectural division interrupts that vast tapestry of frescoes. the general aspect is soft, azure, starry, like a beautiful, calm sky; ultramarine dominates; thirty compartments of large dimensions, indicated by simple lines, contain the life of the virgin and of her divine son in all their details; they might be called illustrations in miniature of a gigantic missal. the personages, by naïve anachronisms very precious for history, are clothed in the mode of the times in which giotto painted. below these compositions of the purest religious feeling, a painted plinth shows the seven deadly sins symbolized in an ingenious manner, and other allegorical figures of a very good style; a paradise and a hell, subjects which greatly imprest the minds of the artists of that epoch, complete this marvelous whole. there are in these paintings weird and touching details; children issue from their little coffins to mount to paradise with a joyous ardor, and launch themselves forth to go to play upon the blossoming turf of the celestial garden; others stretch forth their hands to their half-resurrected mothers. the remark may also be made that all the devils and vices are obese, while the angels and virtues are thin and slender. the painter wishes to mark the preponderance of matter in the one class and of spirit in the other. ferrara[ ] by thÉophile gautier ferrara rises solitary in the midst of a flat country more rich than picturesque. when one enters it by the broad street which leads to the square, the aspect of the city is imposing and monumental. a palace with a grand staircase occupies a corner of this vast square; it might be a court-house or a town hall, for people of all classes were entering and departing through its wide doors.... the castle of the ancient dukes of ferrara, which is to be found a little farther on, has a fine feudal aspect. it is a vast collection of towers joined together by high walls crowned with a battlement forming a cornice, and which emerge from a great moat full of water, over which one enters by a protected bridge. the castle, built wholly of brick or of stones reddened by the sun, has a vermilion tint which deprives it of its imposing effect. it is too much like a decoration of a melodrama. it was in this castle that the famous lucretia borgia lived, whom victor hugo has made such a monster for us, and whom ariosto depicts as a model of chastity, grace and virtue; that blonde lucretia who wrote letters breathing the purest love, and some of whose hair, fine as silk and shining as gold, byron possest. it was there that the dramas of tasso and ariosto and guarini were played; there that those brilliant orgies took place, mingled with poisonings and assassinations, which characterized that learned and artistic, refined and criminal, period of italy. it is the custom to pay a pious visit to the problematical dungeon in which tasso, mad with love and grief, passed so many years, according to the poetic legend which grew up concerning his misfortune. we did not have time to spare and we regretted it very little. this dungeon, a perfectly correct sketch of which we have before our eyes, consists only of four walls, ceiled by a low arch. at the back is to be seen a window grated by heavy bars and a door with big bolts. it is quite unlikely that in this obscure hole, tapestried with cobwebs, tasso could have worked and retouched his poem, composed sonnets, and occupied himself with small details of toilet, such as the quality of the velvet of his cap and the silk of his stockings, and with kitchen details, such as with what kind of sugar he ought to powder his salad, that which he had not being fine enough for his liking. neither did we see the house of ariosto, another required pilgrimage. not to speak of the little faith which one should place in these unauthenticated traditions, in these relics without character, we prefer to seek ariosto in the "orlando furioso," and tasso in the "jerusalem délivrée" or in the fine drama of goethe. the life of ferrara is concentrated on the plaza nuova, in front of the church and in the neighborhood of the castle. life has not yet abandoned this heart of the city; but in proportion as one moves away from it, it becomes more feeble, paralysis begins, death gains; silence, solitude, and grass invade the streets; one feels that one is wandering about a thebes peopled with ghosts of the past and from which the living have evaporated like water which has dried up. there is nothing more sad than to see the corpse of a dead city slowly falling into dust in the sun and rain. one at least buries human bodies. lake lugano[ ] by victor tissot on emerging from the second tunnel,[ ] beyond a wild and narrow gorge, there lies suddenly before us, as in a gorgeous fairyland or in the landscape of a dream, the blue expanse of lake lugano, with its setting of green meadows and purple mountains, with the many-colored village spires, and the great white fronts of the hotels and villas. oh, what a wonderful picture! we feel as if we were going down into an enchanted garden that has been hidden by the great snowy walls of the alps. the air is full of the perfume of roses and jessamine. the hedges are in flower, butterflies are dancing, insects are humming, birds are singing. up above, in the mountain, is snow, ice, winter, and silence; here there is sunshine, life, joy, love--all the living delights of spring and summer. golden harvests are shining on the plains, and the lake in the distance is like a piece of the sky brought down to earth. lugano is already italy, not only because of the richness of the soil and the magnificence of the vegetation, but also as regards the language, the manners, and the picturesque costumes. in each valley the dress is different; in one place the women wear a short skirt, an apron held in by a girdle, and a bright colored bodice; in another they wear a cap above which is a large shady hat; in the val maroblio they have a woolen dress not very different from that of the capuchins. the men have not the square figure, the slow, heavy walk of the people of basle and lucerne; they are brisk, vigorous, easy; and the women have something of the wavy suppleness of vine branches twining among the trees. these people have the happy, childlike joyousness, the frank good-nature, of those who live in the open air, who do not shut themselves up in their houses, but grow freely like the flowers under the strong, glowing sunshine. at every street corner sellers are sitting behind baskets of extraordinary vegetables and magnificent fruit; and under the arcades that run along the houses, big grocers in shirt sleeves come at intervals to their shop doors to take breath, like hippopotami coming out of the water for the same purpose. in this town, ultramontane in its piety, the bells of churches and convents are sounding all day long, and women are seen going to make their evening prayer together in the nearest chapel. but if the fair sex in lugano are diligent in frequenting the churches, they by no means scorn the cafés. after sunset the little tables that are all over the great square are surrounded by an entire population of men and women. how gay and amusing those italian cafés are! full of sound and color, with their red and blue striped awnings, their advance guard of little tables under the shade of the orange-trees, and their babbling, stirring, gesticulating company. the waiters, in black vests and leather slippers, a corner of their apron tucked up in their belt, run with the speed of kangaroos, carrying on metal plates syrups of every shade, ices, sweets in red, yellow, or green pyramids. between seven and nine o'clock the whole society of lugano defiles before you. there are lawyers with their wives, doctors with their daughters, bankers, professors, merchants, public officials, with whom are sometimes misted stout, comfortable, jovial-looking canons, wrapping themselves in the bitter smoke of a regalia, as in a cloud of incense. lake como[ ] by percy bysshe shelley we have been to como, looking for a house. this lake exceeds anything i ever beheld in beauty, with the exception of the arbutus islands of killarney. it is long and narrow, and has the appearance of a mighty river winding among the mountains and the forests. we sailed from the town of como to a tract of country called the tremezina, and saw the various aspects presented by that part of the lake. the mountains between como and that village, or rather cluster of villages, are covered on high with chestnut forests (the eating chestnuts, on which the inhabitants of the country subsist in time of scarcity), which sometimes descend to the very verge of the lake, overhanging it with their hoary branches. but usually the immediate border of this shore is composed of laurel-trees, and bay, and myrtle, and wild fig-trees, and olives which grow in the crevices of the rocks, and overhang the caverns, and shadow the deep glens, which are filled with the flashing light of the waterfalls. other flowering shrubs, which i can not name, grow there also. on high, the towers of village churches are seen white among the dark forests. beyond, on the opposite shore, which faces the south, the mountains descend less precipitously to the lake, and altho they are much higher, and some covered with perpetual snow, there intervenes between them and the lake a range of lower hills, which have glens and rifts opening to the other, such as i should fancy the abysses of ida or parnassus. here are plantations of olive, and orange, and lemon trees, which are now so loaded with fruit, that there is more fruit than leaves--and vineyards. this shore of the lake is one continued village, and the milanese nobility have their villas here. the union of culture and the untameable profusion and loveliness of nature is here so close, that the line where they are divided can hardly be discovered. but the finest scenery is that of the villa pliniana; so called from a fountain which ebbs and flows every three hours, described by the younger pliny, which is in the courtyard. this house, which was once a magnificent palace, and is now half in ruins, we are endeavoring to procure. it is built upon terraces raised from the bottom of the lake, together with its garden, at the foot of a semicircular precipice, overshadowed by profound forests of chestnut. the scene from the colonnade is the most extraordinary, at once, and the most lovely that eye ever beheld. on one side is the mountain, and immediately over you are clusters of cypress-trees, of an astonishing height, which seem to pierce the sky. above you, from among the clouds, as it were, descends a waterfall of immense size, broken by the woody rocks into a thousand channels to the lake. on the other side is seen the blue extent of the lake and the mountains, speckled with sails and spires. the apartments of the pliniana are immensely large, but ill-furnished and antique. the terraces, which overlook the lake, and conduct under the shade of such immense laurel-trees as deserve the epithet of pythian, are most delightful. bellagio on lake como[ ] by w. d. m'cracken the picture of the promontory of bellagio is so beautiful as a whole that the traveler had better stand off for awhile to admire it at a distance and at his leisure. indeed it is a question whether the lasting impressions which we treasure of bellagio are not, after all, those derived from across the lake, from the shore-fronts of tremezzo, cadenabbia, menaggio, or varenna. a colossal, conquering geological lion appears to have come up from the south in times immemorial, bound for the north, and finding further progress stopt by the great sheet of water in front of him, seems to have halted and to be now crouching there with his noble head between his paws and his eyes fixt on the snow-covered alps. the big white house on the lion's neck is the villa serbelloni, now used as the annex of a hotel, and the park of noble trees belonging to the villa forms the lion's mane. hotels, both large and small, line the quay at the water's edge; then comes a break in the houses, and stately villa melzi is seen to stand off at one side. villa trotti gleams from among its bowers farther south; on the slope villa trivulzio, formerly poldi, shows bravely, and villa giulia has cut for itself a wide prospect over both arms of the lake. at the back of this lion couchant, in the middle ground, sheer mountain walls tower protectingly, culminating in monte grigna. the picture varies from hour to hour, from day to day, and from season to season. its color-scheme changes with wind and sun, its sparkle comes and goes from sunrise to sunset; only its form remains untouched through the night and lives to delight us another day. as the evening wears on, lights appear one by one on the quay of bellagio, until there is a line of fire along the base of the dark peninsula. the hotel windows catch the glare, the villas light their storied corridors, and presently bellagio, all aglow, presents the spectacle of a venetian night mirrored in the lake. by this time the mountains have turned black and the sky has faded. it grows so still on the water that the tinkle of a little italian band reaches across the lake to cadenabbia, a laugh rings out into the quiet air from one of the merry little rowboats, and even the slight clatter made by the fishermen, in putting their boats to rights for the night and in carrying their nets indoors, can be distinguished as one of many indications that the day is done. when we land at bellagio by daylight, we find it to be very much of a bazaar of souvenirs along the water-front, and everybody determined to carry away a keepsake. there is so much to buy--ornamental olive wood and tortoise-shell articles, como blankets, lace, and what may be described in general terms as modern antiquities. these abound from shop to shop; even english groceries are available. bellagio's principal street is suddenly converted at its northern end into a delightful arcade, after the arrangement which constitutes a characteristic charm of the villages and smaller towns on the italian lakes; moreover, the vista up its side street is distinctly original. this mounts steeply from the waterside, like the streets of algiers, is narrow and constructed in long steps to break the incline. the republic of san marino[ ] by joseph addison the town and republic of st. marino stands on the top of a very high and craggy mountain. it is generally hid among the clouds, and lay under snow when i saw it, though it was clear and warm weather in all the country about it. there is not a spring or fountain, that i could hear of, in the whole dominions; but they are always well provided with huge cisterns and reservoirs of rain and snow water. the wine that grows on the sides of their mountain is extraordinarily good, much better than any i met with on the cold side of the apennines. this mountain, and a few neighboring hillocks that lie scattered about the bottom of it, is the whole circuit of these dominions. they have what they call three castles, three convents, and five churches and can reckon about five thousand souls in their community.[ ] the inhabitants, as well as the historians who mention this little republic, give the following account of its origin. st. marino was its founder, a dalmatian by birth, and by trade a mason. he was employed above thirteen hundred years ago in the reparation of rimini, and after he had finished his work, retired to this solitary mountain, as finding it very proper for the life of a hermit, which he led in the greatest rigors and austerities of religion. he had not been long here before he wrought a reputed miracle, which, joined with his extraordinary sanctity, gained him so great an esteem, that the princess of the country made him a present of the mountain, to dispose of at his own discretion. his reputation quickly peopled it, and gave rise to the republic which calls itself after his name. so that the commonwealth of marino may boast, at least, of a nobler original than that of rome, the one having been at first an asylum for robbers and murderers, and the other a resort of persons eminent for their piety and devotion. the best of their churches is dedicated to the saint, and holds his ashes. his statue stands over the high altar, with the figure of a mountain in its hands, crowned with three castles, which is likewise the arms of the commonwealth. they attribute to his protection the long duration of their state, and look on him as the greatest saint next the blessed virgin. i saw in their statute-book a law against such as speak disrespectfully of him, who are to be punished in the same manner as those convicted of blasphemy. this petty republic has now lasted thirteen hundred years,[ ] while all the other states of italy have several times changed their masters and forms of government. their whole history is comprised in two purchases, which they made of a neighboring prince, and in a war in which they assisted the pope against a lord of rimini. in the year they bought a castle in the neighborhood, as they did another in the year . the papers of the conditions are preserved in their archives, where it is very remarkable that the name of the agent for the commonwealth, of the seller, of the notary, and the witnesses, are the same in both the instruments, tho drawn up at seventy years' distance from each other. nor can it be any mistake in the date, because the popes' and emperors' names, with the year of their respective reigns, are both punctually set down. about two hundred and ninety years after this they assisted pope pius the second against one of the malatestas, who was then, lord of rimini; and when they had helped to conquer him, received from the pope, as a reward for their assistance, four little castles. this they represent as the flourishing time of the commonwealth, when their dominions reached half-way up a neighboring hill; but at present they are reduced to their old extent.... the chief officers of the commonwealth are the two capitaneos, who have such a power as the old roman consuls had, but are chosen every six months. i talked with some that had been capitaneos six or seven times, tho the office is never to be continued to the same persons twice successively. the third officer is the commissary, who judges in all civil and criminal matters. but because the many alliances, friendships, and intermarriages, as well as the personal feuds and animosities, that happen among so small a people might obstruct the course of justice, if one of their own number had the distribution of it, they have always a foreigner for this employ, whom they choose for three years, and maintain out of the public stock. he must be a doctor of law, and a man of known integrity. he is joined in commission with the capitaneos, and acts something like the recorder of london under the lord mayor. the commonwealth of genoa was forced to make use of a foreign judge for many years, while their republic was torn into the divisions of guelphs and ghibelines. the fourth man in the state is the physician, who must likewise be a stranger, and is maintained by a public salary. he is obliged to keep a horse, to visit the sick, and to inspect all drugs that are imported. he must be at least thirty-five years old, a doctor of the faculty, and eminent for his religion and honesty, that his rashness or ignorance may not unpeople the commonwealth. and, that they may not suffer long under any bad choice, he is elected only for three years. the people are esteemed very honest and rigorous in the execution of justice, and seem to live more happy and contented among their rocks and snows, than others of the italians do in the pleasantest valleys of the world. nothing, indeed, can be a greater instance of the natural love that mankind has for liberty, and of their aversion to an arbitrary government, than such a savage mountain covered with people, and the campania of rome, which lies in the same country, almost destitute of inhabitants. perugia[ ] by nathaniel hawthorne we pursued our way, and came, by and by, to the foot of the high hill on which stands perugia, and which is so long and steep that gaetano took a yoke of oxen to aid his horses in the ascent. we all, except my wife, walked a part of the way up, and i myself, with j----[ ] for my companion, kept on even to the city gate, a distance, i should think, of two or three miles, at least. the lower part of the road was on the edge of the hill, with a narrow valley on our left; and as the sun had now broken out, its verdure and fertility, its foliage and cultivation, shone forth in miraculous beauty, as green as england, as bright as only italy. perugia appeared above us, crowning a mighty hill, the most picturesque of cities; and the higher we ascended, the more the view opened before us, as we looked back on the course that we had traversed, and saw the wide valley, sweeping down and spreading out, bounded afar by mountains, and sleeping in sun and shadow. no language nor any art of the pencil can give an idea of the scene.... we plunged from the upper city down through some of the strangest passages that ever were called streets; some of them, indeed, being arched all over, and, going down into the unknown darkness, looked like caverns; and we followed one of them doubtfully, till it opened, out upon the light. the houses on each side were divided only by a pace or two, and communicated with one another, here and there, by arched passages. they looked very ancient, and may have been inhabited by etruscan princes, judging from the massiveness of some of the foundation stones. the present inhabitants, nevertheless, are by no means princely, shabby men, and the careworn wives and mothers of the people, one of whom was guiding a child in leading-strings through these antique alleys, where hundreds of generations have trod before those little feet. finally we came out through a gateway, the same gateway at which we entered last night. the best part of perugia, that in which the grand piazzas and the principal public edifices stand, seems to be a nearly level plateau on the summit of the hill; but it is of no very great extent, and the streets rapidly run downward on either side. j---- and i followed one of these descending streets, and were led a long way by it, till we at last emerged from one of the gates of the city, and had another view of the mountains and valleys, the fertile and sunny wilderness in which this ancient civilization stands. on the right of the gate there was a rude country path, partly overgrown with grass, bordered by a hedge on one side, and on the other by the gray city wall, at the base of which the tract kept onward. we followed it, hoping that it would lead us to some other gate by which we might reenter the city; but it soon grew so indistinct and broken, that it was evidently on the point of melting into somebody's olive-orchard or wheat-fields or vineyards, all of which lay on the other side of the hedge; and a kindly old woman of whom i inquired told me (if i rightly understood her italian) that i should find no further passage in that direction. so we turned back, much broiled in the hot sun, and only now and then relieved by the shadow of an angle or a tower. siena[ ] by mr. and mrs. edwin h. blashfield that admirers of minute designs and florid detail could appreciate grandeur as well, no one can doubt who has seen the plans of the sienese cathedral. its history is one of a grand result, and of far grander, tho thwarted endeavor, and it is hard to realize to-day, that the church as it stands is but a fragment, the transept only, of what siena willed. from the state of the existing works no one can doubt that the brave little republic would have finished it had she not met an enemy before whom the sword of monteaperto was useless. the plague of stalked across tuscany, and the chill of thirty thousand sienese graves numbed the hand of master and workman, sweeping away the architect who planned, the masons who built, the magistrates who ordered, it left but the yellowed parchment in the archives which conferred upon maestro lorenzo maitani the superintendence of the works. the façade of the present church is amazing in its richness, undoubtedly possesses some grand and much lovely detail, and is as undoubtedly suggestive, with its white marble ornaments upon a pink marble ground, of a huge, sugared cake. it is impossible to look at this restored whiteness with the sun upon it; the dazzled eyes close involuntarily and one sees in retrospect the great, gray church front at rheims, or the solemn façade of notre dame de paris. it is like remembering an organ burst of handel after hearing the florid roulades of the mass within the cathedral. the interior is rich in color and fine in effect, but the northerner is painfully imprest by the black and white horizontal stripes which, running from vaulting to pavement, seem to blur and confuse the vision, and the closely set bars of the piers are positively irritating. in the hexagonal lantern, however, they are less offensive than elsewhere, because the fan-like radiation of the bars above the great gilded statues breaks up the horizontal effect. the decoration of the stone-work is not happy; the use of cold red and cold blue with gilt bosses in relief does much to vulgarize, and there is constant sally in small masses which belittles the general effect. it is evident that the sienese tendency to floridity is answerable for much of this, and that having added some piece of big and bad decoration, the cornice of papal head, for instance, they felt forced to do away with it or continue it throughout. but this fault and many others are forgotten when we examine the detail with which later men have filled the church. other italian cathedrals possess art-objects of a higher order; perhaps no other one is so rich in these treasures. the great masters are disappointing here. raphael, as the co-laborer of pinturicchio, is dainty, rather than great, and michelangelo passes unnoticed in the huge and coldly elaborate altar-front of the piccolomini. but marrina, with his doors of the library; barili, with his marvelous casing of the choir-stalls; beccafumi, with his bronze and neillo--these are the artists whom one wonders at; these wood-carvers and bronze-founders, creators of the microcosmic detail of the renaissance which had at last burst triumphantly into siena. this treasure is cumulative, as we walk eastward from the main door, where the pillars are a maze of scroll-work in deepest cutting, and by the time we reach the choir the head fairly swims with the play of light and color. we wander from point to point, we finger and caress the lustrous stalls of barili, and turn with a kind of confusion of vision from panel to panel; above our heads the tabernacle of vecchietta, the lamp bearing angels of beccafumi make spots of bituminous color, with glittering high-lights, strangely emphasizing their modeling; from these youths, who might be pages to some roman prefect, the eye travels upward still further, along the golden convolutions of the heavily stuccoed pilasters to the huge, gilded cherubs' heads that frame the eastern rose.... it is incredible that these frescoes are four hundred years old. surely pinturicchio came down from his scaffolding but yesterday. this is how the hardly dried plaster must have looked to pope and cardinal and princes when the boards were removed, and when the very figures on these walls--smart youths in tights and slashes, bright-robed scholars, ecclesiastics caped in ermine, ladies with long braids bound in nets of silk--crowded to see themselves embalmed in tempera for curious after-centuries to gaze upon. the assissi of st. francis[ ] by hippolyte adolphe taine on the summit of an abrupt height, over a double row of arcades, appears the monastery; at its base a torrent plows the soil, winding off in the distance between banks of boulders; beyond is the old town prolonging itself on the ridge of the mountain. we ascend slowly under the burning sun, and suddenly, at the end of a court surrounded by slender columns, enter within the obscurity of the cathedral. it is unequalled; before having seen it one has no idea of the art and the genius of the middle ages. append to it dante and the "fioretti" of st. francis, and it becomes the masterpiece of mystic christianity. there are three churches, one above the other, all of them arranged around the tomb of st. francis. over this venerated body, which the people regard as ever living and absorbed in prayer at the bottom of an inaccessible cave, the edifice has arisen and gloriously flowered like an architectural shrine. the lowest is a crypt, dark as a sepulcher, into which the visitors descend with torches; pilgrims keep close to the dripping walls and grope along in order to reach the grating. here is the tomb, in a pale, dim light, similar to that of limbo. a few brass lamps, almost without lights, burn here eternally like stars lost in mournful obscurity. the ascending smoke clings to the arches, and the heavy odor of the tapers mingles with that of the cave. the guide trims his torch; and the sudden flash in this horrible darkness, above the bones of a corpse, is like one of dante's visions. here is the mystic grave of a saint who, in the midst of corruption and worms, beholds his slimy dungeon of earth filled with the supernatural radiance of the savior. but that which can not be represented by words is the middle church, a long, low spiracle supported by small, round arches curving in the half-shadow, and whose voluntary depression makes one instinctively bend his knees. a coating of somber blue and of reddish bands starred with gold, a marvelous embroidery of ornaments, wreaths, delicate scroll-work, leaves, and painted figures, covers the arches and ceilings with its harmonious multitude; the eye is overwhelmed by it; a population of forms and tints lives on its vaults; i would not exchange this cavern for all the churches of rome! on the summit, the upper church shoots up as brilliant, as aerial, as triumphant, as this is low and grave. really, if one were to give way to conjecture, he might suppose that in these three sanctuaries the architect meant to represent the three worlds; below, the gloom of death and the horrors of the infernal tomb; in the middle, the impassioned anxiety of the beseeching christian who strives and hopes in this world of trial; aloft, the bliss and dazzling glory of paradise. ravenna[ ] by edward a. freeman with exceptions, all the monuments of ravenna belong to the days of transition from roman to medieval times, and the greater part of them come within the fifth and sixth centuries. it was then that ravenna became, for a season, the head of italy and of the western world. the sea had made ravenna a great haven: the falling back of the sea made her the ruling city of the earth. augustus had called into being the port of caesarea as the peiraieus of the old thessalian or umbrian ravenna. haven and city grew and became one; but the faithless element again fell back; the haven of augustus became dry land covered by orchards, and classis arose as the third station, leaving ravenna itself an inland city. again has the sea fallen back; caesarea has utterly perished; classis survives only in one venerable church; the famous pine forest has grown up between the third haven and the now distant hadriatic. out of all this grew the momentary greatness of ravenna. the city, girded with the three fold zone of marshes, causeways, and strong walls, became the impregnable shelter of the later emperors; and the earliest teutonic kings naturally fixt their royal seat in the city of their imperial predecessors. when this immediate need had passed away, the city naturally fell into insignificance, and it plays hardly any part in the history of medieval italy. hence it is that the city is crowded with the monuments of an age which has left hardly any monuments elsewhere. in britain, indeed, if dr. merivale be right in the date which he gives to the great northern wall, we have a wonderful relic of those times; but it is the work, not of the architect, but of the military engineers. in other parts of europe also works of this date are found here and there; but nowhere save at ravenna is there a whole city, so to speak, made up of them. nowhere but at ravenna can we find, thickly scattered around us, the churches, the tombs, perhaps the palaces, of the last roman and the first teutonic rulers of italy. in the old and in the new rome, and in milan also, works of the same date exist; but either they do not form the chief objects of the city, or they have lost their character and position through later changes. if ravenna boasts of the tombs of honorius and theodoric, milan boasts also, truly or falsely, of the tombs of stilicho and athaulf. but at milan we have to seek for the so-called tomb of athaulf in a side-chapel of a church which has lost all ancient character, and the so-called tomb of stilicho, tho placed in the most venerable church of the city, stands in a strange position as the support of a pulpit. at ravenna, on the other hand, the mighty mausoleum of theodoric, and the chapel which contains the tombs of galla placidia, her brother, and her second husband, are among the best known and best preserved monuments of the city. ravenna, in the days of its exarchs, could never have dared to set up its own st. vital as a rival to imperial st. sophia. but at st. sophia, changed into the temple of another faith, the most characteristic ornaments have been hidden or torn away, while at st. vital hebrew patriarchs and christian saints, and the imperial forms of justinian and his strangely-chosen empress, still look down, as they did thirteen hundred years back, upon the altars of christian worship. ravenna, in short, seems, as it were, to have been preserved all but untouched to keep up the memory of the days which were alike roman, christian, and imperial. benedictine subiaco[ ] by augustus j. c. hare one of the excellent mountain roads constructed by pius ix. leads through a wild district from olevano to subiaco. a few miles before reaching subiaco we skirt a lake, probably one of the simbrivii lacus which nero is believed to have made by damming up the anio. here he fished for trout with a golden net, and here he built the mountain villa which he called sublaqueum--a name which still exists in subiaco. four centuries after the valley had witnessed the orgies of nero, a young patrician of the family of the anicii-benedictus, or "the blessed one," being only fourteen at the time, fled from the seductions of the capital to the rocks of mentorella, but, being followed thither, sought a more complete solitude in a cave above the falls of the anio. here he lived unknown to any except the hermit romanus, who daily let down food to him, half of his own loaf, by a cord from the top of the cliff. at length the hiding-place was revealed to the village priest in a vision, and pilgrims flocked from all quarters to the valley. through the disciples who gathered around benedict, this desolate ravine became the cradle of monastic life in the west, and twelve monasteries rose amid its peaks under the benedictine rule.... nothing can exceed the solemn grandeur of the situation of the convent dedicated to st. scholastica, the sainted sister of st. benedict, which was founded in the fifth century, and which, till quite lately, included as many as sixteen towns and villages among its possessions. the scenery becomes more romantic and savage at every step as we ascend the winding path after leaving st. scholastica, till a small gate admits us to the famous immemorial ilex grove of st. benedict, which is said to date from the fifth century, and which has never been profaned by ax or hatchet. beyond it the path narrows, and a steep winding stair, just wide enough to admit one person at a time, leads to the platform before the second convent, which up to that moment is entirely concealed. its name, sacro speco, commemorates the holy cave of st. benedict. at the portal, the thrilling interest of the place is suggested by the inscription--"here is the patriarchal cradle of the monks of the west order of st. benedict." the entrance corridor, built on arches over the abyss, has frescoes of four sainted popes, and ends in an ante-chamber with beautiful umbrian frescoes, and a painted statue of st. benedict. here we enter the all-glorious church of , completely covered with ancient frescoes. a number of smaller chapels, hewn out of the rock, are dedicated to the sainted followers of the founder. some of the paintings are by the rare umbrian master concioli. a staircase in front of the high altar leads to the lower church. at the foot of the first flight of steps, above the charter of , setting forth all its privileges, is the frescoed figure of innocent iii., who first raised subiaco into an abbacy; in the same fresco is represented abbot john of tagliacozzo, under whom ( - ) many of the paintings were executed. on the second landing, the figure of benedict faces us on a window with his finger on his lips, imposing silence. on the left is the coro, on the right the cave where benedict is said to have passed three years in darkness. a statue by raggi commemorates his presence here; a basket is a memorial of that lowered with his food by st. romanus; an ancient bell is shown as that which rang to announce its approach. as we descend the scala santa trodden by the feet of benedict, and ascended by the monks upon their knees, the solemn beauty of the place increases at every step. on the right is a powerful fresco of death mowing down the young and sparing the old; on the left, the preacher shows the young and thoughtless the three states to which the body is reduced after death. lastly, we reach the holy of holies, the second cave, in which benedict laid down the rule of his order, making its basis the twelve degrees of humility. here also an inscription enumerates the wonderful series of saints, who, issuing from subiaco, founded the benedictine order throughout the world. etruscan volterra[ ] by william cullen bryant for several miles before reaching volterra, our attention was fixt by the extraordinary aspect of the country through which we were passing. the road gradually ascended, and we found ourselves among deep ravines and steep, high, broken banks, principally of clay, barren, and in most places wholly bare of herbage, a scene of complete desolation, were it not for a cottage here and there perched upon the heights, a few sheep attended by a boy and a dog grazing on the brink of one of the precipices, or a solitary patch of bright green wheat in some spot where the rains had not yet carried away the vegetable mold. in the midst of this desolate tract, which is, however, here and there interspersed with fertile spots, rises the mountain on which volterra is situated, where the inhabitants breathe a pure and keen atmosphere, almost perpetually cool, and only die of pleurisies and apoplexies; while below, on the banks of the cecina, which in full sight winds its way to the sea, they die of fevers. one of the ravines of which i have spoken--the "balza," they call it at volterra--has plowed a deep chasm on the north side of this mountain, and is every year rapidly approaching the city on its summit. i stood on its edge and looked down a bank of soft, red earth five hundred feet in height. a few rods in front of me i saw where a road had crossed the spot in which the gulf now yawned; the tracks of the last year's carriages were seen reaching to the edge on both sides. the ruins of a convent were close at hand, the inmates of which, two or three years since, had been removed by the government to the town for safety.... the antiquities of volterra consist of an etruscan burial-ground, in which the tombs still remain, pieces of the old and incredibly massive etruscan wall, including a far larger circuit than the present city, two etruscan gates of immemorial antiquity, older, doubtless, than any thing at rome, built of enormous stones, one of them serving even yet as an entrance to the town, and a multitude of cinerary vessels, mostly of alabaster, sculptured with numerous figures in "alto relievo." these figures are sometimes allegorical representations, and sometimes embody the fables of the greek mythology. among them are many in the most perfect style of grecian art, the subjects of which are taken from the poems of homer; groups representing the besiegers of troy and its defenders, or ulysses with his companions and his ships. i gazed with exceeding delight on these works of forgotten artists, who had the verses of homer by heart--works just drawn from the tombs where they had been buried for thousands of years, and looking as if fresh from the chisel. the paestum of the greeks[ ] by edward a. freeman few buildings are more familiar than the temples of paestum; yet the moment when the traveler first comes in sight of works of untouched hellenic skill is one which is simply overwhelming. suddenly, by the side of a dreary road, in a spot backed indeed by noble mountains, but having no charm of its own, we come on these works, unrivaled on our side of the hadriatic and the messenian strait, standing in all their solitary grandeur, shattered indeed, but far more perfect than the mass of ruined buildings of later days. the feeling of being brought near to hellenic days and hellenic men, of standing face to face with the fathers of the world's civilization, is one which can never pass away. descriptions, pictures, models, all fail; they give us the outward form; they can not give us the true life. the thought comes upon us that we have passed away from that roman world out of which our own world has sprung into that earlier and fresher and brighter world by which rome and ourselves have been so deeply influenced, but out of which neither the roman nor the modern world can be said to spring. there is the true doric in its earliest form, in all its unmixed and simple majesty. the ground is strewed with shells and covered with acanthus-leaves; but no shell had suggested the ionic volute, no acanthus-leaf had suggested the corinthian foliage. the vast columns, with the sudden tapering, the overhanging capitals, the stern, square abacus, all betoken the infancy of art. but it is an infancy like that of their own hêraklês; the strength which clutched the serpent in his cradle is there in every stone. later improvements, the improvements of attic skill, may have added grace; the perfection of art may be found in the city which the vote of the divine assembly decreed to athênê; but for the sense of power, of simplicity without rudeness, the city of poseidon holds her own. unlike in every detail, there is in these wonderful works of early greek art a spirit akin to some of the great churches of romanesque date, simple, massive, unadorned, like the poseidônian doric. and they show, too, how far the ancient architects were from any slavish bondage to those minute rules which moderns have invented for them. in each of the three temples of paestum differences both of detail and of arrangement may be marked, differences partly of age, but also partly of taste. and some other thoughts are brought forcibly upon the mind. here indeed we feel that the wonders of hellenic architecture are things to kindle our admiration, even our reverence; but that, as the expression of a state of things which has wholly passed away, nothing can be less fit for reproduction in modern times. and again, we may be sure that the admiration and reverence which they may awaken in the mind of the mere classical purist is cold beside that which they kindle in the mind which can give them their true place in the history of art. the temples of paestum are great and noble from any point of view. but they become greater and nobler as we run over the successive steps in the long series by which their massive columns and entablatures grew into the tall clusters and soaring arches of westminster and amiens. vii sicilian scenes palermo[ ] by will s. monroe while not one of the original hellenic city-states, palermo has a superb location on the northern shores of the central island of the central sea; its harbor is guarded by the two picturesque cliffs and the fertile plain that forms the "compagne" is hemmed in by a semicircular cord of rugged mountains. "perhaps there are few spots upon the surface of the globe more beautiful than palermo," writes arthur symonds. "the hills on either hand descend upon the sea with long-drawn delicately broken outlines, so delicately tinted with aerial hues at early dawn or beneath the blue light of a full moon the panorama seems to be some fabric of fancy, that must fade away, 'like shapes of clouds we form,' to nothing. within the cradle of these hills, and close upon the tideless water, lies the city. behind and around on every side stretches the famous conco d'oro, or golden shell, a plain of marvelous fertility, so called because of its richness and also because of its shape; for it tapers to a fine point where the mountains meet, and spreads abroad, where they diverge, like a cornucopia. the whole of this long vega is a garden, thick with olive-groves and orange trees, with orchards of nespole and palms and almonds, with fig-trees and locust-trees, with judas-trees that blush in spring, and with flowers as multitudinously brilliant as the fretwork of sunset clouds." during the days of phoenician and carthagenian supremacy palermo was a busy mart--a great clearing-house for the commerce of the island and that part of the mediterranean. but during the days of the saracens it became not only a very busy city but also a very beautiful city. the arabian poets extolled its charms in terms that sound to us exceedingly extravagant. one of them wrote: "oh how beautiful is the lakelet of the twin palms and the island where the spacious palace stands. the limpid waters of the double springs resemble liquid pearls, and their basin is a sea; you would say that the branches of the trees stretched down to see the fishes in the pool and smile at them. the great fishes in those clear waters, and the birds among the gardens tune their songs. the ripe oranges of the island are like fire that burns on boughs of emerald; the pale lemon reminds me of a lover who has passed the night in weeping for his absent darling. the two palms may be compared to lovers who have gained an inaccessible retreat against their enemies, or raise themselves erect in pride to confound the murmurs and the ill thoughts of jealous men. o palms of two lakelets of palermo, ceaseless, undisturbed, and plenteous days for ever keep your freshness." with the coming of the normans palermo enjoyed even greater prosperity than had been experienced under the liberal rule of the saracens. this was the most brilliant period in the history of the city. the population was even more mixed than during moslem supremacy. besides the greeks, normans, saracens, and hebrews, there were commercial colonies of slavs, venetians, lombardians, catalans, and pisans. the most interesting public monuments at palermo date from the norman period; and while many of the buildings are strikingly saracenic in character and recall similar structures erected by the arabs in spain, it will be remembered that the normans brought no trained architects to the island, but employed the arabs, greeks, and hebrews who had already been in the service of the saracen emirs. but the arab influence in architecture was dominant, and it survived well into the fourteenth century. girgenti[ ] by edward a. freeman the reported luxury of the sikeliot cities in this age is, in the double-edged saying of empedocles, connected with one of their noblest tastes. they built their houses as if they were going to live for ever. and if their houses, how much more their temples and other public buildings? in some of the sikeliot cities, this was the most brilliant time of architectural splendor. at syracuse indeed the greatest buildings which remain to tell their own story belong either to an earlier or to a later time. it is the theater alone, as in its first estate a probable work of the first hierôn, which at all connects itself with our present time. but at akragas[ ] and at selinous the greatest of the existing buildings belong to the days of republican freedom and independence. at akragas what the tyrant began the democracy went on with. the series of temples that line the southern wall are due to an impulse which began under thêrôn and went on to the days of the carthaginian siege. of the greatest among them, the temple of olympian zeus, this is literally true. there can be little doubt that it was begun as one of the thank-offerings after the victory of himera, and it is certain that at the coming of hannibal and hamilkôn it was still so far imperfect that the roof was not yet added. it was therefore in building during a time of more than seventy years, years which take in the whole of the brilliant days of akragantine freedom and well-being. to the same period also belong the other temples in the lower city, temples which abide above ground either standing or in ruins, while the older temples in the akropolis have to be looked for underneath buildings of later ages. it was a grand conception to line the southern wall, the wall most open to the attacks of mortal enemies, with this wonderful series of holy places of the divine protectors of the city. it was a conception due, we may believe, in the first instance, to thêrôn, but which the democracy fully entered into and carried out. the two best preserved of the range stand to the east; one indeed occupies the southeastern corner of the fortified enclosure. next in order to the west comes the temple which bears a name not unlikely, but altogether impossible and unmeaning, the so-called temple of concord. no reasonable guess can be made at its pagan dedication; in the fifteenth century of our era it followed the far earlier precedent of the temples in the akropolis. it became the church of saint gregory, not of any of the great pontiffs and doctors of the church, but of the local bishop whose full description as saint gregory of the turnips can hardly be written without a smile. the peristyle was walled up, and arches were cut through the walls of the cella, exactly as in the great church of syracuse. saint gregory of girgenti plays no such part in the world's history as was played by the panagia of syracuse; we may therefore be more inclined to extend some mercy to the bourbon king who set free the columns as we now see them. when he had gone so far, one might even wish that he had gone on to wall up the arches. in each of the former states of the building there was a solid wall somewhere to give shelter from the blasts which sweep round this exposed spot. as the building now stands, it is, after the athenian house of theseus and saint george, the best preserved greek temple in being. like its fellow to the east, it is a building of moderate size, of the middle stage of doric, with columns less massive than those of syracuse and corinth, less slender than those of nemea. again to the west stood a temple of greater size, nearly ranging in scale with the athenian parthenon, which is assigned, with far more of likelihood than the other names, to hêraklês. save one patched-up column standing amid the general ruin, it has, in the language of the prophet, become heaps. all that is left is a mass of huge stones, among which we can see the mighty columns, fallen, each in its place, overthrown, it is clear, by no hand of man but by those powers of the nether world whose sway is felt in every corner of sicilian soil. these three temples form a continuous range along the eastern part of the southern wall of the city. to the west of them, parted from them by a gate, which, in roman times at least, bore, as at constantinople and spalato, the name of golden, rose the mightiest work of akragantine splendor and devotion, the great olympieion itself. of this gigantic building, the vastest greek temple in europe, we happily have somewhat full descriptions from men who had looked at it, if not in the days of its full glory, yet at least when it was a house standing up, and not a ruin. as it now lies, a few fragments of wall still standing amid confused heaps of fallen stones, of broken columns and capitals, no building kindles a more earnest desire to see it as it stood in the days of its perfection. [illustration: city and bay of naples with vesuvius in the distance courtesy international mercantile marine co.] [illustration: temple of theseus at athens] [illustration: palermo, sicily, from the sea courtesy l. c. page & co.] [illustration: greek theater at segesta, sicily] [illustration: temple of concord, girgenti, sicily] [illustration: temple of juno at girgenti, sicily] [illustration: amphitheater at syracuse, sicily] [illustration: greek temple at segesta, sicily courtesy l. c. page & co.] [illustration: harbor of syracuse, sicily courtesy l. c. page & co.] [illustration: the so-called "ship of ulysses" off corfu courtesy houghton, mifflin co.] [illustration: temple of the olympian zeus at athens courtesy houghton, mifflin co.] [illustration: the plain below delphi courtesy houghton, mifflin co.] [illustration: the road near delphi courtesy houghton, mifflin co.] [illustration: entrance to the stadium at olympia courtesy houghton, mifflin co.] [illustration: throne of minos in crete (minoan civilization in crete antedates the homeric age--perhaps by many centuries) courtesy houghton, mifflin co.] segeste[ ] by johann wolfgang von goethe the temple of segeste was never finished; the ground around it was never even leveled; the space only being smoothed on which the peristyle was to stand. for, in several places, the steps are from nine to ten feet in the ground, and there is no hill near, from which the stone or mold could have fallen. besides, the stones lie in their natural position, and no ruins are found near them. the columns are all standing; two which had fallen, have very recently been raised again. how far the columns rested on a socle is hard to say; and without an engraving it is difficult to give an idea of their present state. at some points it would seem as if the pillars rested on the fourth step. in that case to enter the temple you would have to go down a step. in other places, however, the uppermost step is cut through, and then it looks as if the columns had rested on bases; and then again these spaces have been filled up, and so we have once more the first case. an architect is necessary to determine this point. the sides have twelve columns, not reckoning the corner ones; the back and front six, including them. the rollers on which the stones were moved along, still lie around you on the steps. they have been left in order to indicate that the temple was unfinished. but the strongest evidence of this fact is the floor. in some spots (along the sides) the pavement is laid down; in the middle, however, the red limestone rock still projects higher than the level of the floor as partially laid; the flooring, therefore, can not ever have been finished. there is also no trace of an inner temple. still less can the temple have ever been overlaid with stucco; but that it was intended to do so, we may infer from the fact that the abaci of the capitals have projecting points probably for the purpose of holding the plaster. the whole is built of a limestone, very similar to the travertine; only it is now much fretted. the restoration which was carried on in , has done much good to the building. the cutting of the stone, with which the parts have been reconnected, is simple, but beautiful. the site of the temple is singular; at the highest end of a broad and long valley, it stands on an isolated hill. surrounded, however, on all sides by cliffs, it commands a very distant and extensive view of the land, but takes in only just a corner of the sea. the district reposes in a sort of melancholy fertility--every where well cultivated, but scarce a dwelling to be seen. flowering thistles were swarming with countless butterflies, wild fennel stood here from eight to nine feet high, dry and withered of the last year's growth, but so rich and in such seeming order that one might almost take it to be an old nursery-ground. a shrill wind whistled through the columns as if through a wood, and screaming birds of prey hovered around the pediments. taormina[ ] by johann wolfgang von goethe when you have ascended to the top of the wall of rocks [at taormina], which rise precipitously at no great distance from the sea, you find two peaks, connected by a semicircle. whatever shape this may have had originally from nature has been helped by the hand of man, which has formed out of it an amphitheater for spectators. walls and other buildings have furnished the necessary passages and rooms. right across, at the foot of the semicircular range of seats, the scene was built, and by this means the two rocks were joined together, and a most enormous work of nature and art combined. now, sitting down at the spot where formerly sat the uppermost spectators, you confess at once that never did any audience, in any theater, have before it such a spectacle as you there behold. on the right, and on high rocks at the side, castles tower in the air--farther on the city lies below you; and altho its buildings are all of modern date, still similar ones, no doubt, stood of old on the same site. after this the eye falls on the whole of the long ridge of Ætna, then on the left it catches a view of the sea-shore, as far as catania, and even syracuse, and then the wide and extensive view is closed by the immense smoking volcano, but not horribly, for the atmosphere, with its softening effect, makes it look more distinct, and milder than it really is. if now you turn from this view toward the passage running at the back of the spectators, you have on the left the whole wall of the rocks between which and the sea runs the road to messina. and then again you behold vast groups of rocky ridges in the sea itself, with the coast of calabria in the far distance, which only a fixt and attentive gaze can distinguish from the clouds which rise rapidly from it. we descended toward the theater, and tarried awhile among its ruins, on which an accomplished architect would do well to employ, at least on paper, his talent of restoration. after this i attempted to make a way for myself through the gardens to the city. but i soon learned by experience what an impenetrable bulwark is formed by a hedge of agaves planted close together. you can see through their interlacing leaves, and you think, therefore, it will be easy to force a way through them; but the prickles on their leaves are very sensible obstacles. if you step on these colossal leaves, in the hope that they will bear you, they break off suddenly; and so, instead of getting out, you fall into the arms of the next plant. when, however, at last we had wound our way out of the labyrinth, we found but little to enjoy in the city; tho from the neighboring country we felt it impossible to part before sunset. infinitely beautiful was it to observe this region, of which every point had its interest, gradually enveloped in darkness. mount Ætna[ ] by will s. monroe by the ancients Ætna was supposed to be the prison of the mighty chained giant typhon, the flames proceeding from his breath and the noises from his groans; and when he turned over earthquakes shook the island. many of the myths of the greek poets were associated with the slopes of Ætna, such as demeter, torch in hand, seeking persephone, acis and galatea, polyphemus and the cyclops. Ætna was once a volcano in the mediterranean and in the course of ages it completely filled the surrounding sea with its lava. a remarkable feature of the mountain is the large number of minor cones on its sides--some seven hundred in all. most of these subsidiary cones are from three to six thousand feet in height and they make themselves most strongly felt during periods of great activity. the summit merely serves as a vent through which the vapors and gases make their escape. the natural boundaries of Ætna are the alcantara and simeto rivers on the north, west, and south, and the sea on the east. the most luxurious fertility characterizes the gradual slopes near the base, the decomposed volcanic soil being almost entirely covered with olives, figs, grapes, and prickly pears. higher up is the timber zone. formerly there was a dense forest belt between the zone of cultivated land and the tore of cinders and snow; but the work of forest extermination was almost completed during the reign of the spanish bourbons. one may still find scattered oak, ilex, chestnut, and pine interspersed with ferns and aromatic herbs. chestnut trees of surprizing growth are found on the lower slopes. "the chestnut tree of the hundred horses," for which the slopes of Ætna are famous, is not a single tree but a group of several distinct trunks together forming a circle, under whose spreading branches a hundred horses might find shelter. above the wooded zone Ætna is covered with miniature cones thrown up by different eruptions and regions of dreary plateau covered with scoriae and ashes and buried under snow a part of the year. while the upper portions of the volcano are covered with snow the greater portion of the year, Ætna does not reach the limit of perpetual snow, and the heat which is emitted from its sides prevents the formation of glaciers in the hollows. one might expect that the quantities of snow and rain which fall on the summit would give rise to numerous streams. but the small stones and cinders absorb the moisture, and springs are found only on the lower slopes. the cinders, however, retain sufficient moisture to support a rich vegetation wherever the surface of the lava is not too compact to be penetrated by roots. the surface of the more recent lava streams is not, as might be supposed, smooth and level, but full of yawning holes and rents. the regularity of the gradual slopes is broken on the eastern side by the valle del bove, a vast amphitheater more than three thousand feet in depth, three miles in width, and covering an area of ten square miles. the bottom of the valley is dotted with craters which rise in gigantic steps; and, when Ætna is in a state of eruption, these craters pour forth fiery cascades of lava. the monte centenari rise from the valle del bove to an elevation of , feet. at the head of the valley is the torre del filosofo at an altitude of , feet. this is the reputed site of the observatory of empedocles, the poet and philosopher, who is fabled to have thrown himself into the crater of Ætna to immortalize his name. the lower slopes of Ætna--after the basin of palermo--include the most densely populated parts of sicily. more than half a million people live on the slopes of a mountain that might be expected to inspire terror. "towns succeed towns along its base like pearls in a necklace, and when a stream of lava effects a breach in the chain of human habitations, it is closed up again as soon as the lava has had time to cool." as soon as the lava has decomposed, the soil produces an excellent yield and this tempts the farmer and the fruit grower to take chances. speaking of the dual effect of Ætna, freeman says: "he has been mighty to destroy, but he has also been mighty to create and render fruitful. if his fiery streams have swept away cities and covered fields, they have given the cities a new material for their buildings and the fields a new soil rich above all others." syracuse[ ] by rufus b. richardson the ruins of syracuse are not to the casual observer very imposing. but even these ruins have great interest for the archeologist. there is, for example, an old temple near the northern end of ortygia, for the most part embedded in the buildings of the modern city, yet with its east end cleared and showing several entire columns with a part of the architrave upon them. and what a surprize here awaits one who thinks of a doric temple as built on a stereotyped plan! instead of the thirteen columns on the long sides which one is apt to look for as going with a six-column front, here are eighteen or nineteen, it is not yet quite certain which. the columns stand less than their diameter apart, and the abaci are so broad that they nearly touch. so small is the inter-columnar space that archeologists incline to the belief that in this one doric temple there were triglyphs only over the columns, and not also between them as in all other known cases. everything about this temple stamps it as the oldest in sicily. an inscription on the top step, in very archaic letters, much worn and difficult to read, contains the name of apollo in the ancient form.... the inscription may, of course, be later than the temple; but it is in itself old enough to warrant the supposition that the temple was erected soon after the first corinthian colonists established themselves in the island. while the inscription makes it reasonably certain that the temple belonged to apollo, the god under whose guiding hand all these dorians went out into these western seas, tradition, with strange perversity, has given it the name of "temple of diana." but it is all in the family. another temple ruin on the edge of the plateau, which begins about two miles south of the city, across the anapos, one might also easily overlook in a casual survey, because it consists only of two columns without capitals, and a broad extent of the foundations from which the accumulated earth has been only partially removed. this was the famous temple of olympian zeus, built probably in the days of hiero i., soon after the persian war, but on the site of a temple still more venerable. one seeks a reason for the location of this holy place at such a distance from the city. holm, the german historian of sicily, argues with some plausibility that this was no mere suburb of syracuse, but the original syracuse itself. in the first place, the list of the citizens of syracuse was kept here down at least to the time of the athenian invasion. in the second place, tradition, which, when rightly consulted, tells so much, says that archias, the founder of syracuse, had two daughters, ortygia and syracusa, which may point to two coordinate settlements, ortygia and syracuse; the latter, which was on this temple plateau, being subsequently merged in the former, but, as sometimes happens in such cases, giving its name to the combined result. besides these temple ruins there are many more foundations that tell a more or less interesting story. then there are remains of the ancient city that can never be ruined--for instance, the great stone quarries, pits over a hundred feet deep and acres broad, in some of which the athenian prisoners were penned up to waste away under the gaze of the pitiless captors; the greek theater cut out of the solid rock; the great altar of hiero ii., six hundred feet long and about half as broad, also of solid rock. then there is a mighty hexapylon, which closed the fortifications of dionysius at the northwest at the point where they challenged attack from the land side. with its sally-ports and rock-hewn passages, some capacious enough to quarter regiments of cavalry, showing holes cut in the projecting corners of rock, through which the hitch-reins of the horses were wont to be passed, and its great magazines, it stands a lasting memorial to the energy of a tyrant. but while this fortress is practically indestructible, an impregnable fortress is a dream incapable of realization. marcellus and his stout romans came in through these fortifications, not entirely, it is true, by their own might, but by the aid of traitors, against whom no walls are proof. one of the stone quarries, the latomia del paradiso, has an added interest from its association with the tyrant who made himself hated as well as feared, while gelon was only feared without being hated. an inner recess of the quarry is called the "ear of dionysius," and tradition says that at the inner end of this recess either he or his creatures sat and listened to the murmurs that the people uttered against him, and that these murmurs were requited with swift and fatal punishment. certain it is that a whisper in this cave produces a wonderful resonance, and a pistol shot is like the roar of a cannon; but that people who had anything to say about the butcher should come up within ear-shot of him to utter it is not very likely. historians are not quite sure that the connection of dionysius with this recess is altogether mythical, but that he shaped it with the fell purpose above mentioned is not to be thought of, as the whole quarry is older than his time, and was probably, with the latomia dei cappuccini, a prison for the athenians. malta[ ] by thÉophile gautier the city of valetta, founded in , by the grand master whose name it bears, is the capital of malta. the city of la sangle, and the city of victoria, which occupy two points of land on the other side of the harbor of the marse, together with the suburbs of floriana and burmola, complete the town; encircled by bastions, ramparts, counterscarps, forts, and fortifications, to an extent which renders siege impossible! if you follow one of the streets which surround the town, at each step that you take, you find yourself face to face with a cannon. gibraltar itself does not bristle more completely with mouths of fire. the inconvenience of these extended works is, that they enclose a vast radius, and demand to defend them, in case of attack, an enormous garrison; always difficult to maintain at a distance from the mother country. from the height of the ramparts, one sees in the distance the blue and transparent sea, broken into ripples by the breeze, and dotted with snowy sails. the scarlet sentinels are on guard from point to point, and the heat of the sun is so fierce upon the glacis, that a cloth stretched upon a frame and turning upon a pivot at the top of a pole, forms a shade for the soldiers, who, without this precaution, must inevitably be roasted on their posts.... the city of valetta, altho built with regularity, and, so to speak, all in one "block," is not, therefore, the less picturesque. the decided slope of the ground neutralizes what the accurate lines of the street might otherwise have of monotony, and the town mounts by degrees and by terraces the hillside, which it forms into an amphitheater. the houses, built very high like those of cadiz, terminate in flat roofs that their inhabitants may the better enjoy the sea view. they are all of white maltese stone; a sort of sandstone easy to work, and with which, at small expense, one can indulge various caprices of sculpture and ornamentation. these rectilinear houses stand well, and have an air of grandeur, which they owe to the absence of (visible) roofs, cornices, and attics. they stand out sharply and squarely against the azure of the heavens, which their dazzling whiteness renders only the more intense; but that which chiefly gives them a character of originality is the projecting balcony hung upon each front; like the "moucharabys" of the east, or the "miradores" of spain. the palace of the grand masters--to-day the palace of the government--has nothing remarkable in the way of architecture. its date is recent, and it responds but imperfectly to the idea one would form of the residence of villiers de i'lle adam, of lavalette, and of their warlike ancestors. nevertheless, it has a certain monumental air, and produces a fine effect upon the great place, of which it forms one entire side. two doorways, with rustic columns, break the uniformity of the long façade; while an immense balcony, supported by gigantic sculptured brackets, encircles the building at the level of the first floor, and gives to the edifice the stamp of malta. this detail, so strictly local in its character, relieves what might be heavy and flat in this architecture; and this palace, otherwise vulgar, becomes thus original. the interior, which i visited, presents a range of vast halls and galleries, decorated with pictures representing battles by sea and land, sieges, and combats between turkish galleys and the galleys of the "religion." ... to finish with the knights, i turned my steps toward the church of st. john--the pantheon of the order. its façade, with a triangular porch flanked by two towers terminating in stone belfries, having for ornament only four pillars, and pierced by a window and door, without sculpture or decoration, by no means prepares the traveler for the splendor within. the first thing which arrests the sight is an immense arch, painted in fresco, which runs the whole length of the nave. this fresco, unhappily much deteriorated by time, is the work of matteo preti, called the calabrese; one of those great second-rate masters, who, if they have less genius, have often more talent than the princes of the art. what there is of science, facility, spirit, expression, and abundant resource, in this colossal picture, is beyond description. each section of the arch contains a scene from the life of st. john, to whom the church is dedicated, and who was the patron of the order. these sections are supported, at their descent, by groups of captives--saracens, turks, christians, and others--half naked, or clad in the remains of shattered armor, and placed in positions of humiliation or constraint, who form a species of barbaric caryatides strikingly suited to the subject. all this part of the fresco is full of character, and has a force of coloring very rare in this species of picture. these solid and massive effects give additional strength to the lighter tone of the arch, and throw the skies into a relief and distance singularly profound. i know no similar work of equal grandeur except the ceiling by fumiana in the church of st. pantaleone at venice, representing the life, martyrdom, and apotheosis of that saint. but the style of the decadence makes itself less felt in the work of the calabrese than in that of the venetian. in recompense of this gigantic work, the artist had the honor, like carravaggio, to be made a knight of the order. the pavement of the church is composed of four hundred tombs of knights, incrusted with jasper, porphyry, verd-antique, and precious stones of various kinds, which should form the most splendid sepulchral mosaics conceivable. i say should form, because at the moment of my visit, the whole floor was covered with those immense mats, so constantly used for carpeting the southern churches--a usage which is explained by the absence of pews or chairs, and the habit of kneeling upon the floor to perform one's devotions. i regretted this exceedingly; but the crypt and the chapel contain enough sepulchral wealth to offer some atonement. viii the mainland of greece on arriving in athens--the acropolis[ ] by j. p. mahaffy there is probably no more exciting voyage, to any educated man, than the approach to athens from the sea. every promontory, every island, every bay, has its history. if he knows the map of greece, he needs no guide-book or guide to distract him; if he does not, he needs little greek to ask of any one near him the name of this or that object; and the mere names are sufficient to stir up all his classical recollections. but he must make up his mind not to be shocked at "Ægina" or "phalrum," and even to be told that he is utterly wrong in his way of pronouncing them. it was our fortune to come into greece by night, with a splendid moon shining upon the summer sea. the varied outlines of sunium, on the one side, and Ægina on the other, were very clear, but in the deep shadows there was mystery enough to feed the burning impatience of seeing all in the light of common day; and tho we had passed Ægina, and had come over against the rocky salamis, as yet there was no sign of peiræus. then came the light on psyttalea, and they told us that the harbor was right opposite. yet we came nearer and nearer, and no harbor could be seen. the barren rocks of the coast seemed to form one unbroken line, and nowhere was there a sign of indentation or of break in the land. but suddenly, as we turned from gazing on psyttalea, where the flower of the persian nobles had once stood in despair, looking upon their fate gathering about them, the vessel had turned eastward, and discovered to us the crowded lights and thronging ships of the famous harbor. small it looked, very small, but evidently deep to the water's edge, for great ships seemed touching the shore; and so narrow is the mouth, that we almost wondered how they had made their entrance in safety. but we saw it some weeks later, with nine men-of-war towering above all its merchant shipping and its steamers, and among them crowds of ferryboats skimming about in the breeze with their wing-like sails. then we found out that, like the rest of greece, the peiræus was far larger than it looked. it differed little, alas! from more vulgar harbors in the noise and confusion of disembarking; in the delays of its custom-house; in the extortion and insolence of its boatmen. it is still, as in plato's day, "the haunt of sailors, where good manners are unknown." but when we had escaped the turmoil, and were seated silently on the way to athens, almost along the very road of classical days, all our classical notions, which had been seared away by vulgar bargaining and protesting, regained their sway. we had sailed in through the narrow passage where almost every great greek that ever lived had some time passed; now we went along the line, hardly less certain, which had seen all these great ones going to and fro between the city and the port. the present road is shaded with great silver poplars, and plane trees, and the moon had set, so that our approach to athens was even more mysterious than our approach to the peiræus. we were, moreover, perplexed at our carriage stopping under some large plane trees, tho we had driven but two miles, and the night was far spent. our coachman would listen to no advice or persuasion. we learned afterward that every carriage going to and from the peiræus stops at this half-way house, that the horses may drink, and the coachman take "turkish delight" and water. there is no exception made to this custom, and the traveler is bound to submit. at last we entered the unpretending ill-built streets at the west of athens.... we rose at the break of dawn to see whether our window would afford any prospect to serve as a requital for angry sleeplessness. and there, right opposite, stood the rock which of all rocks in the world's history has done most for literature and art--the rock which poets, and orators, and architects, and historians have ever glorified, and can not stay their praise--which is ever new and ever old, ever fresh in its decay, ever perfect in its ruin, ever living in its death--the acropolis of athens. when i saw my dream and longing of many years fulfilled, the first rays of the rising sun had just touched the heights, while the town below was still hid in gloom. rock, and rampart, and ruined fanes--all were colored in uniform tints; the lights were of a deep rich orange, and the shadows of dark crimson, with the deeper lines of purple. there was no variety in color between what nature and what man had set there. no whiteness shone from the marble, no smoothness showed upon the hewn and polished blocks; but the whole mass of orange and crimson stood out together into the pale, pure attic air. there it stood, surrounded by lanes and hovels, still perpetuating the great old contrast in greek history, of magnificence and meanness--of loftiness and lowness--as well in outer life as in inward motive. and, as it were in illustration of that art of which it was the most perfect bloom, and which lasted in perfection but a day of history, i saw it again and again, in sunlight and in shade, in daylight and at night, but never again in this perfect and singular beauty.... i suppose there can be no doubt whatever that the ruins on the acropolis of athens are the most remarkable in the world. there are ruins far larger, such as the pyramids, and the remains of karnak. there are ruins far more perfectly preserved, such as the great temple at paestum. there are ruins more picturesque, such as the ivy-clad walls of medieval abbeys beside the rivers in the rich valleys of england. but there is no ruin all the world over which combines so much striking beauty, so distinct a type, so vast a volume of history, so great a pageant of immortal memories. there is, in fact, no building on earth which can sustain the burden of such greatness, and so the first visit to the acropolis is and must be disappointing. when the traveler reflects how all the old world's culture culminated in greece--all greece in athens--all athens in its acropolis--all the acropolis in the parthenon--so much crowds upon the mind confusedly that we look for some enduring monument whereupon we can fasten our thoughts, and from which we can pass as from a visible starting-point into all this history and all this greatness. and at first we look in vain. the shattered pillars and the torn pediments will not bear so great a strain; and the traveler feels forced to admit a sense of disappointment, sore against his will. he has come a long journey into the remoter parts of europe; he has reached at last what his soul had longed for many years in vain; and as is wont to be the case with all great human longings, the truth does not answer to his desire. the pang of disappointment is all the greater when he sees that the tooth of time and the shock of earthquake have done but little harm. it is the hand of man--of reckless foe and ruthless lover--which has robbed him of his hope.... nothing is more vexatious than the reflection, how lately these splendid remains have been reduced to their present state. the parthenon, being used as a greek church, remained untouched and perfect all through the middle ages. then it became a mosque, and the erechtheum a seraglio, and in this way survived without damage till , when, in the bombardment by the venetians under morosini, a shell dropt into the parthenon, where the turks had their powder stored, and blew out the whole center of the building. eight or nine pillars at each side have been thrown down, and have left a large gap, which so severs the front and rear of the temple, that from the city below they look like the remains of two different buildings. the great drums of these pillars are yet lying there, in their order, just as they fell, and some money and care might set them all up again in their places; yet there is not in greece the patriotism or even the common sense to enrich the country by this restoration, matchless in its certainty as well as in its splendor. but the venetians were not content with their exploit. they were, about this time, when they held possession of most of greece, emulating the pisan taste for greek sculptures; and the four fine lions standing at the gate of the arsenal in venice still testify to their zeal in carrying home greek trophies to adorn their capital. in its great day, and even as pausanias saw it, the acropolis was covered with statues, as well as with shrines. it was not merely an holy of holies in religion; it was also a palace and museum of art. at every step and turn the traveler met new objects of interest. there were archaic specimens, chiefly interesting to the antiquarian and the devotee; there were the great masterpieces which were the joint admiration of the artist and the vulgar. even all the sides and slopes of the great rock were honeycombed into sacred grottos, with their altars and their gods, or studded with votive monuments. all these lesser things are fallen away and gone; the sacred eaves are filled with rubbish, and desecrated with worse than neglect. the grotto of pan and apollo is difficult of access, and when reached, an object of disgust rather than of interest. there are left but the remnants of the surrounding wall, and the ruins of the three principal buildings, which were the envy and wonder of all the civilized world. the beautiful little temple of athena nike, tho outside the propylæa--thrust out as it were on a sort of great buttress high on the right--must still be called a part, and a very striking part, of the acropolis. it is only of late years that it has been cleared of rubbish and modern stone-work, thus destroying, no doubt, some precious traces of turkish occupation which the fastidious historian may regret, but realizing to us a beautiful greek temple of the ionic order in some completeness. the peculiarity of this building, which is perched upon a platform of stone, and commands a splendid prospect, is that its tiny peribolus, or sacred enclosure, was surrounded by a parapet of stone slabs covered with exquisite reliefs of winged victories, in various attitudes. some of these slabs are now in the museum of the acropolis, and are of great interest--apparently less severe than the school of phidias, and therefore later in date, but still of the best epoch, and of marvelous grace. the position of this temple also is not parallel with the propylæa, but turned slightly outward, so that the light strikes it at moments when the other building is not illuminated. at the opposite side is a very well-preserved chamber, and a fine colonnade at right angles with the gate, which looks like a guard-room. this is the chamber commonly called the pinacotheca, where pausanias saw pictures or frescoes by polygnotus. a winter in athens half a century ago[ ] by bayard taylor our sitting-room fronted the south (with a view of the acropolis and the areopagus), and could be kept warm without more labor or expense than would be required for an entire dwelling at home. our principal anxiety was, that the supply of fuel, at any price, might become exhausted. we burned the olive and the vine, the cypress and the pine, twigs of rose trees and dead cabbage-stalks, for aught i know, to feed our one little sheet-iron stove. for full two months we were obliged to keep up our fire, from morning until night. know ye the land of the cypress and myrtle, where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine? here it is, with almost snow enough in the streets for a sleighing party, with the ilissus frozen, and with a tolerable idea of lapland, when you face the gusts which drive across the cephissian plain. as the other guests were greek, our mode of living was similar to that of most greek families. we had coffee in the morning, a substantial breakfast about noon, and dinner at six in the evening. the dishes were constructed after french and italian models, but the meat is mostly goat's flesh. beef, when it appears, is a phenomenon of toughness. vegetables are rather scarce. cow's milk, and butter or cheese therefrom, are substances unknown in greece. the milk is from goats or sheep, and the butter generally from the latter. it is a white, cheesy material, with a slight flavor of tallow. the wine, when you get it unmixed with resin, is very palatable. we drank that of santorin, with the addition of a little water, and found it an excellent beverage.... except during the severely cold weather, athens is as lively a town as may be. one-fourth of the inhabitants, i should say, are always in the streets, and many of the mechanics work, as is common in the orient, in open shops. the coffee-houses are always thronged, and every afternoon crowds may be seen on the patissia road--a continuation of eolus street--where the king and queen take their daily exercise on horseback. the national costume, both male and female, is gradually falling into disuse in the cities, altho it is still universal in the country. the islanders adhere to their hideous dress with the greatest persistence. with sunrise the country people begin to appear in the streets with laden donkeys and donkey-carts, bringing wood, grain, vegetables, and milk, which they sell from house to house.... venders of bread and coffee-rolls go about with circular trays on their heads, calling attention to their wares by loud and long-drawn cries. later in the day, peddlers make their appearance, with packages of cheap cotton stuffs, cloth, handkerchiefs, and the like, or baskets of pins, needles, buttons, and tape. they proclaim loudly the character and price of their articles, the latter, of course, subject to negotiation. the same custom prevails as in turkey, of demanding much more than the seller expects to get. foreigners are generally fleeced a little in the beginning, tho much less so, i believe, than in italy.... the winter of - was the severest in the memory of any inhabitant. for nearly eight weeks, we had an alternation of icy north winds and snow-storms. the thermometer went down to degrees of fahrenheit--a degree of cold which seriously affected the orange-, if not the olive-trees. winter is never so dreary as in those southern lands, where you see the palm trees rocking despairingly in the biting gale, and the snow lying thick on the sunny fruit of the orange groves. as for the pepper trees, with their hanging tresses and their loose, misty foliage, which line the broad avenues radiating from the palace, they were touched beyond recovery. the people, who could not afford to purchase wood or charcoal, at treble the usual price, even tho they had hearths, which they have not, suffered greatly. they crouched at home, in cellars and basements, wrapt in rough capotes, or hovering around a mangal, or brazier of coals, the usual substitute for a stove. from constantinople we had still worse accounts. the snow lay deep everywhere; charcoal sold at twelve piastres the oka (twenty cents a pound), and the famished wolves, descending from the hills, devoured people almost at the gates of the city. in smyrna, beyrout, and alexandria, the winter was equally severe, while in odessa it was mild and agreeable, and in st. petersburg there was scarcely snow enough for sleighing. all northern europe enjoyed a winter as remarkable for warmth as that of the south for its cold. the line of division seemed to be about the parallel of latitude degrees. whether this singular climatic phenomenon extended further eastward, into asia, i was not able to ascertain. i was actually less sensitive to the cold in lapland, during the previous winter, with the mercury frozen, than in attica, within the belt of semi-tropical productions. the acropolis as it was[ ] by pausanias to the acropolis there is only one approach; it allows of no other, being everywhere precipitous and walled off. the vestibules have a roof of white marble, and even now are remarkable for both their beauty and size. as to the statues of the horsemen, i can not say with precision whether they are the sons of xenophon, or merely put there for decoration. on the right of the vestibules is the shrine of the wingless victory. from it the sea is visible; and there Ægeus drowned himself, as they say. for the ship which took his sons to crete had black sails, but theseus told his father (for he knew there was some peril in attacking the minotaur) that he would have white sails if he should sail back a conqueror. but he forgot this promise in his loss of ariadne. and Ægeus, seeing the ship with black sails, thinking his son was dead, threw himself in and was drowned. and the athenians have a hero-chapel to his memory. and on the left of the vestibules is a building with paintings; and among those that time has not destroyed are diomedes and odysseus--the one taking away philoctetes's bow in lemnos, the other taking the palladium from ilium. among other paintings here is Ægisthus being slain by orestes; and pylades slaying the sons of nauplius that came to Ægisthus's aid. and polyxena about to have her throat cut near the tomb of achilles. homer did well not to mention this savage act.... and there is a small stone such as a little man can sit on, on which they say silenus rested, when dionysus came to the land. silenus is the name they give to all old satyrs. about the satyrs i have conversed with many, wishing to know all about them. and euphemus, a carian, told me that sailing once on a time to italy he was driven out of his course by the winds, and carried to a distant sea, where people no longer sail. and he said that here were many desert islands, some inhabited by wild men; and at these islands the sailors did not like to land, as they had landed there before and had experience of the natives; but they were obliged on that occasion. these islands he said were called by the sailors satyr-islands; the dwellers in them were red-haired, and had tails at their loins not much smaller than horses.... and as regards the temple which they call the parthenon, as you enter it everything portrayed on the gables relates to the birth of athene, and behind is depicted the contest between poseidon and athene for the soil of attica. and this work of art is in ivory and gold. in the middle of her helmet is an image of the sphinx--about whom i shall give an account when i come to boeotia--and on each side of the helmet are griffins worked. these griffins, says aristus the proconnesian, in his poems, fought with the arimaspians beyond the issedones for the gold of the soil which the griffins guarded. and the arimaspians were all one-eyed men from their birth; and the griffins were beasts like lions, with wings and mouth like an eagle. let so much suffice for these griffins. but the statue of athene is full length, with a tunic reaching to her feet; and on her breast is the head of medusa worked in ivory, and in one hand she has a victory four cubits high, in the other hand a spear, and at her feet a shield; and near the spear a dragon which perhaps is erichthonius. and on the base of the statue is a representation of the birth of pandora--the first woman, according to hesiod and other poets; for before her there was no race of women. here too i remember to have seen the only statue here of the emperor adrian; and at the entrance one of iphicrates, the celebrated athenian general. and outside the temple is a brazen apollo said to be by phidias; and they call it apollo, averter of locusts, because when the locusts destroyed the land the god said he would drive them out of the country. and they know that he did so, but they don't say how. i myself know of locusts having been thrice destroyed on mount sipylus, but not in the same way; for some were driven away by a violent wind that fell on them, and others by a strong light that came on them after showers, and others were frozen to death by a sudden frost. all this came under my own notice. there is also a building called the erechtheum, and in the vestibule is an altar of supreme zeus, where they offer no living sacrifice, but cakes without the usual libation of wine. and as you enter there are three altars: one to poseidon (on which they also sacrifice to erechtheus according to the oracle), one to the hero butes, and the third to hephæstus. and on the walls are paintings of the family of butes. the building is a double one; and inside there is sea-water in a well. and this is no great marvel; for even those who live in inland parts have such wells, as notably aphrodisienses in caria. but this well is represented as having a roar as of the sea when the south wind blows. and in the rock is the figure of a trident. and this is said to have been poseidon's proof in regard to the territory athene disputed with him. sacred to athene is all the rest of athens, and similarly all attica; for altho they worship different gods in different townships, none the less do they honor athene generally. and the most sacred of all is the statue of athene in what is now called the acropolis, but was then called the polis (city) which was universally worshiped many years before the various townships formed one city; and the rumor about it is that it fell from heaven. as to this i shall not give an opinion, whether it was so or not. and callimachus made a golden lamp for the goddess. and when they fill this lamp with oil it lasts for a whole year, altho it burns continually night and day. and the wick is of a particular kind of cotton flax, the only kind indestructible by fire. and above the lamp is a palm tree of brass reaching to the roof and carrying off the smoke. and callimachus, the maker of this lamp, altho he comes behind the first artificers, yet was remarkable for ingenuity, and was the first who perforated stone, and got the name of "art-critic," whether his own appellation or given him by others. in the temple of athene polias is a hermes of wood (said to be a votive offering of cecrops), almost hidden by myrtle leaves. and of the antique votive offerings worthy of record, is a folding-chair, the work of dædalus, and spoils taken from the persians--as a coat of mail of masistius, who commanded the cavalry at platæa, and a scimitar said to have belonged to mardonius. masistius we know was killed by the athenian cavalry; but as mardonius fought against the lacedæmonians and was killed by a spartan, they could not have got it at first hand; nor is it likely that the lacedæmonians would have allowed the athenians to carry off such a trophy. and about the olive they have nothing else to tell but that the goddess used it as a proof of her right to the country, when it was contested by poseidon. and they record also that this olive was burnt when the persians set fire to athens; but tho burnt, it grew the same day two cubits. and next to the temple of athene is the temple of pandrosus; who was the only one of the three sisters who didn't peep into the forbidden chest. now the things i most marveled at are not universally known. i will therefore write of them as they occur to me. two maidens live not far from the temple of athene polias, and the athenians call them the "carriers of the holy things"; for a certain time they live with the goddess, but when her festival comes they act in the following way, by night: putting upon their heads what the priestess of athene gives them to carry (neither she nor they know what these things are), these maidens descend, by a natural underground passage, from an inclosure in the city sacred to aphrodite of the gardens. in the sanctuary below they deposit what they carry, and bring back something else closely wrapt up. and these maidens they henceforth dismiss, and other two they elect instead of them for the acropolis. the elgin marbles[ ] by j. p. mahaffy morosini[ ] wished to take down the sculptures of phidias from the eastern pediment, but his workmen attempted it so clumsily that the figures fell from their place and were dashed to pieces on the ground. an observing traveler[ ] was present when a far more determined and systematic attack was made upon the remaining ruins of the parthenon. while he was traveling in the interior, lord elgin had obtained his famous firman from the sultan, to take down and remove any antiquities or sculptured stones he might require, and the infuriated dodwell saw a set of ignorant workmen, under equally ignorant overseers, let loose upon the splendid ruins of the age of pericles. he speaks with much good sense and feeling of this proceeding. he is fully aware that the world would derive inestimable benefit from the transplanting of these splendid fragments to a more accessible place, but he can not find language strong enough to express his disgust at the way in which the thing was done. incredible as it may appear, lord elgin himself seems not to have superintended the work, but to have left it to paid contractors, who undertook the job for a fixt sum. little as either turks or greeks cared for the ruins, he says that a pang of grief was felt through all athens at the desecration, and that the contractors were obliged to bribe workmen with additional wages to undertake the ungrateful task. dodwell will not even mention lord elgin by name, but speaks of him with disgust as "the person" who defaced the parthenon. he believes that had this person been at athens himself, his underlings could hardly have behaved in the reckless way they did, pulling down more than they wanted, and taking no care to prop up and save the work from which they had taken the support. he especially notices their scandalous proceeding upon taking up one of the great white marble blocks which form the floor or stylobate of the temple. they wanted to see what was underneath, and dodwell, who was there, saw the foundation--a substructure of peiræic sandstone. but when they had finished their inspection they actually left the block they had removed, without putting it back into its place. so this beautiful pavement, made merely of closely-fitting blocks, without any artificial or foreign joinings, was ripped up, and the work of its destruction began. i am happy to add that, tho a considerable rent was then made, most of it is still intact, and the traveler of to-day may still walk on the very stones which bore the tread of every great athenian. the question has often been discust, whether lord elgin was justified in carrying off this pediment, the metopes, and the friezes, from their place; and the greeks of to-day hope confidently that the day will come when england will restore these treasures to their place. this is, of course, absurd, and it may fairly be argued that people who would bombard their antiquities in a revolution are not fit custodians of them in the intervals of domestic quiet. this was my reply to an old greek gentleman who assailed the memory of lord elgin with reproaches. i confess i approved of this removal until i came home from greece, and went again to see the spoil in its place in our great museum. tho there treated with every care--tho shown to the best advantage, and explained by excellent models of the whole building, and clear descriptions of their place on it--notwithstanding all this, it was plain that these wonderful fragments lost so terribly by being separated from their place--they looked so unmeaning in an english room, away from their temple, their country and their lovely atmosphere--that one earnestly wished they had never been taken from their place, even at the risk of being made a target by the greeks or the turks. i am convinced, too, that the few who would have seen them, as intelligent travelers, on their famous rock, would have gained in quality the advantage now diffused among many, but weakened and almost destroyed by the wrench in associations, when the ornament is severed from its surface, and the decoration of a temple exhibited apart from the temple itself. we may admit, then, that it had been better if lord elgin had never taken away these marbles. nevertheless, it would be absurd to send them back. but i do think that the museum on the acropolis should be provided with a better set of casts of the figures than those which are now to be seen there. they look very wretched, and carelessly prepared.... the theater of dionysus[ ] by j. p. mahaffy some ten or twelve years ago, a very extensive and splendidly successful excavation was made when a party of german archeologists laid bare the theater of dionysus--the great theater in which Æschylus, sophocles, and euripides brought out their immortal plays before an immortal audience. there is nothing more delightful than to descend from the acropolis, and rest awhile in the comfortable marble arm-chairs with which the front row of the circuit is occupied. they are of the pattern usual in the sitting portrait statues of the greeks--very deep, and with a curved back, which exceeds both in comfort and in grace any chairs made by modern workmen.[ ] each chair has the name of a priest inscribed on it, showing how the theater among the greeks corresponded to our cathedral, and this front row to the stalls of canons and prebendaries. but unfortunately all this sacerdotal prominence is probably the work of the later restorers of the theater. for after having been first beautified and adorned with statues by lycurgus (in demosthenes' time), it was again restored and embellished by herodes atticus, or about his time, so that the theater, as we now have it, can only be called the building of the second or third century after christ. the front wall of the stage, which is raised some feet above the level of the empty pit, is adorned with a row of very elegant sculptures, among which one--a shaggy old man, in a stooping posture, represented as coming out from within, and holding up the stone above him--is particularly striking. some greek is said to have knocked off, by way of amusement, the heads of most of these figures since they were discovered, but this i do not know upon any better authority than ordinary report. the pit or center of the theater is empty, and was never in greek days occupied by seats, but a wooden structure was set up adjoining the stage, and on this the chorus performed their dances, and sang their odes. but now there is a circuit of upright slabs of stone close to the front seat, which can hardly have been an arrangement of the old greek theater. they are generally supposed to have been added when the building was used for contests of gladiators or of wild beasts; but the partition, being not more than three feet high, would be no protection whatever from an evil-disposed wild beast. all these later additions and details are, i fear, calculated to detract from the reader's interest in this theater, which i should indeed regret--for nothing can be more certain than that this is the veritable stone theater which was built when the wooden one broke down, at the great competition of Æschylus and pratinas; and tho front seats may have been added, and slight modifications introduced, the general structure can never have required alteration. it is indeed very large, tho i think exaggerated statements have been made about its size. i have heard it said that the enormous number of , people could fit into it--a statement i think incredible; for it did not to me seem larger than, or as large as, other theaters i have seen, at syracuse, at megalopolis, or even at argos. but, no doubt, all such open-air enclosures and sittings look far smaller than covered rooms of the same size. this is certain, that any one speaking on the stage, as it now is, can be easily and distinctly heard by people sitting on the highest row of seats now visible, which can not, i fancy, have been far from the original top of the house. and we may doubt that any such thing were possible when , people, or a crowd approaching that number, were seated. we hear, however, that the old actors had recourse to various artificial means of increasing the range of their voices. yet there is hardly a place in athens which forces back the mind so strongly to the old days, when all the crowd came jostling in, and settled down in their seats, to hear the great novelties of the year from sophocles or euripides. no doubt there were cliques and cabals and claqueurs, noisy admirers and cold critics, the supporters of the old, and the lovers of the new, devotees and sceptics, wondering foreigners and self-complacent citizens. they little thought how we should come, not only to sit in the seats they occupied, but to reverse the judgments which they pronounced, and correct with sober temper the errors of prejudice, of passion, and of pride. where paul preached to the athenians[ ] by j. p. mahaffy it was on this very areopagus, where we are now standing, that these philosophers of fashion came into contact with the thorough earnestness, the profound convictions, the red-hot zeal of the apostle paul. the memory of that great scene still lingers about the place, and every guide will show you the exact place where the apostle stood, and in what direction he addrest his audience. there are, i believe, even some respectable commentators who transfer their own estimate of st. paul's importance to the athenian public, and hold that it was before the court of the areopagus that he was asked to expound his views. this is more than doubtful. the "blasés" philosophers, who probably yawned over their own lectures, hearing of a new lay preacher, eager to teach and apparently convinced of the truth of what he said, thought the novelty too delicious to be neglected, and brought him forthwith out of the chatter and bustle of the crowd, probably past the very orchestra where anaxagoras' books had been proselytizing before him, and where the stiff old heroes of athenian history stood, a monument of the escape from political slavery. it is even possible that the curious knot of idlers did not bring him higher than this platform, which might well be called part of mars' hill. but if they chose to bring him to the top, there was no hindrance, for the venerable court held its sittings in the open air, on stone seats; and when not thus occupied, the top of the rock may well have been a convenient place of retirement for people who did not want to be disturbed by new acquaintances, and the constant eddies of new gossip in the market-place. it is, however, of far less import to know on what spot of the areopagus paul stood, than to understand clearly what he said, and how he sought to conciliate as well as to refute the philosophers who, no doubt, looked down upon him as an intellectual inferior. he starts naturally enough from the extraordinary crowd of votive statues and offerings, for which athens was remarkable above all other cities of greece. he says, with a slight touch of irony, that he finds them very religious indeed, so religious that he even found an altar to a god professedly unknown, or perhaps unknowable.... thus ended, to all appearance ignominiously, the first heralding of the faith which was to supplant all the temples and altars and statues with which athens had earned renown as a beautiful city, which was to overthrow the schools of the sneering philosophers, and even to remodel all the society and the policy of the world. and yet, in spite of this great and decisive triumph of christianity, there was something curiously prophetic in the contemptuous rejection of its apostle at athens. was it not the first expression of the feeling which still possesses the visitor who wanders through its ruins, and which still dominates the educated world--the feeling that while other cities owe to the triumph of christianity all their beauty and their interest, athens has to this day resisted this influence; and that while the christian monuments of athens would elsewhere excite no small attention, here they are passed by as of no import compared with its heathen splendor? there are very old and very beautiful little churches in athens, "delicious little byzantine churches," as renan calls them. they are very peculiar, and unlike what one generally sees in europe. they strike the observer with their quaintness and smallness, and he fancies he here sees the tiny model of that unique and splendid building, the cathedral of st. mark at venice. but yet it is surprizing how little we notice them at athens. i was even told--i sincerely hope it was false--that public opinion at athens was gravitating toward the total removal of one, and that the most perfect, of these churches, which stands in the middle of a main street, and so breaks the regularity of the modern boulevard! from athens to delphi on horseback[ ] by bayard taylor we left athens on the th of april, for a journey to parnassus and the northern frontier of greece. it was a teeming, dazzling day, with light scarfs of cloud-crape in the sky, and a delicious breeze from the west blowing through the pass of daphne. the gulf of salamis was pure ultramarine, covered with a velvety bloom, while the island and mount kerata swam in transparent pink and violet tints. crossing the sacred plain of eleusis, our road entered the mountains--lower offshoots of cithæron, which divide the plain from that of boeotia.... we climbed the main ridge of the mountains; and, in less than an hour, reached the highest point--whence the great boeotian plain suddenly opened upon our view. in the distance gleamed lake capaïs, and the hills beyond; in the west, the snowy top of parnassus, lifted clear and bright above the morning vapors; and, at last, as we turned a shoulder of the mountain in descending, the streaky top of helicon appeared on the left, completing the classic features of the landscape.... as we entered the plain, taking a rough path toward platæa, the fields were dotted, far and near, with the white easter shirts of the people working among the vines. another hour, and our horses' hoofs were upon the sacred soil of platæa. the walls of the city are still to be traced for nearly their entire extent. they are precisely similar in construction to those of oenoë--like which, also, they were strengthened by square towers. there are the substructions of various edifices--some of which may have been temples--and on the side next the modern village lie four large sarcophagi, now used as vats for treading out the grapes in vintage-time. a more harmless blood than once curdled on the stones of platæa now stains the empty sepulchers of the heroes. we rode over the plain, fixt the features of the scene in our memories, and then kept on toward the field of leuktra, where the brutal power of sparta received its first check. the two fields are so near, that a part of the fighting may have been done upon the same ground.... i then turned my horse's head toward thebes, which we reached in two hours. it was a pleasant scene, tho so different from that of two thousand years ago. the town is built partly on the hill of the cadmeion, and partly on the plain below. an aqueduct, on mossy arches, supplies it with water, and keeps its gardens green. the plain to the north is itself one broad garden to the foot of the hill of the sphinx, beyond which is the blue gleam of a lake, then a chain of barren hills, and over all the snowy cone of mount delphi, in euboea. the only remains of the ancient city are stones; for the massive square tower, now used as a prison, can not be ascribed to an earlier date than the reign of the latin princes.... the next morning we rode down from the cadmeion, and took the highway to livadia, leading straight across the boeotian plain. it is one of the finest alluvial bottoms in the world, a deep, dark, vegetable mold--which would produce almost without limit, were it properly cultivated. before us, blue and dark under a weight of clouds, lay parnassus; and far across the immense plain the blue peaks of mount oeta. in three hours we reached the foot of helicon, and looked up at the streaks of snow which melt into the fountain of the muses.... as we left arachova, proceeding toward delphi, the deep gorge opened, disclosing a blue glimpse of the gulf of corinth and the achaian mountains. tremendous cliffs of blue-gray limestone towered upon our right, high over the slope of delphi, which ere long appeared before us. our approach to the sacred spot was marked by tombs cut in the rock. a sharp angle of the mountain was passed; and then, all at once, the enormous walls, buttressing the upper region of parnassus, stood sublimely against the sky, cleft right through the middle by a terrible split, dividing the twin peaks which gave a name to the place. at the bottom of this chasm issue forth the waters of castaly, and fill a stone trough by the road-side. on a long, sloping mountain-terrace, facing the east, stood once the town and temples of delphi, and now the modern village of kastri. as you may imagine, our first walk was to the shrine of the delphic oracle, at the bottom of the cleft between the two peaks. the hewn face of the rock, with a niche, supposed to be that where the pythia sat upon her tripod, and a secret passage under the floor of the sanctuary, are all that remain. the castalian fountain still gushes out at the bottom, into a large square enclosure, called the pythia's bath, and now choked up with mud, weeds, and stones. among those weeds, i discerned one of familiar aspect, plucked and tasted it. watercress, of remarkable size and flavor! we thought no more of apollo and his shrine, but delving wrist-deep into castalian mud, gathered huge handfuls of the profane herb, which we washed in the sacred front, and sent to françois for a salad.... as the sun sank, i sat on the marble blocks and sketched the immortal landscape. high above me, on the left, soared the enormous twin peaks of pale-blue rock, lying half in the shadow of the mountain slope upheaved beneath, half bathed in the deep yellow luster of sunset. before me rolled wave after wave of the parnassian chain, divided by deep lateral valleys, while helicon, in the distance, gloomed like a thunder-storm under the weight of gathered clouds. across this wild, vast view, the breaking clouds threw broad belts of cold blue shadow, alternating with zones of angry orange light, in which the mountains seemed to be heated to a transparent glow. the furious wind hissed and howled over the piles of ruin, and a few returning shepherds were the only persons to be seen. and this spot, for a thousand years, was the shrine where spake the awful oracle of greece. corinth[ ] by j. p. mahaffy the gulf of corinth is a very beautiful and narrow fiord, with chains of mountains on either side, through the gaps of which you can see far into the morea on one side, and into northern greece on the other. but the bays or harbors on either coast are few, and so there was no city able to wrest the commerce of these waters from old corinth, which held the keys by land of the whole peloponnesus, and commanded the passage from sea to sea. it is, indeed, wonderful how corinth did not acquire and maintain the first position in greece. but as soon as the greater powers of greece decayed and fell away, we find corinth immediately taking the highest position in wealth, and even in importance. the capture of corinth, in b.c., marks the roman conquest of all greece, and the art-treasures carried to rome seem to have been as great and various as those which even athens could have produced. no sooner had julius cæsar restored and rebuilt the ruined city, than it sprang at once again into importance, and among the societies addrest in the epistles of st. paul, none seems to have lived in greater wealth or luxury. it was, in fact, well-nigh impossible that corinth should die. nature had marked out her site as one of the great thoroughfares of the old world; and it was not till after centuries of blighting misrule by the wretched turks that she sank into the hopeless decay from which not even another julius cæsar could rescue her. the traveler who expects to find any sufficient traces of the city of periander and of timoleon, and, i may say, of st. paul, will be grievously disappointed. in the middle of the wretched straggling modern village there stand up seven enormous rough stone pillars of the doric order, evidently of the oldest and heaviest type; and these are the only visible relic of the ancient city, looking altogether out of place, and almost as if they had come there by mistake. these pillars, tho insufficient to admit of our reconstructing the temple, are in themselves profoundly interesting. their shaft up to the capital is of one block, about twenty-one feet high and six feet in diameter. it is to be observed, that over these gigantic monoliths the architrave, in which other greek temples show the largest blocks, is not in one piece, but two, and made of beams laid together longitudinally. the length of the shafts (up to the neck of the capital) measures about four times their diameter, on the photograph which i possess; i do not suppose that any other doric pillar known to us is so stout and short. straight over the site of the town is the great rock known as the acro-corinthus. a winding path leads up on the southwest side to the turkish drawbridge and gate, which are now deserted and open; nor is there a single guard or soldier to watch a spot once the coveted prize of contending empires. in the days of the achæan league it was called one of the fetters of greece, and indeed it requires no military experience to see the extraordinary importance of the place. next to the view from the heights of parnassus, i suppose the view from this citadel is held the finest in greece. i speak here of the large and diverse views to be obtained from mountain heights. to me, personally, such a view as that from the promontory of sunium, or, above all, from the harbor of nauplia, exceeds in beauty and interest any bird's-eye prospect. any one who looks at the map of greece will see how the acro-corinthus commands coasts, islands, and bays. the day was too hazy when we stood there to let us measure the real limits of the view, and i can not say how near to mount olympus the eye may reach in a suitable atmosphere. but a host of islands, the southern coasts of attica and boeotia, the acropolis of athens, salamis and Ægina, helicon and parnassus, and endless Ætolian peaks were visible in one direction; while, as we turned round, all the waving reaches of arcadia and argolis, down to the approaches toward mantinea and karytena, lay stretched out before us. the plain of argos, and the sea at that side, are hidden by the mountains. but without going into detail, this much may be said, that if a man wants to realize the features of these coasts, which he has long studied on maps, half an hour's walk about the top of this rock will give him a geographical insight which no years of study could attain. olympia[ ] by philip s. marden olympia, like delphi, is a place of memories chiefly. the visible remains are numerous, but so flat that some little technical knowledge is needed to restore them in mind. there is no village at the modern olympia at all--nothing but five or six little inns and a railway station--so that delphi really has the advantage of olympia in this regard. as a site connected with ancient greek history and greek religion, the two places are as similar in nature as they are in general ruin. the field in which the ancient structures stand lies just across the tiny tributary river cladeus, spanned by a footbridge. even from the opposite bank, the ruins present a most interesting picture, with its attractiveness greatly enhanced by the neighboring pines, which scatter themselves through the precinct itself and cover densely the little conical hill of kronos close by, while the grasses of the plain grow luxuriantly among the fallen stones of the former temples and apartments of the athletes. the ruins are so numerous and so prostrate that the non-technical visitor is seriously embarrassed to describe them, as is the case with every site of the kind. all the ruins, practically, have been identified and explained, and naturally they all have to do with the housing or with the contests of the visiting athletes of ancient times, or with the worship of tutelary divinities. almost the first extensive ruin that we found on passing the encircling precinct wall was the prytaneum--a sort of ancient training table at which victorious contestants were maintained gratis--while beyond lay other equally extensive remnants of exercising places, such as the palæstra for the wrestlers. but all these were dominated, evidently, by the two great temples, an ancient one of comparatively small size sacred to hera, and a mammoth edifice dedicated to zeus, which still gives evidence of its enormous extent, while the fallen column-drums reveal some idea of the other proportions. it was in its day the chief glory of the enclosure, and the statue of the god was even reckoned among the seven wonders of the world. unfortunately this statue, like that of athena at athens, has been irretrievably lost. but there is enough of the great shrine standing in the midst of the ruins to inspire one with an idea of its greatness; and, in the museum above, the heroic figures from its two pediments have been restored and set up in such wise as to reproduce the external adornment of the temple with remarkable success. gathered around this central building, the remainder of the ancient structures having to do with the peculiar uses of the spot present a bewildering array of broken stones and marbles. an obtrusive remnant of a byzantine church is the one discordant feature. aside from this the precinct recalls only the distant time when the regular games called all greece to olympia, while the "peace of god" prevailed throughout the kingdom. just at the foot of kronos a long terrace and flight of steps mark the position of a row of old treasuries, as at delphi, while along the eastern side of the precinct are to be seen the remains of a portico once famous for its echoes, where sat the judges who distributed the prizes. there is also a most graceful arch remaining to mark the entrance to the ancient stadium, of which nothing else now remains. of the later structures on the site, the "house of nero" is the most interesting and extensive. the olympic games were still celebrated, even after the roman domination, and nero himself entered the lists in his own reign. he caused a palace to be erected for him on that occasion--and of course he won a victory, for any other outcome would have been most impolite, not to say dangerous. nero was more fortunately lodged than were the other ancient contestants, it appears, for there were no hostelries in old olympia in which the visiting multitudes could be housed, and the athletes and spectators who came from all over the land were accustomed to bring their own tents and pitch them roundabout, many of them on the farther side of the alpheios. the temple of zeus at olympia as it was[ ] by pausanias many various wonders may one see, or hear of, in greece; but the eleusinian mysteries and olympian games seem to exhibit more than anything else the divine purpose. and the sacred grove of zeus they have from old time called altis, slightly changing the greek word for grove; it is, indeed, called altis also by pindar, in the ode he composed for a victor at olympia. and the temple and statue of zeus were built out of the spoils of pisa, which the people of elis razed to the ground, after quelling the revolt of pisa, and some of the neighboring towns that revolted with pisa. and that the statue of zeus was the work of phidias is shown by the inscription written at the base of it: "phidias the athenian, the son of charmides, made me." the temple is a doric building, and outside it is a colonnade. and the temple is built of stone of the district. its height up to the gable is sixty-eight feet, and its length , feet. and its architect was libon, a native of ellis. and the tiles on the roof are not of baked earth; but pentelican marble, to imitate tiles. they say such roofs are the invention of a man of naxos called byzes, who made statues at naxos with the inscription: "euergus of naxos made me, the son of byzes, and descended from leto, the first who made tiles of stone." this byzes was a contemporary of alyattes the lydian, and astyages (the son of cyaxares), the king of persia. and there is a golden vase at each end of the roof, and a golden victory in the middle of the gable. and underneath the victory is a golden shield hung up as a votive offering, with the gorgon medusa worked on it. the inscription on the shield states who hung it up, and the reason why they did so. for this is what it says: "this temple's golden shield is a votive offering from the lacedæmonians at tanagra and their allies, a gift from the argives, the athenians, and the ionians, a tithe offering for success in war." the battle i mentioned in my account of attica, when i described the tombs at athens. and in the same temple at olympia, above the zone that runs round the pillars on the outside, are twenty-one golden shields, the offering of mummius the roman general, after he had beaten the achæans and taken corinth, and expelled the dorians from corinth. and on the gables in bas-relief is the chariot race between pelops and oenomaus; and both chariots in motion. and in the middle of the gable is a statue of zeus; and on the right hand of zeus is oenomaus with a helmet on his head; and beside him his wife sterope, one of the daughters of atlas. and myrtilus, who was the charioteer of oenomaus, is seated behind the four horses. and next to him are two men whose names are not recorded, but they are doubtless oenomaus's grooms, whose duty was to take care of the horses.... the carvings on the gables in front are by pæonius of mende in thracia; those behind by alcamenes, a contemporary of phidias and second only to him as statuary. and on the gables is a representation of the fight between the lapithæ and the centaurs at the marriage of pirithous. pirithous is in the center, and on one side of him is eurytion trying to carry off pirithous's wife, and cæneus coming to the rescue, and on the other side theseus laying about among the centaurs with his battle-ax; and one centaur is carrying off a maiden, another a blooming boy. alcamenes has engraved this story, i imagine, because he learned from the lines of homer that pirithous was the son of zeus, and knew that theseus was fourth in descent from pelops. there are also in bas-relief at olympia most of the labors of hercules. above the doors of the temple is the hunting of the erymanthian boar, and hercules taking the mares of diomede the thracian, and robbing geryon of his oxen in the island of erytheia, and supporting the load of atlas, and clearing the land of elis of its dung.... the image of the god is in gold and ivory, seated on a throne. and a crown is on his head imitating the foliage of the olive tree. in his right hand he holds a victory in ivory and gold, with a tiara and crown on his head; and in his left hand a scepter adorned with all manner of precious stones, and the bird seated on the scepter is an eagle. the robes and sandals of the god are also of gold; and on his robes are imitations of flowers, especially of lilies. and the throne is richly adorned with gold and precious stones, and with ebony and ivory. and there are imitations of animals painted on it, and models worked on it. there are four victories like dancers, one at each foot of the throne, and two also at the instep of each foot; and at each of the front feet are theban boys carried off by sphinxes, and below the sphinxes, apollo and artemis shooting down the children of niobe. and between the feet of the throne are four divisions formed by straight lines drawn from each of the four feet. in the division nearest the entrance there are seven models--the eighth has vanished no one knows where or how. and they are imitations of ancient contests, for in the days of phidias the contests for boys were not yet established. and the figure with its head muffled up in a scarf is, they say, pantarcas, who was a native of elis and the darling of phidias. this pantarces won the wrestling-prize for boys in the th olympiad. and in the remaining divisions is the band of hercules fighting against the amazons. the number on each side is twenty-nine, and theseus is on the side of hercules. and the throne is supported not only by the four feet, but also by four pillars between the feet. but one can not get under the throne, as one can at amyclæ, and pass inside; for at olympia there are panels like walls that keep one off. at the top of the throne, phidias has represented above the head of zeus the three graces and three seasons. for these too, as we learn from the poets, were daughters of zeus. homer in the iliad has represented the seasons as having the care of heaven, as a kind of guards of a royal palace. and the base under the feet of zeus (what is called in attic "thranion") has golden lions engraved on it, and the battle between theseus and the amazons--the first famous exploit of the athenians beyond their own borders. and on the platform that supports the throne there are various ornaments round zeus, and gilt carving--the sun seated in his chariot, and zeus and hera; and near is grace. hermes is close to her, and vesta close to hermes. and next to vesta is eros receiving aphrodite, who is just rising from the sea and being crowned by persuasion. and apollo and artemis, athene and hercules, are standing by, and at the end of the platform amphitrite and poseidon, and selene apparently urging on her horse. and some say it is a mule and not a horse that the goddess is riding upon; and there is a silly tale about this mule. i know that the size of the olympian zeus both in height and breadth has been stated; but i can not bestow praise on the measurers, for their recorded measurement comes far short of what any one would infer from looking at the statue. they make the god also to have testified to the art of phidias. for they say that when the statue was finished, phidias prayed him to signify if the work was to his mind; and immediately zeus, struck with lightning that part of the pavement where in our day is a brazen urn with a lid. and all the pavement in front of the statue is not of white but of black stone. and a border of parian marble runs round this black stone, as a preservative against spilled oil. for oil is good for the statue at olympia, as it prevents the ivory being harmed by the dampness of the grove. but in the acropolis at athens, in regard to the statue of athene called the maiden, it is not oil but water that is advantageously employed to the ivory; for as the citadel is dry by reason of its great height, the statue being made of ivory needs to be sprinkled with water freely. and when i was at epidaurus, and inquired why they use neither water nor oil to the statue of Æsculapius, the sacristans of the temple informed me that the statue of the god and its throne are over a well. thermopylÆ[ ] by rufus b. richardson we took thermopylæ at our leisure, passing out from lamia over the spercheios on the bridge of alamana, at which diakos, famous in ballad, resisted with a small band a turkish army, until he was at last captured and taken to lamia to be impaled.... it may be taken as a well-known fact that the spercheios has since the time of herodotus made so large an alluvial deposit around its mouth that, if he himself should return to earth, he would hardly recognize the spot which he has described so minutely. the western horn, which in his time came down so near to the gulf as to leave space for a single carriage-road only, is now separated from it by more than a mile of plain. each visit to thermopylæ has, however, deepened my conviction that herodotus exaggerated the impregnability of this pass. the mountain spur which formed it did not rise so abruptly from the sea as to form an impassable barrier to the advance of a determined antagonist. it is of course difficult ground to operate on, but certainly not impossible. the other narrow place, nearly two miles to the east of this, is still more open, a fact that is to be emphasized, because many topographers, including colonel leake, hold that the battle actually took place there, as the great battle between the romans and antioches certainly did. this eastern pass is, to be sure, no place where "a thousand may well be stopt by three," and there can not have taken place any great transformation here since classical times, inasmuch as this region is practically out of reach of the spercheios, and the deposit from the hot sulfur streams, which has so broadened the theater-shaped area enclosed by the two horns, can hardly have contributed to changing the shape of the eastern horn itself. artificial fortification was always needed here; but it is very uncertain whether any of the stones that still remain can be claimed as parts of such fortification. it is a fine position for an inferior force to choose for defense against a superior one; but while it can not be declared with absolute certainty that this is not the place where the fighting took place, yet the western pass fits better the description of herodotus. besides this, if the western pass had been abandoned to the persians at the outset the fact would have been worth mentioning. as to the heroic deed itself, the view that leonidas threw away his own life and that of the four thousand, that it was magnificent but not strategy, not war, does not take into account the fact that sparta had for nearly half a century been looked to as the military leader of greece. it was audacious in the athenians to fight the battle of marathon without them, and they did so only because the spartans did not come at their call. sparta had not come to thermopylæ in force, it is true; but her king was there with three hundred of her best men. only by staying and fighting could he show that sparta held by right the place she had won. it had to be done. "so the glory of sparta was not blotted out." one may have read, and read often, the description of the battle in the school-room, but he reads it with different eyes on the spot, when he can look up at the hillock crowned with a ruined cavalry barrack just inside the western pass and say to himself: "here on this hill they fought their last fight and fell to the last man. here once stood the monuments to leonidas, to the three hundred, and to the four thousand." the very monuments have crumbled to dust, but the great deed lives on. we rode back to lamia under the spell of it. it was as if we had been in church and been held by a great preacher who knows how to touch the deepest chords of the heart. euboea was already dark blue, while the sky above it was shaded from pink to purple. tymphrestos in the west was bathed in the light of the sun that had gone down behind it. the whole surrounding was most stirring, and there was ever sounding in our hearts that deep bass note: "what they did here." salonica[ ] by charles dudley warner the city of salonica lies on a fine bay, and presents an attractive appearance from the harbor, rising up the hill in the form of an amphitheater. on all sides, except the sea, ancient walls surround it, fortified at the angles by large, round towers and crowned in the center, on the hill, by a respectable citadel. i suppose that portions of these walls are of hellenic, and perhaps, pelasgic date, but the most are probably of the time of the latin crusaders' occupation, patched and repaired by saracens and turks. we had come to thessalonica on st. paul's account, not expecting to see much that would excite us, and we were not disappointed. when we went ashore we found ourselves in a city of perhaps sixty thousand inhabitants, commonplace in aspect, altho its bazaars are well filled with european goods, and a fair display of oriental stuffs and antiquities, and animated by considerable briskness of trade. i presume there are more jews here than there were in paul's time, but turks and greeks, in nearly equal numbers, form the bulk of the population. in modern salonica there is not much respect for pagan antiquities, and one sees only the usual fragments of columns and sculptures worked into walls or incorporated in christian churches. but those curious in early byzantine architecture will find more to interest them here than in any place in the world except constantinople. we spent the day wandering about the city, under the guidance of a young jew, who was without either prejudices or information. on our way to the mosque of st. sophia, we passed through the quarter of the jews, which is much cleaner than is usual with them. these are the descendants of spanish jews, who were expelled by isabella, and they still retain, in a corrupt form, the language of spain. in the doors and windows were many pretty jewesses; banishment and vicissitude appear to agree with this elastic race, for in all the countries of europe jewish women develop more beauty in form and feature than in palestine. we saw here and in other parts of the city a novel head-dress, which may commend itself to america in the revolutions of fashion. a great mass of hair, real or assumed, was gathered into a long, slender, green bag, which hung down the back and was terminated by a heavy fringe of silver. otherwise, the dress of the jewish women does not differ much from that of the men; the latter wear a fez or turban, and a tunic which reaches to the ankles, and is bound about the waist by a gay sash or shawl. the mosque of st. sophia, once a church, and copied in its proportions and style from its namesake in constantinople, is retired, in a delightful court, shaded by gigantic trees and cheered by a fountain. so peaceful a spot we had not seen in many a day; birds sang in the trees without disturbing the calm of the meditative pilgrim. in the portico and also in the interior are noble columns of marble and verd-antique, and in the dome is a wonderfully quaint mosaic of the transfiguration. we were shown also a magnificent pulpit of the latter beautiful stone cut from a solid block, in which it is said st. paul preached. as the apostle, according to his custom, reasoned with the people out of the scriptures in a synagogue, and this church was not built for centuries after his visit, the statement needs confirmation; but pious ingenuity suggests that the pulpit stood in a subterranean church underneath this. i should like to believe that paul sanctified this very spot with his presence; but there is little in its quiet seclusion to remind one of him who had the reputation when he was in thessalonica of one of those who turn the world upside down. from the pierian plain to marathon[ ] by charles dudley warner at early light of a cloudless morning we were going easily down the gulf of thermæ or salonica, having upon our right the pierian plain; and i tried to distinguish the two mounds which mark the place of the great battle near pydna, one hundred and sixty-eight years before christ, between Æmilius paulus and king perseus, which gave macedonia to the roman empire. beyond, almost ten thousand feet in the air, towered olympus, upon whose "broad" summit homer displays the ethereal palaces and inaccessible abode of the grecian gods. shaggy forests still clothe its sides, but snow now, and for the greater part of the year, covers the wide surface of the height, which is a sterile, light-colored rock. the gods did not want snow to cool the nectar at their banquets. this is the very center of the mythologic world; there between olympus and ossa is the vale of tempe, where the peneus, breaking through a narrow gorge fringed with the sacred laurel, reaches the gulf, south of ancient heracleum. into this charming but secluded retreat the gods and goddesses, weary of the icy air, or the pumblechookian deportment of the court of olympian jove, descended to pass the sunny hours with the youths and maidens of mortal mold; through this defile marks of chariot-wheels still attest the passage of armies which flowed either way, in invasion or retreat; and here pompey, after a ride of forty miles from the fatal field of pharsalia, quenched his thirst. at six o'clock the cape of posilio was on our left, we were sinking olympus in the white haze of morning, ossa, in its huge silver bulk, was near us, and pelion stretched its long white back below. the sharp cone of ossa might well ride upon the extended back of pelion, and it seems a pity that the titans did not succeed in their attempt. we were leaving, and looking our last on the thracian coasts, once rimmed from mt. athos to the bosphorus with a wreath of prosperous cities. what must once have been the splendor of the Ægean sea and its islands, when every island was the seat of a vigorous state, and every harbor the site of a commercial town which sent forth adventurous galleys upon any errand of trade or conquest!... we ascended mt. pentelicus. hymettus and pentelicus are about the same height--thirty-five hundred feet--but the latter, ten miles to the northeast of athens, commands every foot of the attic territory; if one should sit on its summit and read a history of the little state, he would need no map. up to the highest quarries the road is steep, and strewn with broken marble, and after that there is an hour's scramble through bushes and over a rocky path. from these quarries was hewn the marble for the temple of theseus, the parthenon, the propylæ, the theaters, and other public buildings, to which age has now given a soft and creamy tone; the pentelic marble must have been too brilliant for the eye, and its dazzling luster was, no doubt, softened by the judicious use of color. fragments which we broke off had the sparkle and crystalline grain of loaf-sugar, and if they were placed upon the table one would unhesitatingly take them to sweeten his tea. the whole mountain-side is overgrown with laurel, and we found wild flowers all the way to the summit.... we looked almost directly down upon marathon. there is the bay and the curving sandy shore where the persian galleys landed; here upon a spur, jutting out from the hill, the athenians formed before they encountered the host in the plain, and there--alas! it was hidden by a hill--is the mound where the one hundred and ninety-two athenian dead are buried. it is only a small field, perhaps six miles along the shore and a mile and a half deep, and there is a considerable marsh on the north and a small one at the south end. the victory at so little cost, of ten thousand over a hundred thousand, is partially explained by the nature of the ground; the persians had not room enough to maneuver, and must have been thrown into confusion on the skirts of the northern swamp, and if over six thousand of them were slain, they must have been killed on the shore in the panic of their embarkation. but still the shore is broad, level, and firm, and the greeks must have been convinced that the gods themselves terrified the hearts of the barbarians, and enabled them to discomfit a host which had chosen this plain as the most feasible in all attica for the action of cavalry. an excursion to sparta and maina[ ] by bayard taylor as we approached sparta, the road descended to the banks of the eurotas. traces of the ancient walls which restrained the river still remain in places, but, in his shifting course, he has swept the most of them away, and spread his gravelly deposits freely over the bottoms inclosed between the spurs of the hills. toward evening we saw, at a distance, the white houses of modern sparta, and presently some indications of the ancient city. at first, the remains of terraces and ramparts, then the unmistakable hellenic walls, and, as the superb plain of the eurotas burst upon us, stretching, in garden-like beauty, to the foot of the abrupt hills, over which towered the sun-touched snows of taygetus, we saw, close on our right, almost the only relic of the lost ages--the theater. riding across the field of wheat, which extended all over the scene of the spartan gymnastic exhibitions, we stood on the proscenium and contemplated these silent ruins, and the broad, beautiful landscape. it is one of the finest views in greece--not so crowded with striking points, not so splendid in associations as that of athens, but larger, grander, richer in coloring. besides the theater, the only remains are some masses of roman brickwork, and the massive substructions of a small temple which the natives call the tomb of leonidas.... we spent the night in a comfortable house, which actually boasted of a floor, glass windows, and muslin curtains. on returning to the theater in the morning, we turned aside into a plowed field to inspect a sarcophagus which had just been discovered. it still lay in the pit where it was found, and was entire, with the exception of the lid. it was ten feet long by four broad, and was remarkable in having a division at one end, forming a smaller chamber, as if for the purpose of receiving the bones of a child. from the theater i made a sketch of the valley, with the dazzling ridge of taygetus in the rear, and mistra, the medieval sparta, hanging on the steep sides of one of his gorges. the sun was intensely hot, and we were glad to descend again, making our way through tall wheat, past walls of roman brickwork and scattering blocks of the older city, to the tomb of leonidas. this is said to be a temple, tho there are traces of vaults and passages beneath the pavement which do not quite harmonize with such a conjecture. it is composed of huge blocks of breccia, some of them thirteen feet long. i determined to make an excursion to maina. this is a region rarely visited by travelers, who are generally frightened off by the reputation of its inhabitants, who are considered by the greeks to be bandits and cut-throats to a man. the mainotes are, for the most part, lineal descendants of the ancient spartans, and, from the decline of the roman power up to the present century, have preserved a virtual independence in their mountain fastnesses. the worship of the pagan deities existed among them as late as the eighth century. they were never conquered by the turks, and it required considerable management to bring them under the rule of otho.... starting at noon, we passed through the modern sparta, which is well laid out with broad streets. the site is superb, and in the course of time the new town will take the place of mistra. we rode southward, down the valley of the eurotas, through orchards of olive and mulberry. we stopt for the night at the little khan of levetzova. i saw some cows pasturing here, quite a rare sight in greece, where genuine butter is unknown. that which is made from the milk of sheep and goats is no better than mild tallow. the people informed me, however, that they make cheese from cow's milk, but not during lent. they are now occupied with rearing paschal lambs, a quarter of a million of which are slaughtered in greece on easter day. the next morning, we rode over hills covered with real turf, a little thin, perhaps, but still a rare sight in southern lands. in two hours we entered the territory of maina, on the crest of a hill, where we saw marathonisi (the ancient gythium), lying warm upon the laconian gulf. the town is a steep, dirty, labyrinthine place, and so rarely visited by strangers that our appearance created quite a sensation.... a broad, rich valley opened before us, crossed by belts of poplar and willow trees, and inclosed by a semicircle of hills, most of which were crowned with the lofty towers of the mainotes. in maina almost every house is a fortress. the law of blood revenge, the right of which is transmitted from father to son, draws the whole population under its bloody sway in the course of a few generations. life is a running fight, and every foe slain entails on the slayer a new penalty of retribution for himself and his descendants for ever. previous to the revolution most of the mainote families lived in a state of alternate attack and siege. their houses are square towers, forty or fifty feet high, with massive walls, and windows so narrow that they may be used as loopholes for musketry. the first story is at a considerable distance from the ground, and reached by a long ladder which can be drawn up so as to cut off all communication. some of the towers are further strengthened by a semicircular bastion, projecting from the side most liable to attack. the families supplied themselves with telescopes, to look out for enemies in the distance, and always had a store of provisions on hand, in case of a siege. altho this private warfare has been supprest, the law of revenge exists. from the summit of the first range we overlooked a wild, glorious landscape. the hills, wooded with oak, and swimming in soft blue vapor, interlocked far before us, inclosing the loveliest green dells in their embraces, and melting away to the break in taygetus, which yawned in the distance. on the right towered the square, embrasured castle of passava on the summit of an almost inaccessible hill--the site of the ancient las. far and near, the lower heights were crowned with tall, white towers. messenia[ ] by bayard taylor the plain of messenia is the richest part of the morea. altho its groves of orange and olive, fig and mulberry, were entirely destroyed during the egyptian occupation, new and more vigorous shoots have sprung up from the old stumps and the desolated country is a garden again, apparently as fair and fruitful as when it excited the covetousness of the spartan thieves. sloping to the gulf on the south, and protected from the winds on all other sides by lofty mountains, it enjoys an almost egyptian warmth of climate. here it was already summer, while at sparta, on the other side of taygetus, spring had but just arrived, and the central plain of arcadia was still bleak and gray as in winter. as it was market-day, we met hundreds of the country people going to kalamata with laden asses.... we crossed the rapid pamisos with some difficulty, and ascended its right bank, to the foot of mount evan, which we climbed, by rough paths through thickets of mastic and furze, to the monastery of vurkano. the building has a magnificent situation, on a terrace between mount evan and mount ithome, overlooking both the upper and lower plains of the pamisos--a glorious spread of landscape, green with spring, and touched by the sun with the airiest prismatic tints through breaks of heavy rain-clouds. inside the courts is an old byzantine chapel, with fleurs-de-lis on the decorations, showing that it dates from the time of the latin princes. the monks received us very cordially, gave us a clean, spacious room, and sent us a bottle of excellent wine for dinner. we ascended ithome and visited the massive ruins of messene the same day. the great gate of the city, a portion of the wall, and four of the towers of defense, are in tolerable condition. the name of epaminondas hallows these remains, which otherwise, grand as they are, do not impress one like the cyclopean walls of tiryns. the wonder is, that they could have been built in so short a time--eighty-five days, says history, which would appear incredible, had not still more marvelous things of the kind been done in russia. the next day, we rode across the head of the messenian plain, crossed the mount lycæus and the gorge of the neda, and lodged at the little village of tragoge, on the frontiers of arcadia. our experience of grecian highways was pleasantly increased by finding fields plowed directly across our road, fences of dried furze built over it, and ditches cutting it at all angles. sometimes all trace of it would be lost for half a mile, and we were obliged to ride over the growing crops until we could find a bit of fresh trail. the bridle-path over mount lycæus was steep and bad, but led us through the heart of a beautiful region. the broad back of the mountain is covered with a grove of superb oaks, centuries old, their long arms muffled in golden moss, and adorned with a plumage of ferns. the turf at their feet was studded with violets, filling the air with delicious odors. this sylvan retreat was the birthplace of pan, and no more fitting home for the universal god can be imagined. on the northern side we descended for some time through a forest of immense ilex trees, which sprang from a floor of green moss and covered our pathway with summer shade.... we were now in the heart of the wild mountain region of messenia, in whose fastnesses aristomenes, the epic hero of the state, maintained himself so long against the spartans. the tremendous gorge below us was the bed of the neda, which we crossed in order to enter the lateral valley of phigalia, where lay tragoge. the path was not only difficult but dangerous--in some places a mere hand's-breath of gravel, on the edge of a plane so steep that a single slip of a horse's foot would have sent him headlong to the bottom. in the morning, a terrible sirocco levante was blowing, with an almost freezing cold. the fury of the wind was so great that in crossing the exposed ridges it was difficult to keep one's seat upon the horse. we climbed toward the central peak of the lycæan hills, through a wild dell between two ridges, which were covered to the summit with magnificent groves of oak. starry blue flowers, violets and pink crocuses spangled the banks as we wound onward, between the great trunks. the temple of apollo epicurius stands on a little platform between the two highest peaks, about , feet above the sea. on the day of our visit, its pillars of pale bluish-gray limestone rose against a wintry sky, its guardian oaks were leafless, and the wind whistled over its heaps of ruin; yet its symmetry was like that of a perfect statue, wherein you do not notice the absence of color, and i felt that no sky and no season could make it more beautiful. for its builder was ictinus, who created the parthenon. it was erected by the phigalians, out of gratitude to apollo the helper, who kept from their city a plague which ravaged the rest of the peloponnesus. owing to its secluded position, it has escaped the fate of other temples, and might be restored from its own undestroyed materials. the cella had been thrown down, but thirty-five out of thirty-eight columns are still standing. through the doric shafts you look upon a wide panorama of gray mountains, melting into purple in the distance, and crowned by arcs of the far-off sea. on one hand is ithome and the messenian gulf, on the other the ionian sea and the strophades.... we now trotted down the valley, over beautiful meadows, which were uncultivated except in a few places where the peasants were plowing for maize, and had destroyed every trace of the road. the hills on both sides began to be fringed with pine, while the higher ridges on our right were clothed with woods of oak. i was surprised at the luxuriant vegetation of this region. the laurel and mastic became trees, the pine shot to a height of one hundred feet, and the beech and sycamore began to appear. some of the pines had been cut for ship-timber, but in the rudest and most wasteful way, only the limbs which had the proper curve being chosen for ribs. i did not see a single sawmill in the peloponnesus; but i am told that there are a few in euboea and acarnania.... as we approached olympia, i could almost have believed myself among the pine-hills of germany or america. in the old times this must have been a lovely, secluded region, well befitting the honored repose of xenophon, who wrote his works here. the sky became heavier as the day wore on, and the rain, which had spared us so long, finally inclosed us in its misty circle. toward evening we reached a lonely little house, on the banks of the alpheus. nobody was at home, but we succeeded in forcing a door and getting shelter for our baggage. françois had supper nearly ready before the proprietor arrived. the latter had neither wife nor child, tho a few chicks, and took our burglarious occupation very good-humoredly. we shared the same leaky roof with our horses, and the abundant fleas with the owner's dogs. tiryns and mycenÆ[ ] by j. p. mahaffy the fortress of tiryns may fitly be commented on before approaching the younger, or at least more artistically finished, mycenæ. it stands several miles nearer to the sea, in the center of the great plain of argos, and upon the only hillock which there affords any natural scope for fortification. instead of the square, or at least hewn, well-fitted blocks of mycenæ, we have here the older style of rude masses piled together as best they would fit, the interstices being filled up with smaller fragments. this is essentially cyclopean building. there is a smaller fort, of rectangular shape, on the southern and highest part of the oblong hillock, the whole of which is surrounded by a lower wall, which takes in both this and the northern longer part of the ridge. it looks, in fact, like a hill-fort, with a large inclosure for cattle around it. just below the northeast angle of the inner fort, and where the lower circuit is about to leave it, there is an entrance, with a massive projection of huge stones, looking like a square tower, on its right side, so as to defend it from attack. the most remarkable feature in the walls are the covered galleries, constructed within them at the southeast angle. the whole thickness of the wall is often over twenty feet, and in the center a rude arched way is made--or rather, i believe, two parallel ways; but the inner gallery has fallen in, and is almost untraceable--and this merely by piling together the great stones so as to leave an opening, which narrows at the top in the form of a gothic arch. within the passage, there are five niches in the outer side, made of rude arches in the same way as the main passage. the length of the gallery i measured, and found it twenty-five yards, at the end of which it is regularly walled up, so that it evidently did not run all the way round. the niches are now no longer open, but seem to have been once windows, or at least to have had some lookout points into the hill country. it is remarkable that, altho the walls are made of perfectly rude stones, the builders have managed to use so many smooth surfaces looking outward, that the face of the wall seems quite clean and well built. at the southeast corner of the higher and inner fort, we found a large block of red granite, quite different from the rough, gray stone of the building, with its surface square and smooth, and all the four sides neatly beveled, like the portal stones at the treasury of atreus. i found two other similar blocks close by, which were likewise cut smooth on the surface. the intention of these stones we could not guess, but they show that some ornament, and some more finished work, must have once existed in the inner fort. tho both the main entrances have massive towers of stone raised on their right, there is a small postern at the opposite or west side, not more than four feet wide, which has no defenses whatever, and is a mere hole in the wall. the whole ruin is covered in summer with thistles, such as english people can hardly imagine. the needles at the points of the leaves are fully an inch long, extremely fine and strong, and sharper than any two-edged sword. no clothes except a leather dress can resist them. they pierce everywhere with the most stinging pain, and make antiquarian research in this famous spot a veritable martyrdom, which can only be supported by a very burning thirst for knowledge, or the sure hope of future fame. the rough masses of stone are so loose that one's footing is insecure, and when the traveler loses his balance, and falls among the thistles, he will wish that he had gone to jericho instead, or even fallen among thieves on the way. it is impossible to approach mycenæ from any side without being struck with the picturesqueness of the site. if you come down over the mountains from corinth, as soon as you reach the head of the valley of the inachus, which is the plain of argos, you turn aside to the left, or east, into a secluded corner--"a recess of the horse-feeding argos," as homer calls it--and then you find on the edge of the valley, and where the hills begin to rise one behind the other, the village of charváti. when you ascend from this place, you find that the lofty mount elias is separated from the plain by two nearly parallel waves of land, which are indeed joined at the northern end by a curving saddle, but elsewhere are divided by deep gorges. the loftier and shorter wave forms the rocky citadel of mycenæ--the argion, as it was once called. i need not attempt a fresh description of the great treasury. it is in no sense a rude building, or one of a helpless and barbarous age, but, on the contrary, the product of enormous appliances, and of a perfect knowledge of all the mechanical requirements for any building, if we except the application of the arch. the stones are hewn square, or curved to form the circular dome within, with admirable exactness. above the enormous lintel-stone, nearly twenty-seven feet long, and which is doubly grooved, by way of ornament, all along its edge over the doorway, there is now a triangular window or aperture, which was certainly filled with some artistic carving like the analogous space over the lintel in the gate of the acropolis. shortly after lord elgin had cleared the entrance, gell and dodwell found various pieces of green and red marble carved with geometrical patterns, some of which are reproduced in dodwell's book. gell also found some fragments in a neighboring chapel, and others are said to be built into a wall at nauplia. there are supposed to have been short columns standing on each side in front of the gate, with some ornament surmounting them; but this seems to me to rest on doubtful evidence, and on theoretical reconstruction. dr. schliemann, however, asserts them to have been found at the entrance of the second treasury which mrs. schliemann excavated, tho his account is somewhat vague. there is the strongest architectural reason for the triangular aperture over the door, as it diminishes the enormous weight to be borne by the lintel; and here, no doubt, some ornament very like lions on the other gate may have been applied. there has been much controversy about the use to which this building was applied, and we can not now attempt to change the name, even if we could prove its absurdity. pausanias, who saw mycenæ in the second century a.d., found it in much the same state as we do, and was no better informed than we, tho he tells us the popular belief that this and its fellows were treasure-houses like that of the minyæ at orchomenus, which was very much greater, and was, in his opinion, one of the most wonderful things in all greece. standing at the entrance, you look out upon the scattered masonry of the walls of mycenæ, on the hillock over against you. close behind this is a dark and solemn chain of mountains. the view is narrow and confined, and faces the north, so that, for most of the day, the gate is dark and in shadow. we can conceive no fitter place for the burial of a king, within sight of his citadel, in the heart of a deep natural hillock, with a great solemn portal symbolizing the resistless strength of the barrier which he had passed into an unknown land. but one more remark seems necessary. this treasure-house is by no means a greek building in its features. it has the same perfection of construction which can be seen at eleutheræ, or any other greek fort, but still the really analogous buildings are to be found in far distant lands--in the raths of ireland, and the barrows of the crimea. "and yet how lovely in thine age of woe, land of lost gods and godlike men, are thou! thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow, proclaim thee nature's varied favourite now: thy fanes, thy temples to the surface bow, commingling slowly with heroic earth, broke by the share of every rustic plough: "yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild: sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields, thine olives ripe as when minerva smiled, and still his honeyed wealth hymettus yields; there the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds, the freeborn wanderer of thy mountain air; apollo still thy long, long summer gilds, still in his beam mendeli's marbles glare; art, glory, freedom fail, but nature still is fair." --from byron's "childe harold." ix the greek islands a tour of crete[ ] by bayard taylor crete lies between the parallels of degrees and degrees, not much farther removed from africa than from europe, and its climate, consequently, is intermediate between that of greece and that of alexandria. in the morning it was already visible, altho some thirty miles distant, the magnificent snowy mass of the white mountains gleaming before us, under a bank of clouds. by ten o'clock, the long blue line of the coast broke into irregular points, the dictynnæan promontory and that of akroteri thrusting themselves out toward us so as to give an amphitheatric character to that part of the island we were approaching, while the broad, snowy dome of the cretan ida, standing alone, far to the east, floated in a sea of soft, golden light. the white mountains were completely enveloped in snow to a distance of , feet below their summits, and scarcely a rock pierced the luminous covering. the shores of the gulf of khania, retaining their amphitheatric form, rose gradually from the water, a rich panorama of wheat-fields, vineyards and olive groves, crowded with sparkling villages, while khania, in the center, grew into distinctness--a picturesque jumble of mosques, old venetian arches and walls, pink and yellow buildings, and palm trees. the character of the scene was syrian rather than greek, being altogether richer and warmer than anything in greece. khania occupies the site of the ancient cydonia, by which name the greek bishopric is still called. the venetian city was founded in , and any remnants of the older town which may have then remained, were quite obliterated by it. the only ruins now are those of venetian churches, some of which have been converted into mosques, and a number of immense arched vaults, opening on the harbor, built to shelter the galleys of the republic. just beyond the point on which stands the serai, i counted fifteen of these, side by side, eleven of which are still entire. a little further, there are three more, but all are choked up with sand, and of no present use. the modern town is an exact picture of a syrian seaport, with its narrow, crooked streets, shaded bazaars, and turbaned merchants. its population is , , including the garrison, according to a census just completed at the time of our visit. it is walled, and the gates are closed during the night.... passing through the large turkish cemetery, which was covered with an early crop of blue anemones, we came upon the rich plain of khania, lying broad and fair, like a superb garden, at the foot of the white mountains, whose vast masses of shining snow filled up the entire southern heaven. eastward, the plain slopes to the deep bay of suda, whose surface shone blue above the silvery line of the olive groves; while, sixty miles away, rising high above the intermediate headlands, the solitary peak of mount ida, bathed in a warm afternoon glow, gleamed like an olympian mount, not only the birthplace, but the throne of immortal jove. immense olive trees from the dark-red, fertile earth; cypresses and the canopied italian pine interrupted their gray monotony, and every garden hung the golden lamps of its oranges over the wall. the plain is a paradise of fruitfulness.... in the morning, the horses were brought to us at an early hour, in charge of a jolly old officer of gendarmes, who was to accompany us. as far as the village of kalepa, there is a carriage road; afterward, only a stony path. from the spinal ridge of the promontory, which we crossed, we overlooked all the plain of khania, and beyond the dictynnæan peninsula, to the western extremity of crete. the white mountains, tho less than seven thousand, feet in height, deceive the eye by the contrast between their spotless snows and the summer at their base, and seem to rival the alps. the day was cloudless and balmy; birds sang on every tree, and the grassy hollows were starred with anemones, white, pink, violet and crimson. it was the first breath of the southern spring, after a winter which had been as terrible for crete as for greece. after a ride of three hours, we reached a broad valley, at the foot of that barren mountain mass in which the promontory terminates. to the eastward we saw the large monastery of agia triada (the holy trinity), overlooking its fat sweep of vine and olive land.... in the deep, dry mountain glen which we entered, i found numbers of carob-trees. rocks of dark-blue limestone, stained with bright orange oxydations, overhung us as we followed the track of a torrent upward into the heart of this bleak region, where, surrounded by the hot, arid peaks, is the monastery of governato. we descended on foot to the monastery of katholiko, which we reached in half an hour. its situation is like that of san saba in palestine, at the bottom of a split in the stony hills, and the sun rarely shines upon it. steps cut in the rock lead down the face of the precipice to the deserted monastery, near which is a cavern feet long, leading into the rock. the ravine is spanned by an arch, nearly fifty feet high. at agia triada, as we rode up the stately avenue of cypresses, between vineyards and almond trees in blossom, servants advanced to take our horses, and the abbot shouted, "welcome," from the top of the steps. we were ushered into a clean room, furnished with a tolerable library of orthodox volumes. a boy of fifteen, with a face like the young raphael, brought us glasses of a rich, dark wine, something like port, some jelly and coffee. the size and substantial character of this monastery attests its wealth, no less than the flourishing appearance of the lands belonging to it. its large courtyard is shaded with vine-bowers and orange trees, and the chapel in the center has a façade supported by doric columns. the colossal ruins of cnossos[ ] by philip s. marden the ruins [of the cnossos palace] lie at the east of the high road, in a deep valley. their excavation has been very complete and satisfactory, and while some restorations have been attempted here and there, chiefly because of absolute necessity to preserve portions of the structure, they are not such restorations as to jar on one, but exhibit a fidelity to tradition that saves them from the common fate of such efforts. little or no retouching was necessary in the case of the stupendous flights of steps that were found leading up to the door of this prehistoric royal residence, and which are the first of the many sights the visitor of to-day may see. it is in the so-called "throne room of minos" that the restoring hand is first met. here it has been found necessary to provide a roof, that damage by weather be avoided; and to-day the throne room is a dusky spot, rather below the general level of the place. its chief treasure is the throne itself, a stone chair, carved in rather rudimentary ornamentation, and about the size of an ordinary chair. the roof is supported by the curious, top-heavy-looking stone pillars, that are known to have prevailed not only in the minoan but in mycenæan period; monoliths noticeably larger at the top than at the bottom, reversing the usual form of stone pillar with which later ages have made us more familiar. this quite illogical inversion of what we now regard as the proper form has been accounted for in theory, by assuming that it was the natural successor of the sharpened wooden stake. when the ancients adopted stone supports for their roofs, they simply took over the forms they had been familiar with in the former use of wood, and the result was a stone pillar that copied the earlier wooden one in shape. time, of course, served to show that the natural way of building demanded the reversal of this custom; but in the mycenæan age it had not been discovered, for there are evidences that similar pillars existed in buildings of that period, and the representation of a pillar that stands between the two lions on mycenæ's famous gate has this inverted form. many hours may be spent in detailed examination of this colossal ruin, testifying to what must have been in its day an enormous and impressive palace. one can not go far in traversing it without noticing the traces still evident enough of the fire that obviously destroyed it many hundred, if not several thousand, years before christ. along the western side have been discovered long corridors, from which scores of long and narrow rooms were to be entered. these, in the published plans, serve to give to the ruin a large share of its labyrinthine character. it seems to be agreed now that these were the storerooms of the palace, and in them may still be seen the huge earthen jars which once served to contain the palace supplies. long rows of them stand in the ancient hallways and in the narrow cells that lead off them, each jar large enough to hold a fair-sized man, and in number sufficient to have accommodated ali baba and the immortal forty thieves. in the center of the palace little remains; but in the southeastern corner, where the land begins to slope abruptly to the valley below, there are to be seen several stories of the ancient building. here one comes upon the rooms marked with the so-called "distaff" pattern, supposed to indicate that they were the women's quarters. the restorer has been busy here, but not offensively so. much of the ancient wall is intact, and in one place is a bathroom with a very diminutive bathtub still in place. along the eastern side is also shown the oil press, where olives were once made to yield their coveted juices, and from the press proper a stone gutter conducted the fluid down to the point where jars were placed to receive it. this discovery of oil presses in ancient buildings, by the way, has served in more than one case to arouse speculation as to the antiquity of oil lamps such as were once supposed to belong only to a much later epoch. whether in the minoan days they had such lamps or not, it is known that they had at least an oil press and a good one. in the side of the hill below the main palace of minos has been unearthed a smaller structure, which they now call the "villa," and in which several terraces, have been uncovered rather similar to the larger building above. here is another throne room, cunningly contrived to be lighted by a long shaft of light from above falling on the seat of justice itself, while the rest of the room is in obscurity. it may be that it requires a stretch of the imagination to compare the palace of cnossos with troy, but nevertheless there are one or two features that seem not unlike the discoveries made by dr. schliemann on that famous site. notably so, it seems to me, are the traces of the final fire, which are to be seen at cnossos as at troy, and the huge jars, which may be compared with the receptacles the trojan excavators unearthed, and found still to contain dried peas and other things that the trojans left behind when they fled from their sacked and burning city. few are privileged to visit the site of priam's city, which is hard, indeed, to reach; but it is easy enough to make the excursion to candia and visit the palace of old king minos, which is amply worth the trouble, besides giving a glimpse of a civilization that is possibly vastly older than even that of troy and mycenæ. for those who reverence the great antiquities, candia and its pre-classic suburb are distinctly worth visiting, and are unique among the sights of the ancient hellenic and pre-hellenic world. corfu[ ] by edward a. freeman from whichever side our traveler draws near to corfu, he comes from lands where greek influence and greek colonization spread in ancient times, but from which the greek elements have been gradually driven out, partly by the barbarism of the east, partly by the rival civilization of the west. the land which we see is hellenic in a sense in which not even sicily, not even the great hellas of southern italy, much less than the dalmatian archipelago, ever became hellenic. prom the first historic glimpse which we get of korkyra,[ ] it is not merely a land fringed by hellenic colonies; it is a hellenic island, the dominion of a single hellenic city, a territory the whole of whose inhabitants were, at the beginning of recorded history, either actually hellenic or so thoroughly hellenized that no one thought of calling their hellenic position in question. modern policy has restored it to its old position by making it an integral portion of the modern greek kingdom. to the south of the present town, connected with it by a favorite walk of the inhabitants of corfu, a long and broad peninsula stretches boldly into the sea. both from land and from sea, it chiefly strikes the eye as a wooded mass, thickly covered with the aged olive trees which form so marked a feature in the scenery of the island. a few houses skirt the base, growing on the land side into the suburb of kastrades, which may pass for a kind of connecting link between the old and the new city. and from the midst of the wood, on the side nearest to the modern town, stands out the villa of the king of the greeks, the chief modern dwelling on the site of ancient korkyra. this peninsular hill, still known as palaiopolis, was the site of the old corinthian city whose name is so familiar to every reader of thucydides. on either side of it lies one of its two forsaken harbors. between the old and the new city lies the so-called harbor of alkinoos; beyond the peninsula, stretching far inland, lies the old hyllaic harbor, bearing the name of one of the three tribes which seem to have been essential to the being of a dorian commonwealth.... this last is the corfu whose fate seems to have been to become the possession of every power which has ruled in that quarter of the world, with one exception. for fourteen hundred years the history of the island is the history of endless changes of masters. we see it first a nominal ally, then a direct possession, of rome and of constantinople; we then see it formed into a separate byzantine principality, conquered by the norman lord of sicily, again a possession of the empire, then a momentary possession of venice, again a possession of the sicilian kingdom under its angevin kings, till at last it came back to venetian rule, and abode for four hundred years under the lion of saint mark. then it became part of that first strange septinsular republic of which the czar was to be the protector and the sultan the overlord. then it was a possession of france; then a member of the second septinsular republic under the hardly disguised sovereignty of england; now at last it is the most distant, but one of the most valuable, of the provinces of the modern greek kingdom. of the modern city there is but little to say. as becomes a city which was so long a venetian possession, the older part of it has much of the character of an italian town. it is rich in street arcades; but they present but few architectural features; and we find none of those various forms of ornamental window so common, not only in venice and verona, but in spalato, cattaro, and traü. the churches in the modern city are architecturally worthless. they are interesting so far as they will give to many their first impression of orthodox arrangement and orthodox ritual. the few ecclesiastical antiquities of the place belong to the elder city. the suburb of the lower slope of the hill contains three churches, all of them small, but each of which has an interest of its own. rhodes[ ] by charles dudley warner coming on deck the next morning at the fresh hour of sunrise, i found we were at rhodes. we lay just off the semicircular harbor, which is clasped by walls--partly shaken down by earthquakes--which have noble, round towers at each embracing end. rhodes is, from the sea, one of the most picturesque cities in the mediterranean, altho it has little remains of that ancient splendor which caused strabo to prefer it to rome or alexandria. the harbor wall, which is flanked on each side by stout and round, stone windmills, extends up the hill, and becoming double, surrounds the old town; these massive fortifications of the knights of st. john have withstood the onsets of enemies and the tremors of the earth, and, with the ancient moat, excite the curiosity of this so-called peaceful age of iron-clads and monster cannon. the city ascends the slope of the hill and passes beyond the wall. outside and on the right toward the sea are a picturesque group of a couple of dozen stone windmills, and some minarets and a church-tower or two. higher up the hill is sprinkled a little foliage, a few mulberry trees, and an isolated palm or two; and, beyond, the island is only a mass of broken, bold, rocky mountains. of its forty-five miles of length, running southwesterly from the little point on which the city stands, we can see but little. whether or not rhodes emerged from the sea at the command of apollo, the greeks exprest by this tradition of its origin their appreciation of its gracious climate, fertile soil, and exquisite scenery. from remote antiquity it had fame as a seat of arts and letters, and of a vigorous maritime power, and the romance of its early centuries was equaled if not surpassed when it became the residence of the knights of st. john. i believe that the first impress of its civilization was given by the phoenicians; it was the home of the dorian race before the time of the trojan war, and its three cities were members of the dorian hexapolis; it was, in fact, a flourishing maritime confederacy strong enough to send colonies to the distant italian coast, and sybaris and parthenope (modern naples) perpetuated the luxurious refinement of their founders. the city of rhodes itself was founded about four hundred years before christ, and the splendor of its palaces, its statues and paintings gave it a pre-eminence among the most magnificent cities of the ancient world. if the earth of this island could be made to yield its buried treasures as cyprus has, we should doubtless have new proofs of the influence of asiatic civilization upon the greeks, and be able to trace in the early doric arts and customs the superior civilization of the phoenicians, and of the masters of the latter in science and art, the egyptians. naturally, every traveler who enters the harbor of rhodes hopes to see the site of one of the seven wonders of the world, the colossus. he is free to place it on either mole at the entrance of the harbor, but he comprehends at once that a statue which was only one hundred and five feet high could never have extended its legs across the port. the fame of this colossal bronze statue of the sun is disproportioned to the period of its existence; it stood only fifty-six years after its erection, being shaken down by an earthquake in the year b.c., and encumbering the ground with its fragments till the advent of the moslem conquerors. passing from the quay through a highly ornamented gothic gateway, we ascended the famous historic street, still called the street of the knights, the massive houses of which have withstood the shocks of earthquakes and the devastation of saracenic and turkish occupation. this street, of whose palaces we have heard so much, is not imposing; it is not wide, its solid stone houses are only two stories high, and their fronts are now disfigured by cheap arab balconies; but the façades are gray with age. all along are remains of carved windows. gothic sculptured doorways and shields and coats of arms, crosses and armorial legends, are set in the walls, partially defaced by time and the respect of suleiman for the knights, have spared the mementos of their faith and prowess. i saw no inscriptions that are intact, but made out upon one shield the words "voluntas mei est." the carving is all beautiful. we went through the silent streets, waking only echoes of the past, out to the ruins of the once elegant church of st. john, which was shaken down by a powder-explosion some thirty years ago, and utterly flattened by an earthquake some years afterward. outside the ramparts we met, and saluted, with the freedom of travelers, a gorgeous turk who was taking the morning air, and whom our guide in bated breath said was the governor. in this part of the town is the mosque of suleiman; in the portal are two lovely marble columns, rich with age; the lintels are exquisitely carved with flowers, arms, casques, musical instruments, the crossed sword and the torch, and the mandolin, perhaps the emblem of some troubadour knight. wherever we went we found bits of old carving, remains of columns, sections of battlemented roofs. the town is saturated with the old knights. near the mosque is a foundation of charity, a public kitchen, at which the poor were fed or were free to come and cook their food; it is in decay now, and the rooks were sailing about its old, round-topped chimneys. there are no hellenic remains in the city, and the only remembrance of that past which we searched for was the antique coin, which has upon one side the head of medusa and upon the other the rose (rhoda) which gave the town its name. the town was quiet; but in pursuit of this coin in the jews' quarter we started up swarms of traders, were sent from isaac to jacob, and invaded dark shops and private houses where jewish women and children were just beginning to complain of the morning light. our guide was a jolly greek, who was willing to awaken the whole town in search of a silver coin. the traders, when we had routed them out, had little to show in the way of antiquities. perhaps the best representative of the modern manufactures of rhodes is the wooden shoe, which is in form like the damascus clog, but is inlaid with more taste. the people whom we encountered in our morning walk were greeks or jews. the morning atmosphere was delicious, and we could well believe that the climate of rhodes is the finest in the mediterranean, and also that it is the least exciting of cities. mt. athos[ ] by charles dudley warner beyond thasos is the thracian coast and mt. pangaus, and at the foot of it philippi, the macedonian town where republican rome fought its last battle, where cassius leaned upon his sword-point, believing everything lost. brutus transported the body of his comrade to thasos and raised for him a funeral pyre; and twenty days later, on the same field, met again that specter of death which had summoned him to philippi. it was not many years after this victory of the imperial power that a greater triumph was won at philippi, when paul and silas, cast into prison, sang praises unto god at midnight, and an earthquake shook the house and opened the prison doors. in the afternoon we came in sight of snowy mt. athos, an almost perpendicular limestone rock, rising nearly six thousand four hundred feet out of the sea. the slender promontory which this magnificent mountain terminates is forty miles long and has only an average breadth of four miles. the ancient canal of xerxes quite severed it from the mainland. the peninsula, level at the canal, is a jagged stretch of mountains (seamed by chasms), which rise a thousand, two thousand, four thousand feet, and at last front the sea with the sublime peak of athos, the site of the most conspicuous beacon-fire of agamemnon. the entire promontory is, and has been since the time of constantine, ecclesiastic ground; every mountain and valley has its convent; besides the twenty great monasteries are many pious retreats. all the sects of the greek church are here represented; the communities pay a tribute to the sultan, but the government is in the hands of four presidents, chosen by the synod, which holds weekly sessions and takes the presidents, yearly, from the monasteries in rotation. since their foundation these religious houses have maintained against christians and saracens an almost complete independence, and preserved in their primitive simplicity the manners and usages of the earliest foundations. here, as nowhere else in europe or asia, can one behold the architecture, the dress, the habits of the middle ages. the good devotees have been able to keep themselves thus in the darkness and simplicity of the past by a rigorous exclusion of the sex always impatient of monotony, to which all the changes of the world are due. no woman, from the beginning till now, has ever been permitted to set foot on the peninsula. nor is this all; no female animal is suffered on the holy mountain, not even a hen. i suppose, tho i do not know, that the monks have an inspector of eggs, whose inherited instincts of aversion to the feminine gender enable him to detect and reject all those in which lurk the dangerous sex. few of the monks eat meat, half the days of the year are fast days, they practise occasionally abstinence from food for two or three days, reducing their pulses to the feeblest beating, and subduing their bodies to a point that destroys their value even as spiritual tabernacles. the united community is permitted to keep a guard of fifty christian soldiers, and the only moslem on the island is the solitary turkish officer who represents the sultan; his position can not be one generally coveted by the turks, since the society of women is absolutely denied him. the libraries of mt. athos are full of unarranged manuscripts, which are probably mainly filled with the theologic rubbish of the controversial ages, and can scarcely be expected to yield again anything so valuable as the tishendorf scriptures. at sunset we were close under mt. athos, and could distinguish the buildings of the laura convent, amid the woods beneath the frowning cliff. and now was produced the apparition of a sunset, with this towering mountain cone for a centerpiece, that surpassed all our experience and imagination. the sea was like satin for smoothness, absolutely waveless, and shone with the colors of changeable silk, blue, green, pink, and amethyst. heavy clouds gathered about the sun, and from behind them he exhibited burning spectacles, magnificent fireworks, vast shadow-pictures, scarlet cities, and gigantic figures stalking across the sky. from one crater of embers he shot up a fan-like flame that spread to the zenith and was reflected on the water. his rays lay along the sea in pink, and the water had the sheen of iridescent glass. the whole sea for leagues was like this; even lemnos and samothrace lay in a dim pink and purple light in the east. there were vast clouds in huge walls, with towers and battlements, and in all fantastic shapes--one a gigantic cat with a preternatural tail, a cat of doom four degrees long. all this was piled about mt. athos, with its sharp summit of snow, its dark sides of rock. footnotes: [ ] from "pictures from italy." dickens made his trip to italy in . [ ] from "italy: florence and venice." by special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers. henry holt & co. copyright, . translated by john durand. [ ] begun in . its architects were germans and frenchmen. [ ] from "italy: florence and venice." by special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, henry holt & co. copyright, . translated by john durand. [ ] from "the story of pisa." published by e. p. dutton & co. [ ] from "pictures from italy." [ ] from "cities of southern italy and sicily." [ ] from "travels in italy." [ ] a german friend with whom goethe was traveling. [ ] from "pictures from italy." [ ] from "italy: rome and naples." by special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, henry holt & co. copyright, . translated by john durand. [ ] this term designates a road built along the rocky shore of a seaside, being a figurative application of the architectural term "cornice."--translator's note. [ ] from "cities of southern italy and sicily." [ ] from a letter to thomas love peacock, written in . [ ] from "pictures from italy." [ ] from "journeys in italy." by special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, brentano's. copyright, . [ ] the memoir writer. [ ] from "journeys in italy." by special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, brentano's. copyright, . [ ] from "unknown switzerland." published by james pott & co. politically, lake lugano is part swiss and part italian. [ ] the st. gothard. [ ] from a letter to thomas love peacock, written in . [ ] from "the spell of the italian lakes." by special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, l. c. page & co. copyright, . [ ] from "remarks on several parts of italy in the years , , ." [ ] in the town are now about , people; in the whole territory of the republic, , . san marino lies about fourteen miles southwest from rimini. [ ] at the present time, fourteen hundred years; so that san marino is the oldest as well as the smallest republic in the world. [ ] from "french and italian note-books." by special arrangement with, and by permission of, houghton, mifflin co., publishers of hawthorne's works. copyright, , , . [ ] the author's son, julian hawthorne. [ ] from "italian cities." by special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, charles scribner's sons. copyright, . [ ] from "italy: florence and venice." by special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, henry holt & co. copyright, . [ ] from "historical and architectural sketches: chiefly italian." published by the macmillan co. [ ] from "cities of southern italy and sicily." [ ] from "letters of a traveler." [ ] from "historical and architectural sketches: chiefly italian." published by the macmillan co. [ ] from "sicily: the garden of the mediterranean." by special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, l. c. page & co. copyright, . [ ] from "the history of sicily." published by the macmillan co. [ ] the greek name for girgenti. [ ] from "travels in italy." [ ] from "travels in italy." [ ] from "sicily: the garden of the mediterranean." by special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, l. c. page & co. copyright, . [ ] from "vacation days in greece." by special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, charles scribner's sons. copyright, . [ ] from "constantinople." by special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, henry holt & co. copyright, . [ ] from "rambles and studies in greece." published by the macmillan co. [ ] from "travels in greece and russia." published by g. p. putnam's sons. [ ] from the "description of greece." pausanias was a greek traveler and geographer who lived in the second century a.d.--in the time of the roman emperors, hadrian and marcus aurelius. [ ] from "rambles and studies in greece." published by the macmillan co. [ ] the venetian commander who bombarded the parthenon in . [ ] edward dodwell ( - ), an english traveler and archeologist, notable for his investigations in greece when it had been little explored, and author of various records of his work.--author's note. [ ] from "rambles and studies in greece." published by the macmillan co. [ ] this very pattern, in mahogany, with cane seats, and adapted, like all greek chairs, for loose cushions, was often used in chippendale work, and may still be found in old mansions furnished at that epoch.--author's note. [ ] from "rambles and studies in greece." published by the macmillan co. [ ] from "travels in greece and russia." published by g. p. putnam's sons. [ ] from "rambles and studies in greece." published by the macmillan co. [ ] from "greece and the aegean islands." by special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, houghton, mifflin co. copyright, . [ ] from the "description of greece." pausanias wrote in the time of hadrian and marcus aurelius. [ ] from "vacation days in greece." by special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, charles scribner's sons. copyright, . [ ] from "in the levant." by special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, houghton, mifflin co. copyright, . salonica, formerly turkish territory, was added to the territory of greece in , under the terms of the treaty of peace that followed the balkan war against turkey. [ ] from "in the levant." by special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, houghton, mifflin co. copyright, . [ ] from "travels in greece and russia." published by g. p. putnam's sons. [ ] from "travels in greece and russia," published by g. p. putnam's sons. [ ] from "rambles and studies in greece." published by the macmillan co. [ ] from "travels in greece and russia." published by g. p. putnam's sons. [ ] from "greece and the Ægean islands." by special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, houghton, mifflin co. copyright, . [ ] from "sketches from the subject and neighbor lands of venice." published by the macmillan co. [ ] the ancient greek name of corfu. [ ] from "in the levant." by special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, houghton, mifflin co. copyright, . [ ] from "in the levant." by special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, houghton, mifflin co. copyright, . as one of the results of the balkan war of - , mt. athos, which had formerly been under turkish rule, was added to the territory of greece. nature made mt. athos a part of the mainland, but a canal was cut by xerxes across the lowland at the base of the lofty promontory, making it an island. some parts of this canal still remain. transcriber's notes: punctuation and hyphenation have been normalised. variable, archaic or unusual spelling has been retained. a list of the few corrections made can found at the end of the book. italics indicated by _underscores_. [illustration: greece, turkey, _part of_ russia & poland.] incidents of travel in greece, turkey, russia and poland. by the author of "incidents of travel in egypt, arabia petrÆa, and the holy land." with a map and engravings. in two volumes. vol. ii. seventh edition. new york: harper & brothers, publishers, & pearl street, franklin square. . entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by harper & brothers, in the clerk's office of the southern district of new york. contents of the second volume. chapter i. page choice of a conveyance.--hiring a servant.--another american.--beginning of troubles.--a bivouac.--russian jews.--the steppes of russia.--a _traveller's_ story.--approach to chioff.--how to get rid of a servant.--history of chioff. chapter ii. a lucky encounter.--church of the catacombs.--a visit to the saints.--a tender parting.--pilgrims.--rough treatment.--a scene of starvation.--russian serfs.--devotion of the serfs.--approach to moscow. chapter iii. moscow.--a severe operation.--an exile by accident.--meeting with an emigré.--a civil stranger.--a spy.--the kremlin.--sepulchres of the czars.--the great bell.--the great gun.--precious relics. chapter iv. the drosky.--salle des nobles.--russian gaming.--gastronomy.--pedroski.--a sunday in moscow.--a gipsy belle.--tea drinking.--the emperor's garden.--retrospective. chapter v. getting a passport.--parting with the marquis.--the language of signs.--a loquacious traveller.--from moscow to st. petersburgh.--the wolga.--novogorod.--newski perspective.--an unfortunate mistake.--northern twilight. chapter vi. police requisites.--the russian capital.--equestrian statue of peter the great.--the alexandrian column.--architectural wonders.--the summer islands.--a perilous achievement.--origin of st. petersburgh.--tombs of dead monarchs.--origin of the russian navy. chapter vii. a carroty pole.--the winter palace.--importance of a hat.--an artificial mine.--remains of a huge monster.--peter the great's workshop.--the greek religion.--tomb of a hero.--a saint militant.--another love affair.--the hermitage.--the winter and summer gardens. chapter viii. an imperial fête.--nicolas of russia.--varied splendours.--a soliloquy.--house of peter the great.--a boatrace.--czarskoselo.--the amber chamber.--catharine ii.--the emperor alexander. chapter ix. the soldier's reward.--review of the russian army.--american cannibals.--palace of potemkin.--palace of the grand-duke michael.--equipments for travelling.--rough riding.--poland.--vitepsk.--napoleon in poland.--the disastrous retreat.--passage of the berezina. chapter x. travel by night.--a rencounter.--a traveller's message.--lithuania.--poverty of the country.--agricultural implements.--minsk.--polish jews.--a coin of freedom.--riding in a basket.--brezc.--the bug.--a searching operation.--women labourers.--warsaw. chapter xi. warsaw.--a polish doctor.--battle of grokow.--the outbreak.--the fatal issue.--present condition of poland.--polish exiles.--aspect of warsaw.--traits of the poles. chapter xii. religion of poland.--sunday in warsaw.--baptized jews.--palaces of the polish kings.--sobieski.--field of vola.--wreck of a warrior.--the poles in america.--a polish lady.--troubles of a passport.--departure from warsaw.--an official rachel.--a mysterious visiter. chapter xiii. friendly solicitude.--raddom.--symptoms of a difficulty.--a court of inquisition.--showing a proper spirit.--troubles thickening.--approaching the climax.--woman's influence.--the finale.--utility of the classics.--another latinist.--a lucky accident.--arrival at cracow. chapter xiv. cracow.--casimir the great.--kosciusko.--tombs of the polish kings.--a polish heroine.--last words of a king.--a hero in decay.--the salt-mines of cracow.--the descent.--the mines.--underground meditations.--the farewell. incidents of travel in greece, turkey, russia, and poland. chapter i. choice of a conveyance.--hiring a servant.--another american.--beginning of troubles.--a bivouac.--russian jews.--the steppes of russia.--a _traveller's_ story.--approach to chioff.--how to get rid of a servant.--history of chioff. i had before me a journey of nearly two thousand miles, through a country more than half barbarous, and entirely destitute of all accommodation for travellers. southern russia was the scythia of darius, "savage from the remotest time." "all the way," says an old traveller, "i never came in a house, but lodged in the wilderness by the river side, and carried provisions by the way, for there be small succour in those parts;" and we were advised that a century had made but little change in the interior of the empire. there were no public conveyances, and we had our choice of three modes of travelling; first, by a jew's wagon, in which the traveller stretches out his bed, and is trundled along like a bale of goods, always with the same horses, and therefore, of necessity, making slow progress; secondly, the char de poste, a mere box of wood on four wheels, with straw in the bottom; very fast, but to be changed always with the posthorses; and, thirdly, posting with our own carriage. we did not hesitate long in choosing the last, and bought a carriage, fortunately a good one, a large calêche which an italian nobleman had had made for his own use in travelling on the continent, and which he now sold, not because he did not want it, but because he wanted money more. next we procured a podoroshni, under which, "by order of his majesty nicolas the first, autocrat of all the russias, from odessa to moscow and petersburgh, all the postoffices were commanded to give ---- and ----, with their servant, four horses with their drivers, at the price fixed by law." besides this, it was necessary to give security that we left no debts behind us; and if mr. ralli undertakes for all americans the same obligation he did for me, it may happen that his office of consul will be no sinecure. next, and this was no trifling matter, we got our passports arranged; the russian ambassador at constantinople, by-the-way, had given me a new passport in russian, and my companion, that he might travel with the advantages of rank and title, got himself made "noble" by an extra stroke of his consul's pen. the last thing was to engage a servant. we had plenty of applications, but, as very few talked any language we understood, we had not much choice, one, a german, a capital fellow, was exactly the man we wanted, only he could not speak a word of russian, which was the principal qualification we required in a servant. at length came a frenchman, with an unusual proportion of whiskers and mustaches, and one of the worst of the desperate emigrés whom the french revolution, or, rather, the restoration, sent roaming in foreign lands. he had naturally a most unprepossessing physiognomy, and this was heightened by a sabre-cut which had knocked out several of his teeth, and left a huge gash in his cheek and lip, and, moreover, made him speak very unintelligibly. when i asked him if he was a frenchman, he drew himself up with great dignity, and replied, "monsieur je suis _parisien_." his appearance was a gross libel upon the parisians; but, as we could get no one else, we took him upon little recommendation the day before our departure, and, during the same day, threatened half a dozen times to discharge him. the police regulation, obliging him to pay his debts before leaving odessa, he seemed to consider peculiarly hard; and, all the time he was with us, kept referring to his having been obliged to fritter away thirty or forty rubles before he could leave. we ought to have furnished ourselves with provisions for the whole road to moscow, and even cooking utensils; but we neglected it, and carried with us only tea and sugar, a tin teapot, two tin cups, two tin plates, two knives and forks, and some bologna sausages, trusting, like napoleon when he invaded russia, to make up the rest by foraging. before beginning our journey we had a foretaste of the difficulty of travelling in russia. we had ordered posthorses three times, and had sent for them morning and evening, and received for answer that there were none in. at the third disappointment, our own consul being out of town, my friend the spanish consul went with me to the director of the post, and found that during the time in which they had told us they had no horses, they had sent out more than a hundred. instead of taxing them with their rascality, he talked the matter over very politely, paid the price of the horses, gave them a bonus of ten rubles, and obtained a promise by all the saints in the russian calendar for daylight the next morning. the next morning at eight o'clock the horses came; four shaggy, wild-looking little animals, which no comb or brush had ever touched, harnessed with a collar and rope lines. they were tied in with rope traces, all abreast, two on each side the pole, and a postillion with a low wool cap, sheepskin coat and trousers, the woolly side next the skin, who would make an english whip stare, mounted the box. henri followed, and my companion and myself took our seats within. the day before we had a positive quarrel upon a point unnecessary here to mention, in which i thought and still think he acted wrong, and the dispute had run so high that i told him i regretted exceedingly having made arrangements for travelling with him, and proposed even then to part company; he objected, and as we had purchased a carriage jointly, and particularly as our passports were prepared, our podoroshni made out, and servant hired in our joint names, i was fain to go on; and in this inauspicious humour toward each other we set out for a journey of nearly two thousand miles, through a wild and desolate country, among a half-civilized people, whose language we could not understand, and with a servant whom we distrusted and disliked. in spite of all this, however, i felt a high degree of excitement in starting for the capital of russia; and i will do my companion the justice to say that he had been always ready to receive my advances, and to do more than meet me half way, which i afterward learned was from an apprehension of the taunts of his companions, who, not satisfied with getting rid of him, had constantly told him that it was impossible for an englishman and an american to travel together, and that we would quarrel and fight the first day. i believe that i am enough of an american in my feelings, but such an idea had never entered my head; i met many englishmen, and with some formed a friendship which, i trust, will last through life; and among all i met, these two were the only _young_ men so far behind the spirit of the age as to harbour such a thought. i did meet one _old_ gentleman, who, though showing me personally the greatest kindness, could not forget the old grudge. but men cannot be driving their elbows into each other's ribs, comparing money accounts, and consulting upon the hundred little things that present themselves on such a journey, without getting upon at least sociable terms; and before night of the first day the feelings of my companion and myself had undergone a decided change. but to go back to odessa. at the barrier we found a large travelling-carriage stopping the way, in which was my friend mr. ralli, with his lady, on his way to nicolaif; part of his business there was to erect a monument to the memory of a deceased countryman. mr. munroe, son of a former postmaster in washington, is another instance of the success of american adventurers in russia. he went out to st. petersburgh with letters from the russian ambassador and others, and entered the army, the only road to distinction in russia. he accompanied the grand-duke constantine to poland, and was made one of his aiddecamps, and on the death of constantine was transferred to the staff of the emperor nicolas. at the time of the invasion of turkey by the egyptians under ibrahim pacha, mr. munroe held the rank of colonel in the army sent to the aid of the sultan. while the russians were encamped at the foot of the giant's mountain, he visited constantinople, and became acquainted with the american missionaries, who all spoke of him in the highest terms. he was a tall, well-made man, carried himself with a military air, and looked admirably well in the russian uniform. on the withdrawal of the russians from the black sea, mr. munroe was left in some important charge at nicolaif, where he died in the opening of a brilliant career. i heard of him all over russia, particularly from officers of the army; and being often asked if i knew him, regretted to be obliged to answer no. but, though personally unacquainted, as an american i was gratified with the name he had left behind him. to return again to our journey: a few rubles satisfied the officer at the barrier that we were carrying nothing prohibited out of the "free port" of odessa, and we started on a full run, to the great peril of our necks, and, to use the climax of a dutch proclamation, "what's more, of breaking our carriage." in less than an hour we brought up before the door of a posthouse. our wheels were smoking when we stopped. on our hind axle we carried a bucket of grease; half a dozen bipeds in sheepskin whipped off the wheels and greased them; four quadrupeds were tied into the carriage, another bête mounted the box, and we were off again at a full run. my companion undertook to keep a memorandum of expenses, and we put a certain sum in a purse and paid out of it till all was gone. this was a glorious beginning for a journey of two thousand miles. the country possessed little interest, being mostly level, and having but few villages. on the way we saw a natural phenomenon that is common enough in egypt and the east, where the country is level, and known by the name of _mirage_. at a distance it seemed a mere pond or lake, and a drove of cattle passing over it looked as if they were walking in the water. we rolled on rapidly all day, passed through balgarha, kodurseve, and pakra, timing every post and noting every village with a particularity which it would be tedious here to repeat, and at about eight in the evening dashed into the little town of vosnezeuski, one hundred and thirty versts from odessa. here we came to a dead stand. we had begun to entertain some apprehensions from the conduct of monsieur henri, who complained of the hardness of his seat, and asked if we did not intend to stop at night, recommending vosnezeuski as a place where we could sleep in the posthouse; we told him that we had no idea of stopping but to change horses, and should go on immediately. vosnezeuski lies on the river bog, and is the chief town of the cossacks of the bog. this river is navigable for large vessels one hundred and fifty versts; beyond this for three or four hundred versts it is full of cataracts. the cossacks of the bog are a warlike tribe, numbering from six to seven thousand, and living under the same military system with the cossacks of the don. but we fell into worse hands than the cossacks. the postmaster was a jew, and at first told us that he had no horses; then that he had no postillion, but would hire one if we would pay him a certain sum, about four times the amount fixed by law. we had been obliged before to pay a few extra rubles, but this was our first serious difficulty with the postmasters; and, in pursuance of the advice received at odessa, we talked loud, demanded the book which is nailed to the table in every posthouse for travellers to enter complaints in, and threatened the vengeance of count woronzow and every one else, up to the emperor; but the jew laughed in our faces; looked in our podoroshni, where we were described as simple travellers, without any of the formidable array of titles which procure respect in russia; told us we were no grand seigneurs, and that we must either pay the price or wait, as our betters had done before us. we found too soon, as we had been advised at odessa, that these fellows do not know such a character in society as a private gentleman; and if a man is not described in his podoroshni as a count, duke, or lord of some kind, or by some high-sounding military title, they think he is a merchant or manufacturer, or some other common fellow, and pay no regard to him. i relied somewhat upon my companion's having been made "noble," but now found that his consul had been rather chary of his honours, and, by the russian word used, had not put him up high enough to be of any use. we had a long wrangle with the jew, the result of which was, that we told him, probably in no very gentle phrase, that we would wait a month rather than submit to his extortion; and, drawing up the window of our carriage, prepared to pass the night at the door of the posthouse. one of our party was evidently well satisfied with this arrangement, and he was monsieur henri. we had hired him by the day to moscow, and, if we wanted him, to st. petersburgh, and very soon saw that he was perfectly content with the terms, and in no hurry to bring our journey to a close. from the moment of our arrival we suspected him of encouraging the postmaster in his efforts to detain us, and were so much fortified in this opinion by after circumstances, that, when he was about moving toward the house to pass the night within, we peremptorily ordered him to mount the box and sleep there; he refused, we insisted; and as this was the first day out and the first moment of actual collision, and it was all important to decide who should be master, we told him that, if he did not obey, we would discharge him on the spot, at the risk of being obliged to work our way back to odessa alone. and as he felt that, in that case, his debts would have been paid to no purpose, with a string of suppressed sacrés he took his place on the box. our carriage was very comfortable, well lined and stuffed, furnished with pockets and everything necessary for the road, and we expected to sleep in it; but, to tell the truth, we felt rather cheap as we woke during the night, and looked at the shut door of the posthouse, and thought of the jew sleeping away in utter contempt of us, and our only satisfaction was in hearing an occasional groan from henri. that worthy individual did not oversleep himself, nor did he suffer the jew to do so either. early in the morning, without a word on our part, the horses were brought out and harnessed to our vehicle, and the same man whom he professed to have hired expressly for us, and who, no doubt, was the regular postillion, mounted the box. the jew maintained his impudence to the last, coming round to my window, and then asking a few rubles as a douceur. good english would have been thrown away upon him, so i resented it by drawing up the window of the carriage and scowling at him through the glass. many of the postmasters along this road were jews; and i am compelled to say that they were always the greatest scoundrels we had to deal with; and this is placing them on very high ground, for their inferiors in rascality would be accounted masters in any other country. no men can bear a worse character than the russian jews, and i can truly say that i found them all they were represented to be. they are not allowed to come within the territory of old russia. peter the great refused their application to be permitted to approach nearer, smoothing his refusal by telling them that his russian subjects were greater jews than they were themselves. the sagacious old monarch, however, was wrong; for all the money business along the road is in their hands. they keep little taverns, where they sell vodka, a species of brandy, and wring from the peasant all his earnings, lending the money again to the seigneurs at exorbitant interest. many of them are rich, and though alike despised by rich and poor, by the seigneur and the serf, they are proud of exhibiting their wealth, particularly in the jewels and ornaments of their women. at savonka, a little village on the confines of old poland, where we were detained waiting for horses, i saw a young girl about sixteen, a polonese, sitting on the steps of a miserable little tavern, sewing together some ribands, with a headdress of brown cloth, ornamented with gold chains and pearls worth six hundred rubles, diamond earrings worth a hundred, and a necklace of ducats and other dutch gold pieces worth four hundred rubles; altogether, in our currency, worth perhaps two hundred and fifty dollars. here, too, while sitting with henri on the steps of the posthouse, i asked him in a friendly way how he could be such a rascal as to league with the postmaster to detain us at vosnezeuski, whereupon he went at once into french heroics, exclaiming, "monsieur, je suis vieux militaire--j'etais chasseur de napoleon--mon honneur," &c.; that he had never travelled before except with grand seigneurs, and then _in_ the carriage, more as compagnon de voyage than as a servant, and intimated that it was a great condescension to travel with us at all. we passed through several villages, so much alike and so uninteresting in appearance that i did not note even their names. as night approached we had great apprehensions that henri would contrive to make us stop again; but the recollection of his bed on the box served as a lesson, and we rolled on without interruption. at daylight we awoke, and found ourselves upon the wild steppes of russia, forming part of the immense plain which, beginning in northern germany, extends for hundreds of miles, having its surface occasionally diversified by ancient tumuli, and terminates at the long chain of the urals, which, rising like a wall, separates them from the equally vast plains of siberia. the whole of this immense plain was covered with a luxuriant pasture, but bare of trees like our prairie lands, mostly uncultivated, yet everywhere capable of producing the same wheat which now draws to the black sea the vessels of turkey, egypt, and italy, making russia the granary of the levant; and which, within the last year, we have seen brought six thousand miles to our own doors. our road over these steppes was in its natural state; that is to say, a mere track worn by caravans of wagons; there were no fences, and sometimes the route was marked at intervals by heaps of stones, intended as guides when the ground should be covered with snow. i had some anxiety about our carriage; the spokes of the wheels were all strengthened and secured by cords wound tightly around them, and interlaced so as to make a network; but the postillions were so perfectly reckless as to the fate of the carriage, that every crack went through me like a shot. the breaking of a wheel would have left us perfectly helpless in a desolate country, perhaps more than a hundred miles from any place where we could get it repaired. indeed, on the whole road to chioff there was not a single place where we could have any material injury repaired; and the remark of the old traveller is yet emphatically true, that "there be small succour in these parts." [illustration: tumuli on the steppes.] at about nine o'clock we whirled furiously into a little village, and stopped at the door of the posthouse. our wheels were smoking with the rapidity of their revolutions; henri dashed a bucket of water over them to keep them from burning, and half a dozen men whipped them off and greased them. indeed, greasing the wheels is necessary at every post, as otherwise the hubs become dry, so that there is actual danger of their taking fire; and there is a _traveller's_ story told (but i do not vouch for its truth) of a postillion, wagon, and passengers being all burned up on the road to moscow by the ignition of the wheels. the village, like all the others, was built of wood, plastered and whitewashed, with roofs of thatched straw, and the houses were much cleaner than i expected to find them. we got plenty of fresh milk; the bread, which to the traveller in those countries is emphatically the staff of life, we found good everywhere in russia, and at moscow the whitest i ever saw. henri was an enormous feeder, and, wherever we stopped, he disappeared for a moment, and came out with a loaf of bread in his hand and his mustache covered with the froth of quass, a russian small beer. he said he was not always so voracious, but his seat was so hard, and he was so roughly shaken, that eating did him no good. resuming our journey, we met no travellers. occasionally we passed large droves of cattle, but all the way from odessa the principal objects were long trains of wagons, fifty or sixty together, drawn by oxen, and transporting merchandise toward moscow or grain to the black sea. their approach was indicated at a great distance by immense clouds of dust, which gave us timely notice to let down our curtains and raise our glasses. the wagoners were short, ugly-looking fellows, with huge sandy mustaches and beards, black woolly caps, and sheepskin jackets, the wool side next the skin; perhaps, in many cases, transferred warm from the back of one animal to that of the other, where they remained till worn out or eaten up by vermin. they had among them blacksmiths and wheelwrights, and spare wheels, and hammer, and tools, and everything necessary for a journey of several hundred miles. half of them were generally asleep on the top of their loads, and they encamped at night in caravan style, arranging the wagons in a square, building a large fire, and sleeping around it. about midday we saw clouds gathering afar off in the horizon, and soon after the rain began to fall, and we could see it advancing rapidly over the immense level till it broke over our heads, and in a few moments passed off, leaving the ground smoking with exhalations. late in the afternoon we met the travelling equipage of a seigneur returning from moscow to his estate in the country. it consisted of four carriages, with six or eight horses each. the first was a large, stately, and cumbrous vehicle, padded and cushioned, in which, as we passed rapidly by, we caught a glimpse of a corpulent russian on the back seat, with his feet on the front, bolstered all around with pillows and cushions, almost burying every part of him but his face, and looking the very personification of luxurious indulgence; and yet probably, that man had been a soldier, and slept many a night on the bare ground, with no covering but his military cloak. next came another carriage, fitted out in the same luxurious style, with the seigneur's lady and a little girl; then another with nurses and children; then beds, baggage, cooking utensils, and servants, the latter hanging on everywhere about the vehicle, much in the same way with the pots and kettles. altogether, it was an equipment in caravan style, somewhat the same as for a journey in the desert, the traveller carrying with him provision and everything necessary for his comfort, as not expecting to procure anything on the road, nor to sleep under a roof during the whole journey. he stops when he pleases, and his servants prepare his meals, sometimes in the open air, but generally at the posthouse. we had constant difficulties with henri and the postmasters, but, except when detained for an hour or two by these petty tyrants, we rolled on all night, and in the morning again woke upon the same boundless plain. the posthouse was usually in a village, but sometimes stood alone, the only object to be seen on the great plain. before it was always a high square post, with black and white stripes, marking the number of versts from station to station; opposite to this henri dismounted, and presented the podoroshni or imperial order for horses. but the postmasters were high above the laws; every one of them seemed a little autocrat in his own right, holding his appointment rather to prey upon than to serve travellers; and the emperor's government would be but badly administered if his ukases and other high-sounding orders did not carry with them more weight than his podoroshni. the postmasters obeyed it when they pleased, and when they did not, made a new bargain. they always had an excuse; as, for instance, that they had no horses, or were keeping them in reserve for a courier or grand seigneur; but they listened to reason when enforced by rubles, and, as soon as a new bargain was made, half a dozen animals in sheepskin went out on the plain and drove up fifteen or twenty horses, small, rugged, and tough, with long and shaggy manes and tails, which no comb or brush had ever touched, and, diving among them promiscuously, caught four, put on rope headstalls, and tied them to our rope traces. the postillion mounted the box, and shouting and whipping his horses, and sometimes shutting his eyes, started from the post on a full gallop, carried us like the wind, ventre à terre, over the immense plain, sometimes without a rut or any visible mark to guide him, and brought us up all standing in front of the next post. a long delay and a short post, and this was the same over and over again during the whole journey. the time actually consumed in making progress was incredibly short, and i do not know a more beautiful way of getting over the ground than posting in russia with a man of high military rank, who can make the postmasters give him horses immediately on his arrival. as for us, after an infinite deal of vexation and at a ruinous expense, on the morning of the fourth day we were within one post of chioff. here we heard with great satisfaction that a diligence was advertised for moscow, and we determined at once to get rid of carriage, posting, and henri. we took our seats for the last time in the _calêche_ gave the postillion a double allowance of kopeks, and in half an hour saw at a great distance the venerable city of chioff, the ancient capital of russia. it stands at a great height, on the crest of an amphitheatre of hills, which rise abruptly in the middle of an immense plain, apparently thrown up by some wild freak of nature, at once curious, unique, and beautiful. the style of its architecture is admirably calculated to give effect to its peculiar position; and, after a dreary journey over the wild plains of the ukraine, it breaks upon the traveller with all the glittering and gorgeous splendour of an asiatic city. for many centuries it has been regarded as the jerusalem of the north, the sacred and holy city of the russians; and, long before reaching it, its numerous convents and churches, crowning the summit and hanging on the sides of the hill, with their quadrupled domes, and spires, and chains, and crosses, gilded with ducat gold and glittering in the sun, gave the whole city the appearance of golden splendour. the churches and monasteries have one large dome in the centre, with a spire surmounted by a cross, and several smaller domes around it, also with spires and crosses connected by pendant chains, and all gilded so purely that they never tarnish. we drove rapidly to the foot of the hill, and ascended by a long wooden paved road to the heart of the city. during the whole of our last post our interest had been divided between the venerable city and the rogue henri. my companion, who, by-the-way, spoke but little french disliked him from the first. we had long considered him in league with all the jews and postmasters on the road, and had determined under no circumstances to take him farther than chioff; but as we had hired him to moscow, the difficulty was how to get rid of him. he might take it into his head that, if we did not know when we had a good servant, he knew when he had good masters; but he was constantly grumbling about his seat, and calculated upon three or four days' rest at chioff. so, as soon as we drove up to the door of the hotel, we told him to order breakfast and posthorses. he turned round as if he had not fully comprehended us. we repeated the order, and for the first time since he had been with us he showed something like agility in dismounting; fairly threw himself from the box, swore he would not ride another verst that day for a thousand rubles, and discharged us on the spot. we afterward paid him to his entire satisfaction, indemnifying him for the money he had squandered in paying his debts at odessa, and found him more useful at chioff than he had been at any time on the road. indeed, we afterward learned what was rather ludicrous, viz., that he, our pilot and interpreter through the wilderness of russia, knew but little more of russian than we did ourselves. he could ask for posthorses and the ordinary necessaries of life, count money, &c., but could not support a connected conversation, nor speak nor understand a long sentence. this changed our suspicions of his honesty into admiration of his impudence; but, in the mean time, when he discharged us, we should have been rather destitute if it had not been for the servant of a russian traveller, who spoke french, and, taking our direction from him, we mounted a drosky and rode to the office of the diligence, which was situated in the podolsk or lower town, and at which we found ourselves particularly well received by the proprietor. he said that the attempt to run a diligence was discouraging; that he had advertised two weeks, and had not booked a single passenger; but, if he could get two, he was determined to try the experiment. we examined the vehicle, which was very large and convenient, and, satisfied that there was no danger of all the places being taken, we left him until we could make an effort to dispose of our carriage. relieved from all anxiety as to our future movements, we again mounted our drosky. ascending the hill, we passed the fountain where st. vladimir baptized the first russian converts; the spring is held sacred by the christians now, and a column bearing a cross is erected over it, to commemorate the pious act and the ancient sovereignty of chioff. the early history of this city is involved in some obscurity. its name is supposed to be derived from kiovi or kii, a sarmatian word signifying heights or mountains; and its inhabitants, a sarmatian tribe, were denominated kivi or mountaineers. it is known to have been a place of consequence in the fifth century, when the suevi, driven from their settlements on the danube, established themselves here and at novogorod. in the beginning of the tenth century it was the capital and most celebrated and opulent city in russia, or in that part of europe. boleslaus the terrible notched upon its "golden gate" his "miraculous sword," called by the monks "the sword of god," and the poles entered and plundered it of its riches. in the latter part of the same century the capital of russia again fell before the conquering arms of the poles. kiev was at that time the foster-child of constantinople and the eastern empire. the voluptuous greeks had stored it with all the luxuries of asia; the noble architecture of athens was festooned with the gaudy tapestry of lydia, and the rough metal of russian swords embossed with the polished gold of ophir and persia. boleslaus ii., shut up within the "golden gate" of this city of voluptuousness, quaffed the bowl of pleasure till its intoxicating draught degraded all the nobler energies of his nature. his army of warriors followed his example, and slept away month after month on the soft couches of kiev; and in the language of the historian, as if they had eaten of the fabled fruit of the lotos-tree, at length forgot that their houses were without masters, their wives without husbands, and their children without parents. but these tender relations were not in like manner oblivious; and, after seven years of absence, the poles were roused from their trance of pleasure by the tidings of a revolt among the women at home, who, tired of waiting their return, in revenge gave themselves up to the embraces of their slaves. burning under the disgrace, the poles hurried home to wreak their vengeance on wives and paramours; but they met at warsaw a bloody resistance; the women, maddened by despair, urged on their lovers, many of them fighting in person, and seeking out on the battle-field their faithless husbands: an awful warning to married men! for a long time kiev was the prey alternately of the poles, the lithuanians, and the tartars, until in it was finally ceded by the poles to russia. the city is composed of three distinct quarters; the old, with its polish fortifications, containing the palace of the emperor, and being the court end; the petcherk fortress, built by peter the great, with ditches and high ramparts, and an arsenal capable of containing eighty or a hundred thousand stand of arms; and the podolsk, or business part, situated at the foot of the hill on the banks of the dnieper. it contains thirty thousand inhabitants besides a large military garrison, partly of cossack troops, and one pretty good hotel; but no beds, and none of those soft couches which made the hardy poles sleep away their senses; and though a welcome resting-place for a traveller through the wild plains of russia, it does not now possess any such attraction as to put in peril the faith and duties of husbands. by its position secluded from intercourse with strangers, kiev is still thoroughly a russian city, retaining in full force its asiatic style of architecture; and the old russian, wedded to the manners and customs of his fathers, clings to it as a place which the hand of improvement has not yet reached; among other relics of the olden time, the long beard still flourishes with the same solemn dignity as in the days of peter the great. lying a hundred miles away from the direct road between moscow and the black sea, few european travellers visit it; and though several of them have done so since, perhaps i was the first american who ever passed through it. we passed the morning in riding round to the numerous convents and churches, among which is the church of st. sophia, the oldest in russia, and, if not an exact model of the great st. sophia of constantinople, at least of byzantine design; and toward evening went to the emperor's garden. this garden is more than a mile in length, bounded on one side by the high precipitous bank of the hill, undulating in its surface, and laid out like an english park, with lawn, gravel-walks, and trees; it contains houses of refreshment, arbours or summer-houses, and a summer theatre. at the foot of the hill flows the dnieper, the ancient borysthenes, on which, in former days the descendants of odin and ruric descended to plunder constantinople. two or three sloops were lying, as it were, asleep in the lower town, telling of a still interior country, and beyond was a boundless plain covered with a thick forest of trees. the view from this bank was unique and extraordinary, entirely different from anything i ever saw in natural scenery, and resembling more than anything else a boundless marine prospect. at the entrance of the garden is an open square or table of land overlooking the plain, where, every evening at seven o'clock, the military band plays. the garden is the fashionable promenade, the higher classes resorting to it in carriages and on horseback, and the common people on foot; the display of equipages was not very striking, although there is something stylish in the russian manner of driving four horses, the leaders with very long traces and a postillion; and soldiers and officers, with their splendid uniforms, caps, and plumes, added a brilliant effect. before the music began, all returned from the promenade or drive in the garden, and gathered in the square. it was a beautiful afternoon in june, and the assemblage was unusually large and brilliant; the carriages drew up in a line, the ladies let down the glasses, and the cavaliers dismounted, and talked and flirted with them just as in civilized countries. all chioff was there, and the peasant in his dirty sheepskin jacket, the shopkeeper with his long surtout and beard, the postillion on his horse, the coachman on his box, the dashing soldier, the haughty noble and supercilious lady, touched by the same chord, forgot their temporal distinctions, and listened to the swelling strains of the music till the last notes died away. the whole mass was then in motion, and in a few moments, except by a few stragglers, of whom i was one, the garden was deserted. at about ten o'clock i returned to my hotel. we had no beds, and slept in our cloaks on settees stuffed with straw and covered with leather. we had no coverlets; still, after four days and nights in a carriage, it was a luxury to have plenty of kicking room. chapter ii. a lucky encounter.--church of the catacombs.--a visit to the saints.--a tender parting.--pilgrims.--rough treatment.--a scene of starvation.--russian serfs.--devotion of the serfs.--approach to moscow. early in the morning, while i was standing in the yard of the hotel, chaffering with some jews about the sale of our carriage, an officer in a faded, threadbare uniform, with two or three ribands at his buttonhole and stars sparkling on his breast, came up, and, taking me by the hand, told me, in capital english, that he had just heard of the arrival of two english gentlemen, and had hurried down to see them; that he was a great admirer of the english, and happy to have an opportunity, in the interior of his own country, to show its hospitalities to the natives of the island queen. at the risk of losing the benefit of his attentions, i was obliged to disclaim my supposed english character, and to publish, in the heart of a grinding despotism, that i was a citizen of a free republic. nor did i suffer for my candour; for, by one of those strange vagaries which sometimes happen, we cannot tell how or why, this officer in the service of russia had long looked to america and her republican government as the perfection of an ideal system. he was in chioff only by accident. wounded in the last campaign against the turks, he had taken up his abode at ismail, where, upon his pension and a pittance of his own, he was able to live respectably as a poor officer. with no friends or connexions, and no society at ismail, his head seemed to have run principally upon two things, apparently having no connexion with each other, but intimately connected in his mind, viz., the british possessions in india and the united states of america; and the cord that bound them together was the wide diffusion of the english language by means of these powerful agents. he told me more than i ever knew of the constitution and government of the east india company, and their plan of operations; and, in regard to our own country, his knowledge was astonishing; he knew the names and character, and talked familiarly of all our principal men, from the time of washington to the present day; had read all our standard works, and was far more familiar with those of franklin, irving, &c., than i was; in short, he told me that he had read every american book, pamphlet, or paper he could lay his hands on; and so intimate was his knowledge of detail, that he mentioned chestnut-street by name as one of the principal streets in philadelphia. it may be supposed that i was not sorry to meet such a man in the heart of russia. he devoted himself to us, and seldom left us, except at night, until we left the city. after breakfast, accompanied by our new friend with as unpronounceable a name as the best in russia, we visited the catacombs of the petcherskoi monastery. i have before remarked that chioff is the holy city of the russians, and the crowds of pilgrims we met at every turn in the streets constantly reminded us that this was the great season of the pilgrimage. i was but imperfectly acquainted with the russian character, but in no one particular had i been so ignorant as in regard to their religious impressions. i had seen italian, greek, and turkish devotees, but the russian surpassed them all; and, though deriving their religion from strangers, they exceed the punctilious greeks themselves in the observance of its minutest forms. censurable, indeed, would he be considered who should pass, in city or in highway, the figure of the cross, the image of the virgin, or any of the numerous family of saints, without taking off his hat and making on his breast the sacred sign of the cross; and in a city like chioff, where every turn presents some new object claiming their worship, the eyes of our drosky boy were rapidly turning from one side to the other, and his hand was almost constantly in a quick mechanical motion. the church of the catacombs, or the cathedral of the assumption, attached to the monastery, stands a little out of the city, on the banks of the dnieper. it was founded in ten hundred and seventy-three, and has seven golden domes with golden spires, and chains connecting them. the dome of the belfry, which rises above the hill to the height of about three hundred feet, and above the dnieper to that of five hundred and eighty-six, is considered by the russians a chef d'oeuvre of architecture. it is adorned with doric and ionic columns and corinthian pilasters; the whole interior bears the venerable garb of antiquity, and is richly ornamented with gold, silver, and precious stones and paintings; indeed, it is altogether very far superior to any greek church i had then seen. in the immense catacombs under the monastery lie the unburied bodies of the russian saints, and year after year thousands and tens of thousands come from the wilds of siberia and the confines of tartary to kneel at their feet and pray. in one of the porches of the church we bought wax tapers, and, with a long procession of pilgrims, bareheaded and with lighted tapers in our hands, descended a long wooden staircase to the mouth of the catacomb. on each side along the staircase was ranged a line of kneeling devotees, of the same miserable description i had so often seen about the churches in italy and greece. entering the excavated passages of the catacombs, the roof of which was black from the smoke of candles, we saw on each side, in niches in the walls, and in open coffins, enveloped in wrappers of cloth and silk, ornamented with gold and silver, the bodies of the russian saints. these saints are persons who have led particularly pure and holy lives, and by reason thereof have ascended into heaven, where they are supposed to exercise an influence with the father and son; and their bodies are left unburied that their brethren may come to them for intercession, and, seeing their honours after death, study to imitate them in the purity of their lives. the bodies are laid in open coffins, with the stiffened hands so placed as to receive the kisses of pilgrims, and on their breasts are written their names, and sometimes a history of their virtuous actions. but we saw there other and worse things than these, monuments of wild and desperate fanaticism; for besides the bodies of saints who had died at god's appointed time, in one passage is a range of small windows, where men had with their own hands built themselves in with stones against the wall, leaving open only a small hole by which to receive their food; and died with the impious thought that they were doing their maker good service. these little windows close their dwelling and their tomb; and the devoted russian, while he kneels before them, believes that their unnatural death has purchased for them everlasting life, and place and power among the spirits of the blessed. we wandered a long time in this extraordinary burial-place, everywhere strewed with the kneeling figures of praying pilgrims. at every turn we saw hundreds from the farthest parts of the immense empire of russia; perhaps at that time more than three thousand were wandering in these sepulchral chambers. the last scene i shall never forget. more than a hundred were assembled in a little chapel, around which were arranged the bodies of men who had died in peculiar sanctity. all were kneeling on the rocky floor, an old priest, with a long white beard streaming down his breast, was in the midst of them, and all there, even to the little children, were listening with rapt attention, as if he were preaching to them matters of eternal moment. there was no hypocrisy or want of faith in that vast sepulchre; surrounded by their sainted dead, they were searching their way to everlasting life, and in all honesty believed that they saw the way before them. we ascended once more to the regions of upper air, and stopped a few moments in the courtyard of the monastery, where the beggar pilgrims were eating the hard bread distributed to them by the monks from the bounty of government. no man seemed more relieved than the major. he was a liberal in religion as well as in politics, but he crossed himself everywhere most devoutly, to avoid, as he said, offending the prejudices of his countrymen, though once he rather scandalized a group of pilgrims by cross-questioning a monk about a new saint, who seemed to be receiving more than a usual share of veneration, and who, he said, had been canonized since he was there last. but there is a time for all things, and nothing is more absolutely fixed by nature's laws than a time for dinner. almost at the first moment of our acquaintance the major had told me of an engraving representing a scene in _new-york_, which was to be found at a second or third rate hotel, and i proposed to him, in compliment to the honest publican who had the good taste to have such a picture in his house, to go there and dine. we went, and in a large room, something like a barroom in our hotels, saw on one of the walls, in a black wooden frame, a gaudy and flaring engraving representing the pulling down of the statue of george the second in the bowling green. the bowling green was associated with my earliest recollections. it had been my playground when a boy; hundreds of times i had climbed over its fence for my ball, and i was one of a band of boys who held on to it long after the corporation invaded our rights. captain cook mentions the effect produced upon his crew by finding at one of the savage islands he visited a silver spoon marked "london;" my feelings were, in a small way, of the same nature. the grouping of the picture was rude and grotesque, the ringleader being a long negro stripped to his trousers, and straining with all his might upon a rope, one end of which was fastened to the head of the statue, and the other tied around his own waist, his white teeth and the whites of his eyes being particularly conspicuous on a heavy ground of black. it was a poor specimen of art, but it was a home scene; we drew up our table opposite the picture, and here, in the very headquarters of despotism, i found a liberal spirit in an officer wearing the uniform of the autocrat, who pledged me in the toast, "success to liberty throughout the world." i had another occupation, which savoured more of home, and served to keep my faculties from rusting; and that was the sale of our carriage. we had made a calculation, and found that it would be cheaper, to say nothing of other advantages, to give it away, and take the diligence to moscow, than go on posting. we accordingly offered it for sale, and every time we returned to the house found a group of jews examining it. the poor thing found no favour in their eyes; they told us that we had been riding in it at peril of our lives; that we might be thankful it had not broken down on the road; and, in short, that it was worth nothing except for old iron, and for that it was worth forty-five rubles, or about _nine dollars_. we could not stand this. it had cost us one hundred and forty less than a week before, was cheap at that, and as good now as when we bought it. on the eve of departure, therefore, we offered it to our landlord for three days' board; but the old turk (he was a jew turned christian, and in his regenerated worse than his natural state) refused our offer, thinking that we would go away and leave it on his hands. but we resolved to burn it first; and while hesitating about offering it to our friend the major, he relieved us from all delicacy by telling us that he did not want it, and had no horses to put to it; to save us from imposition, he would willingly give us the full value, but he was not worth the money. he had, however, a piece of fifty rubles, or about ten dollars, in his pocket, and, if we would take that, he would keep the carriage as a souvenir. we gladly accepted his offer, and had the satisfaction of finding that we had grievously disappointed both the jews and our landlord. in the morning the proprietor of the diligence, learning that we had sold our vehicle, raised the price of places fifty rubles apiece; the major heard of it, and insisted upon our taking back the carriage, when the proprietor took another tone, talked of the expense of sending his huge vehicle with only two passengers, and we listened and assented. we started to accompany him, and just at the door of the hotel saw two runaway horses coming furiously down the street with a drosky, and an officer entangled and dragging on the ground. we picked him up and carried him into the hotel. he was a noble-looking man, who but a few minutes before had attracted my attention by his proud and manly bearing, now a miserable mangled object, his clothes torn, his plume soiled with mud, and his face covered with dust and blood, and, when we left, it was uncertain whether he would live or die. the major accompanied us to the office of the diligence, and our parting was rather tender; he rubbed his mustache on both my cheeks, wrote his name in my memorandum-book, and i gave him my address; he said that our visit had been an interlude relieving the dull monotony of his life; that we were going to new scenes, and would soon forget him, but he would not forget us. nor shall i forget him, although it is not probable that he and i will ever meet again. we took our seats in the diligence for moscow, and set off with an uncommon degree of satisfaction at having got rid of posting and of henri, and, with them, of all our troubles. we had nothing to do, no wrangling with postmasters, no cheating to undergo from jews, and were in that happy state which made the honest hibernian indifferent to an upset or a breakdown; that is to say, we were merely passengers. with great pomp and circumstance we drove through the principal streets, to advise the knickerbockers of chioff of the actual departure of the long-talked-of diligence, the conducteur sounding his trumpet, and the people stopping in the streets and running to the doors to see the extraordinary spectacle. we descended the long wooden road to the river, and crossed the dnieper on a bridge about half a mile long. on the opposite bank i turned for the last time to the sacred city, and i never saw anything more unique and strikingly beautiful than the high, commanding position of "this city on a hill," crowned with its golden cupolas and domes, that reflected the sun with dazzling brightness. for a short distance the country was rather undulating, but soon settled into the regular steppe. we rolled on all day without anything to annoy us or even to interest us, except processions of pilgrims on their way to chioff. they travelled on foot in bands of one or two hundred, men, women, and children, headed by a white-bearded monk, barefooted, and leaning on a staff. during the night i was roused by a loud chant, and, looking out, saw a group of more than a hundred pilgrims gathered round a fire, with an old monk in the midst of them, breaking the stillness of night with songs of devotion; and all the night long, as we rode swiftly by, i saw by the bright moonlight groups of forty, fifty, or a hundred lying by the roadside asleep under the trees. more than fifty thousand pilgrims that year visited the catacombs of kiev, coming from every part of the immense empire of russia, and many from kamschatka and the most distant region of siberia, performing the whole journey on foot, seldom sleeping under a roof, and living upon the precarious charity of the miserable peasants on the road. i have since seen the gathering of pilgrims at jerusalem, and the whole body moving together from the gates of the city to bathe in the jordan, and i have seen the great caravan of forty thousand true believers tracking their desolate way through the deserts of arabia to the tomb of the prophet at mecca; but i remember, as if they were before me now, the groups of russian pilgrims strewed along the road and sleeping under the pale moonlight, the bare earth their bed, the heavens their only covering. in the morning we stopped at a little town, where the posthouse had in front four corinthian columns supporting a balcony. inside, mats were placed against the broken windows, the walls were rough logs, the floor of mud, with pigs and children disputing its possession, and the master and mistress stood in special need of the purifying influence of a russian bath. we brought the teaurn out on the balcony, and had a cow brought up and milked in our presence. after breakfast we lighted our pipes and strolled up the street. at the upper end, an old man in a civil uniform hailed us from the opposite side, and crossed over to meet us; supposing him to be some dignitary disposed to show us the civilities of the town, we waited to receive him with all becoming respect; but, as he approached, were rather startled by the loud tone of his voice and the angry expression of his face, and more so when, as soon as within reach, he gave my pipe-stick a severe rap with his cane, which knocked it out of my mouth, broke the bowl, and scattered the contents on the ground. i picked up the stick, and should, perhaps, have laid it over his head but for his gray hairs; and my companion, seeing him tread out the sparks of fire, recollected that there was a severe penalty in russia against smoking in the streets. the houses are all of wood; whole villages and towns are often burned down at once, and probably the old man had begun by a civil intimation to that effect; but, indignant at my quietly smoking in his face, had used more summary measures. he was in a perfect fury; and calling at the top of his voice to a man up the street, the latter went off with such a suspicious looking-for-a-police-officer movement, that we hurried back to the diligence, which happened to be ready and waiting for us, and started from the town on a full run. that night, in a miserable posthouse in a miserable village, we found an old billiard-table. it seemed strangely out of place, and i had a great curiosity to know how it had found its way there; but it was twelve o'clock, and all were asleep but the postillion. i can give no account of the rest of the night's work. i had a large cushioned seat of the diligence to myself, certainly the softest bed i had yet had in russia; and when i put my feet out of the window, it was so comfortable that i felt myself in some danger of falling into luxurious habits. at daylight we arrived in a large village, the inhabitants of which were not yet stirring, and the streets were strewed with peasants, grim, yellow-bearded fellows, in sheepskin dresses and caps, lying on their backs asleep, each of them with a log of wood under his head for a pillow. i descended from the diligence, and found that the whole village consisted of a single street, with log-houses on each side, having their gable ends in front; the doors were all open, and i looked in and saw men and women with all their clothes on, pigs, sheep, and children strewed about the floor. [illustration: russian village.] in every house was the image of the panagia, or all holy virgin, or the picture of some tutelary saint, the face only visible, the rest covered with a tin frame, with a lamp or taper burning before it; and regularly as the serf rose he prostrated himself and made his orisons at this domestic shrine. about noon we passed the chateau and grounds of a seigneur; belonging to the chateau was a large church standing in a conspicuous situation, with a green dome, surmounted by the greek cross; and round it were the miserable and filthy habitations of his slaves. entering the village, we saw a spectacle of wretchedness and misery seldom surpassed even on the banks of the nile. the whole population was gathered in the streets, in a state of absolute starvation. the miserable serfs had not raised enough to supply themselves with food, and men of all ages, half-grown boys, and little children were prowling the streets or sitting in the doorways, ravenous with hunger, and waiting for the agent to come down from the chateau and distribute among them bread. i had found in russia many interesting subjects of comparison between that country and my own, but it was with deep humiliation i felt that the most odious feature in that despotic government found a parallel in ours. at this day, with the exception of russia, some of the west india islands, and the republic of the united states, every country in the civilized world can respond to the proud boast of the english common law, that the moment a slave sets foot on her soil he is free. i respect the feelings of others and their vested rights, and would be the last to suffer those feelings or those rights to be wantonly violated; but i do not hesitate to say that, abroad, slavery stands as a dark blot upon our national character. there it will not admit of any palliation; it stands in glaring contrast with the spirit of our free institutions; it belies our words and our hearts; and the american who would be most prompt to repel any calumny upon his country withers under this reproach, and writhes with mortification when the taunt is hurled at the otherwise stainless flag of the free republic. i was forcibly struck with a parallel between the white serfs of the north of europe and african bondsmen at home. the russian boor, generally wanting the comforts which are supplied to the negro on our best-ordered plantations, appeared to me to be not less degraded in intellect, character, and personal bearing. indeed, the marks of physical and personal degradation were so strong, that i was insensibly compelled to abandon certain theories not uncommon among my countrymen at home, in regard to the intrinsic superiority of the white race over all others. perhaps, too, this impression was aided by my having previously met with africans of intelligence and capacity, standing upon a footing of perfect equality as soldiers and officers in the greek army and the sultan's. the serfs of russia differ from slaves with us in the important particular that they belong to the soil, and cannot be sold except with the estate; they may change masters, but cannot be torn from their connexions or their birthplace. one sixth of the whole peasantry of russia, amounting to six or seven millions, belong to the crown, and inhabit the imperial demesne, and pay an annual tax. in particular districts, many have been enfranchised, and become burghers and merchants; and the liberal and enlightened policy of the present emperor is diffusing a more general system of melioration among these subjects of his vast empire. the rest of the serfs belong to the nobles, and are the absolute property and subject to the absolute control of their masters, as much as the cattle on their estates. some of the seigneurs possess from seventy to more than a hundred thousand; and their wealth depends upon the skill and management with which the labour of these serfs is employed. sometimes the seigneur sends the most intelligent to petersburgh or moscow to learn some handicraft, and then employs them on his own estates, hires them out, or allows them to exercise their trade on their own account on payment of an annual sum. and sometimes, too, he gives the serf a passport, under which he is protected all over russia, settles in a city, and engages in trade, and very often accumulates enough to ransom himself and his family. indeed, there are many instances of a serf's acquiring a large property, and even rising to eminence. but he is always subject to the control of his master; and i saw at moscow an old mongik who had acquired a very large fortune, but was still a slave. his master's price for his freedom had advanced with his growing wealth, and the poor serf, unable to bring himself to part with his hard earnings, was then rolling in wealth with a collar round his neck; struggling with the inborn spirit of freedom, and hesitating whether to die a beggar or a slave. the russian serf is obliged to work for his master but three days in the week; the other three he may work for himself on a portion of land assigned to him by law on his master's estate. he is never obliged to work on sunday, and every saint's day or fête day of the church is a holyday. this might be supposed to give him an opportunity of elevating his character and condition; but, wanting the spirit of a free agent, and feeling himself the absolute property of another, he labours grudgingly for his master, and for himself barely enough to supply the rudest necessaries of life and pay his tax to the seigneur. a few rise above their condition, but millions labour like beasts of burden, content with bread to put in their mouths, and never even thinking of freedom. a russian nobleman told me that he believed, if the serfs were all free, he could cultivate his estate to better advantage by hired labour; and i have no doubt a dozen connecticut men would cultivate more ground than a hundred russian serfs, allowing their usual non-working days and holydays. they have no interest in the soil, and the desolate and uncultivated wastes of russia show the truth of the judicious reflection of catharine ii., "that agriculture can never flourish in that nation where the husbandman possesses no property." it is from this great body of peasantry that russia recruits her immense standing army, or, in case of invasion, raises in a moment a vast body of soldiers. every person in russia entitled to hold land is known to the government, as well as the number of peasants on his estate; and, upon receiving notice of an imperial order to that effect, the numbers required by the levy are marched forthwith from every part of the empire to the places of rendezvous appointed. it might be asked, what have these men to fight for? they have no country, and are brought up on immense levels, wanting the rocks, rivers, and mountains that inspire local attachments. it is a singular fact, that, with the russian serf, there is always an unbounded love for him who stands at the head of the system of oppression under which they groan, the emperor, whom they regard as their protector against the oppression of their immediate masters; but to whatever cause it may be ascribed, whether inability to estimate the value of any change in their condition, or a feeling of actual love for the soil on which they were born, during the invasion of napoleon the serfs of russia presented a noble spectacle; and the spirit of devotion which animated the corps of ten thousand in the north extended to the utmost bounds of the empire. they received orders to march from st. petersburgh to meet the advance of the french army; the emperor reviewed them, and is said to have shed tears at their departure. arrived at the place appointed, witgenstein ordered them to fall back to a certain point, but they answered "no; the last promise we made the emperor our father was, that we would never fly before the enemy, and we keep our word." eight thousand of their number died on the spot; and the spirit which animated them fired the serfs throughout the whole empire. the scholar may sneer, but i defy him to point to a nobler page in grecian or roman history. i shall make amends for this long discussion by hurrying on to moscow. we rode hundreds of miles without meeting a hill; the country was bare of trees, and almost everywhere presenting the same appearance. we saw the first disk of the sun peeping out of the earth, watched it while soaring on its daily round, and, without a bush to obstruct the view, saw it sink below the horizon; and woke up at all times of night and saw the stars, "rolling like living cars of light for gods to journey by." the principal and only large towns on our road were orel and toula, the former containing a population of four or five thousand, and presenting an imposing display of churches and monasteries gaudily painted and with gilded domes; the houses were principally of wood, painted yellow. toula is the largest manufacturing town, and is called the sheffield of russia, being particularly celebrated for its cutlery. everywhere the diligence created a great sensation; the knowing ones said it would never do; but at orel one spirited individual said if we would wait three days for him he would go on with us. it can hardly seem credible, in our steamboat and railroad community, that a public conveyance could roll on for seven days and nights, through many villages and towns, toward the capital of an immense empire, and not take in a single way-passenger; but such was the fact; and on the morning of the seventh day, alone, as we started from chioff, we were approaching the burned and rebuilt capital of the czars, moscow with gilded cupolas, the holy moscow, the sanctified city, the jerusalem of russia, beloved of god, and dear to men. chapter iii. moscow.--a severe operation.--an exile by accident.--meeting with an emigré.--a civil stranger.--a spy.--the kremlin.--sepulchres of the czars.--the great bell.--the great gun.--precious relics. at daylight we arrived at the last post; and here, for the first time, we saw evidences of our approach to a great city. four or five travelling-carriages were waiting for horses, some of which had been waiting all night; but our diligence being a "public accommodation," we were preferred, and had the first that came in. we took our places for the last time in the diligence, and passed two or three fine chateaux, our curiosity and interest increasing as we approached, until, at about five versts from moscow, as we reached the summit of a gentle eminence, the whole city broke upon us at one view, situated in the midst of a great plain, and covering an extent of more than thirty versts. moscow is emphatically the city of churches, containing more than six hundred, many of which have five or six domes, with steeples, and spires, and crosses, gilded and connected together with golden chains like those of chioff. its convents, too, are almost innumerable, rivalling the churches in size and magnificence, and even to us, coming directly from the capital of the eastern empire, presenting a most striking and extraordinary appearance. as we passed the barrier, two of the most conspicuous objects on each side were the large greek convents, enclosed by high walls, with noble trees growing above them; and as we rode through the wide and showy streets, the first thing that struck me as strange, and, in this inhospitable climate (always associated in my mind with rude and wintry scenes), as singularly beautiful, was the profusion of plants and flowers, with the remarkable degree of taste and attention given to their cultivation. in greece and turkey i had seen the rarest plants and flowers literally "wasting their sweetness on the desert air;" while here, in the heart of an inhospitable country, every house had a courtyard or garden, and in front a light open portico or veranda, ornamented with plants, and shrubs, and flowers, forced into a glowing though unnatural beauty. the whole appearance of the city is asiatic; and as the exhibition of flowers in front of the better class of houses was almost universal, moscow seemed basking in the mild climate of southern asia, rioting in its brief period of vernal existence, and forgetting that, in a few weeks, a frost would come and cover their beauty with the dreary drapery of winter. at the office of the diligence my companion and myself separated. he went to a hotel kept by an english woman, with english company, and i believe, too, with english comfort, and i rode to the hotel germanica, an old and favourite stopping-place with the russian seigneurs when they come up from their estates in the country. having secured my room, i mounted a drosky and hurried to a bath. riding out to the suburbs, the drosky boy stopped at a large wooden building, pouring forth steam from every chink and crevice. at the entrance stood several half-naked men, one of whom led me to an apartment to undress, and then conducted me to another, in one end of which were a furnace and apparatus for generating steam. i was then familiar with the turkish bath, but the worst i had known was like the breath of the gentle south wind compared with the heat of this apartment. the operator stood me in the middle of the floor, opened the upper door of the stove, and dashed into it a bucketful of water, which sent forth volumes of steam like a thick fog into every part of the room, and then laid me down on a platform about three feet high and rubbed my body with a mop dipped in soap and hot water; then he raised me up, and deluged me with hot water, pouring several tubfuls on my head; then laid me down again, and scrubbed me with soap and water from my head to my heels, long enough, if the thing were possible, to make a blackamoor white; then gave me another sousing with hot water, and another scrubbing with pure water, and then conducted me up a flight of steps to a high platform, stretched me out on a bench within a few feet of the ceiling, and commenced whipping me with twigs of birch, with the leaves on them, dipped in hot water. it was hot as an oven where he laid me down on the bench; the vapour, which almost suffocated me below, ascended to the ceiling, and, finding no avenue of escape, gathered round my devoted body, fairly scalding and blistering me; and when i removed my hands from my face, i felt as if i had carried away my whole profile. i tried to hold out to the end, but i was burning, scorching, and consuming. in agony i cried out to my tormentor to let me up, but he did not understand me, or was loath to let me go, and kept thrashing me with the bunch of twigs until, perfectly desperate, i sprang off the bench, tumbled him over, and descended to the floor. snow, snow, a region of eternal snow seemed paradise; but my tormentor had not done with me; and, as i was hurrying to the door, he dashed over me a tub of cold water. i was so hot that it seemed to hiss as it touched me; he came at me with another, and at that moment i could imagine, what had always seemed a traveller's story, the high satisfaction and perfect safety with which the russian in mid winter rushes from his hot bath and rolls himself in the snow. the grim features of my tormentor relaxed as he saw the change that came over me. i withdrew to my dressing-room, dozed an hour on the settee, and went out a new man. in half an hour i stood in the palace of the czars, within the walls of the kremlin. toward evening i returned to my hotel. in all the large hotels in russia it is the custom for every man to dine in his own apartment. travelling alone, i always avoided this when i could, as, besides my dislike of the thing itself, it prevented my making acquaintances and acquiring such information as i needed in a strange city; and i was particularly averse to dine alone the first day of my arrival at moscow; but it was the etiquette of the house to do so, and as i had a letter of introduction which i intended to deliver, from count woronzow to prince galitzin, the governor of moscow, i was bound to make some sacrifice for the credit of my acquaintance. after the table was spread, however, finding it too severe a trial, i went down stairs and invited myself to dine with my landlord. he was a german of about fifty-five or sixty, tall, stout, with gray hair, a frank, manly expression, and great respectability of appearance and manners; and before the dinner was over i regarded him emphatically as what a frenchman would call _un brave homme_. he had been in russia during the whole of the french invasion, and, among the other incidents of a stirring life, had been sent in exile to siberia; and the curious part of it was, that he was sent there by mistake. rather an awkward mistake, though, as he said, not so bad as being knouted or hanged by mistake; and in his case it turned out a rather interesting adventure. he was taken by the french as a russian spy, and retaken by the russians as a french spy, when, as he said, he did not care a fig for either of them. he was hurried off to siberia, but on the journey succeeded in convincing the officer who escorted the prisoners that there was error in the case, and on his arrival was merely detained in exile, without being put to hard labour, until, through the medium of friends, he had the matter brought before the proper tribunal, and the mistake corrected, when he came back post, in company with a russian officer, smoking his pipe all the way, at the expense of the government. he gave me many interesting particulars in regard to that celebrated country, its mines, the sufferings of the noble exiles; and much also, that was new to me, touching its populousness and wealth, and the comfort and luxury of a residence there. he spoke of tobolsk as a large, gay, and populous city, containing hotels, theatres, and all kinds of places of amusement. the exiles, being many of them of rank, have introduced there all the luxuries of the capital, and life at tobolsk is much the same as life at moscow. as the rage for travelling is excited by hearing from the lips of a traveller stories of the countries he has visited, before dinner was over i found myself infected with a strong disposition for a journey to siberia. small matters, however, produce great changes in the current of a man's feelings, and in a few moments i had entirely forgotten siberia, and was carried directly home. while we were smoking our pipes, an old gentleman entered, of singularly aristocratic appearance, whom my host received with the greatest consideration and respect, addressing him as the marquis de p----. he was a frenchman, an old militaire, and a noble specimen of a race almost extinct; tall, thin, and gray-headed, wearing a double-breasted blue frockcoat, buttoned up to the throat, with a cane in his hand and a red riband in his buttonhole, the decoration of the knights of malta; and when my host introduced me as an american traveller arrived that day in moscow, he welcomed me with more than the usual forms of courtesy, and told me that, far off as it was, and little as he knew of it, he almost regarded america as his own country; that, on the downfall of "the emperor," and in a season of universal scattering, some of his nearest relatives, particularly a sister married to a fellow-soldier and his dearest friend, had taken refuge on the other side of the atlantic; that, eighteen years before, he had met an american secretary of legation who knew them, but since that time he had not heard from them, and did not know whether they were living or dead. i asked him the name, with very little expectation of being able to give him any information about them; and it was with no small degree of pleasure that i found i was particularly acquainted with the condition of his relatives. his brother-in-law and old comrade was dead, but i brought him a satisfaction to which he had long been a stranger, by telling him that his sister was still living, occupying a large property in a neighbouring state, surrounded by a family of children, in character and standing ranking among the first in our country. they were intimately connected with the family of one of my most intimate friends, letters to and from different members of which had very often passed through my hands; i knew the names of all his nieces, and personally one of his nephews, a lieutenant, and one of the most promising officers in our navy; and about a year before i had accompanied the friends to whom i refer on a visit to these relatives. at philadelphia i left them under the charge of the lieutenant; and on my return from washington, according to agreement, the lieutenant came down to an intersecting point on the railroad to take me home with him; but circumstances prevented my going, and much as i regretted my disappointment then, i regretted it far more now, as otherwise i might have gladdened the old man's heart by telling him that within a year i had seen his sister. his own history was brief. born to the possession of rank and fortune, and having won honours and decorations by long service in the field, and risen to the rank of inspector-general in the army of napoleon, he was taken in the campaign against russia in eighteen hundred and thirteen, and sent a prisoner of war to moscow, where he had remained ever since. immediately on their arrival, his brother-in-law and sister had written to him from america, telling him that, with the wreck of their fortune, they had purchased a large landed estate, and begging him to come over and share their abundance; but, as he told me, he scorned to eat the bread of idleness and dependance; manfully turned to account the advantages of an accomplished education; and now, at the advanced age of seventy-eight, sustained himself by his pencil, an honoured guest at every table, and respected by the most distinguished inhabitants of moscow. he had accidentally given up his rooms a few days before, and was residing temporarily at the same hotel with myself. he was much agitated by this unexpected intelligence from friends he never expected to hear of more, and left me with a promise to call upon me early in the morning. too much interested myself to go back to siberia with my host, i went to the french theatre. the play was some little every-day thing, and the house but thinly attended. i took my seat in the pit, which was on a dead level, instead of ascending from the stage, containing large cushioned seats, and sprinkled with officers talking with ladies in the boxes above. at the end of the first act, as whole benches were empty above me, i moved up to put myself nearer a pair of bright eyes that were beaming from the box upon a pair of epaulettes below. i was hardly seated before one of the understrappers came up and whispered, or rather muttered, something in my ear. as i did not understand a word he said, and his manner was exceedingly rude and ungracious, i turned my back upon him and looked at the lady with the bright eyes. the fellow continued muttering in my ear, and i began to be seriously annoyed and indignant, when a frenchman sitting two or three benches behind me came up, and, in an imperious tone, ordered him away. he then cursed the russians as a set of canaille, from the greatest seigneurs to the lowest serf; remarked that he saw i was a stranger, and, with the easy freedom of a man of the world, took a seat by my side. he was above six feet high, about thirty-three or thirty-four years of age, in robust health, with a large pair of whiskers, rather overdressed, and of manners good, though somewhat imperious and bordering on the swagger. he seemed perfectly at home in the theatre; knew all the actors and, before the evening was over, offered to introduce me to all the actresses. i was under obligations to him, if not for the last offer, at least for relieving me from the impertinent doorkeeper; and, when the curtain fell, accepted his invitation to go to a restaurant and take a petit souper. i accompanied him to the restaurant au coin du pont des mareschaux, which i afterward ascertained to be the first in moscow. he was perfectly at home with the carte, knew exactly what to order, and, in fact, he was a man of great general information, perfectly familiar with all continental europe, geographically and politically, and particularly at home in moscow; and he offered his services in showing me all that was curious and interesting. we sat together more than two hours, and in our rambling and discursive conversation i could not help remarking that he seemed particularly fond of railing at the government, its tyranny and despotism, and appealing to me, as an american and a liberal, to sustain him. i did not think anything of it then, though in a soldier under charles the tenth, driven out, as he said, by the revolution of july, it was rather strange; but, at any rate, either from a spirit of contradiction or because i had really a good feeling toward everything in russia, i disagreed with him throughout; he took upon himself the whole honours of the entertainment, scolded the servants, called in the landlord, and, as i observed, after a few words with him, went out without paying. i saw that the landlord knew him, and that there was something constrained and peculiar in his behaviour. i must confess, however, that i did not notice these things at the time so clearly as when i was induced to recur to them by after circumstances, for we went out of the house the best friends in the world; and, as it was then raining, we took a drosky and rode home together, with our arms around each other's neck, and my cloak thrown over us both. about two o'clock, in a heavy rain, i stopped at my hotel, bade him good-night, and lent him my cloak to go home with. the reader, perhaps, smiles at my simplicity, but he is wrong in his conjecture; my cloak came home the next morning, and was my companion and only covering many a night afterward. my friend followed it, sat with me a few minutes, and was taking his departure, having made an appointment to call for me at twelve o'clock, when there was a knock at the door, and my friend the marquis entered. i presented them to each other, and the latter was in the act of bending his body with the formality of a gentleman of the old school, when he caught a full view of my friend of the theatre, and, breaking off his unfinished bow, recovered his erect position, and staring from him to me, and from me to him, seemed to demand an explanation. i had no explanation to give, nor had my friend, who, cocking his hat on one side, and brushing by the marquis with more than his usual swagger, stamped down stairs. the marquis looked after him till he was at the foot of the stairs, and then turning to me, asked how, in the name of wonder, i had already contrived to pick up such an acquaintance. i told him the history of our meeting at the theatre, our supper at the restaurant, and our loving ride home, to which he listened with breathless attention; and after making me tax my memory for the particulars of the conversation at the restaurant, told me that my friend was a disgrace to his country; that he had, no doubt, been obliged to leave france for some rascality, and was now entertained by the emperor of russia as a _spy_, particularly upon his own countrymen; that he was well fed and clothed, and had the entrée of all the theatres and public houses without paying. with the earnestness of a man long used to a despotic government, and to seeing slight offences visited with terrible punishments, the marquis congratulated me upon not having fallen into what he called the snare laid for me. it is almost impossible for an american to believe that even in russia he incurs any risk in speaking what he thinks; he is apt to regard the stories of summary punishment for freedom of speech as bugbears or bygone things. in my own case, even when men looked cautiously around the room and then spoke in whispers, i could not believe that there was any danger. still i had become prudent enough not to talk with any unnecessary indiscretion of the constituted authorities, and, even in writing home to my friends, not to say anything that could prejudice me if the letter should fall into wrong hands; and now, although i did not consider that i had run any great risk, i was rather pleased that i had said nothing exceptionable; and though i had no apprehension, particularly since i had been put on my guard, i determined to drop my new acquaintance, and did not consider myself bound to observe any great courtesy in the mode of doing it. i had had a supper, which it was my original intention to return with a dinner; but i did not consider myself under any obligation to him for civilities shown in the exercise of his despicable calling. the first time i met him i made no apology for having been out when he called according to appointment, and did not ask him to come again. i continued to meet him in the streets and at every public place, but our greetings became colder and colder, and the day before i left moscow we brushed against each other without speaking at all. so much for acquaintances who, after an intimacy of three or four hours, had ridden home under the same cloak, with their arms around each other's neck. but to return: as soon as the marquis left me i again went to the kremlin, to me the great, i had almost said the only, object of interest in moscow. i always detested a cicerone; his bowing, fawning, and prating annoyed me; and all through italy, with my map and guide-book under my arm, i was in the habit of rambling about alone. i did the same at moscow, and again walked to the kremlin unaccompanied. unlike many of the places i had visited, all the interest i had felt in looking forward to the kremlin was increased when i stood within its walls. i had thought of it as the rude and barbarous palace of the czars; but i found it one of the most extraordinary, beautiful, and magnificent objects i ever beheld. i rambled over it several times with admiration, without attempting to comprehend it all. its commanding situation on the banks of the moskwa river; its high and venerable walls; its numerous battlements, towers, and steeples; its magnificent and gorgeous palaces; its cathedrals, churches, monasteries, and belfries, with their gilded, coppered, and tin-plated domes; its mixture of barbarism and decay, magnificence and ruins; its strong contrast of architecture, including the tartarian, hindoo, chinese, and gothic; and, rising above all, the lofty tower of ivan veliki, with its golden ball reflecting the sun with dazzling brilliancy, all together exhibited a beauty, grandeur, and magnificence strange and indescribable. [illustration: the kremlin.] the kremlin is "the heart" and "sacred place" of moscow, once the old fortress of the tartars, and now the centre of the modern city. it is nearly triangular in form, enclosed by a high brick wall painted white, and nearly two miles in extent, and is in itself a city. it has five gates, at four of which there are high watch-towers. the fifth is "our saviour's," or the holy gate, through whose awe-commanding portals no male, not even the emperor and autocrat of all the russias, can pass except with uncovered head and bended body. bareheaded, i entered by this gate, and passed on to a noble esplanade, commanding one of the most interesting views of moscow, and having in front the range of palaces of the czars. i shall not attempt to describe these palaces. they are a combination of every variety of taste and every order of architecture, grecian, gothic, italian, tartar, and hindoo, rude, fanciful, grotesque, gorgeous, magnificent, and beautiful. the churches, monasteries, arsenals, museum, and public buildings are erected with no attempt at regularity of design, and in the same wild confusion of architecture. there are no regular streets, but three open places or squares, and abundance of room for carriages and foot passengers, with which, in summer afternoons, it is always thronged. having strolled for some time about the kremlin, i entered the cathedral of the assumption, the most splendid church in moscow. it was founded in , and rebuilt in . it is loaded with gorgeous and extravagant ornaments. the iconastos or screen which divides the sanctuary from the body of the church is in many parts covered with plates of solid silver and gold, richly and finely wrought. on the walls are painted the images of more than two thousand three hundred saints, some at full length and some of a colossal size, and the whole interior seems illuminated with gold, of which more than two hundred and ten thousand leaves have been employed in embellishing it. from the centre of the roof is suspended a crown of massive silver, with forty-eight chandeliers, all in a single piece, and weighing nearly three thousand pounds. besides the portraits of saints and martyrs, there are portraits of the old historians, whose names, to prevent confusion, are attached to their resemblances, as aristotle, anarcharsis, thucydides, plutarch, &c. some of the paintings on wood could not fail to delight an antiquary, inasmuch as every vestige of paint being obliterated, there is abundance of room for speculation as to their age and character. there is also an image of the virgin, painted by st. luke's own hand!!! the face dark, almost black, the head encircled with a glory of precious stones, and the hands and the body gilded. it is reverenced for its miraculous powers, guarded with great care, and enclosed within a large silver covering, which is never removed but on great religious festivals, or on payment of a ruble to the verger. here, too, is a nail from the cross, a robe of our saviour's, and part of one of the virgin's!!! and here, too, are the tombs of the church patriarchs, one of whom, st. phillippe, honoured by a silver monument, dared to say to john the terrible, "we respect you as an image of the divinity, but as a man you partake of the dust of the earth." the cathedral of the assumption is honoured as the place where the sovereigns of russia are crowned, and there is but a step from their throne to their grave, for near it is the cathedral of the archangel michael, the ancient burial-place where, in raised sepulchres, lie the bodies of the czars, from the time when moscow became the seat of empire until the close of the seventeenth century. the bodies rest in raised tombs or sepulchres, each covered with a velvet pall, and having on it a silver plate, bearing the name of the occupant and the date of his decease. close by is an odd-looking church, constantly thronged with devotees; a humble structure, said to be the oldest christian church in moscow. it was built in the desert, before moscow was thought of, and its walls are strong enough to last till the gorgeous city shall become a desert again. after strolling through the churches i ascended the tower of ivan veliki, or john the great, the first of the czars. it is about two hundred and seventy feet high, and contains thirty-three bells, the smallest weighing seven thousand, and the largest more than one hundred and twenty-four thousand pounds english. on festivals they are all tolled together, the muscovites being extremely fond of ivan veliki's music. this celebrated tower rises above every other object in the kremlin, and its large gilded dome and cross are conspicuous from every part of the city. from its top i had the finest view of moscow and the surrounding country, and, perhaps, the finest panoramic view in the world. hundreds of churches were in sight, with their almost innumerable domes, and spires, and crosses glittering with gold, tartaric battlements, terraces, balconies, and ramparts. gothic steeples, grecian columns, the star, the crescent, and the cross, palaces, mosques, and tartar temples, pagodas, pavilions, and verandas, monasteries peeping out over high walls and among noble trees, the stream of the moskwa winding prettily below, and in the distance the sparrow hills, on which the french army first made its appearance on the invasion of moscow. it may seem strange, but i did not feel myself a stranger on the top of that tower. thousands of miles away i had read its history. i knew that the magnificent city at my feet had been a sheet of fire, and that, when napoleon fled by the light of its conflagration, a dreadful explosion shook to their foundation the sacred precincts of the kremlin, and rent from its base to its top the lofty tower of ivan. i descended, and the custode conducted me to another well-known object, the great bell, the largest, and the wonder of the world. it is only a short distance from the foot of the tower, in an excavation under ground, accessible by a trapdoor, like the covered mouth of a well. i descended by a broken ladder, and can hardly explain to myself the curiosity and interest with which i examined this monstrous piece of metal. i have no knowledge of or taste for mechanics, and no particular penchant for bells, even when spelled with an additional e; but i knew all about this one, and it added wonderfully to the interest with which i strolled through the kremlin, that, from accidental circumstances, i was familiar with every object within its walls. i impeach, no doubt, my classical taste, but, before seeing either, i had dwelt with more interest upon the kremlin, and knew more of it, than of the acropolis at athens; and i stood at the foot of the great bell almost with a feeling of reverence. its perpendicular height is twenty-one feet four inches, and the extreme thickness of the metal twenty-three inches; the length of the clapper is fourteen feet, the greatest circumference sixty-seven feet four inches, its weight upward of four hundred thousand pounds english, and its cost has been estimated at more than three hundred and sixty-five thousand pounds sterling. there is some question whether this immense bell was ever hung, but it is supposed that it was suspended by a great number of beams and crossbeams; that it was rung by forty or fifty men, one half on either side, who pulled the clapper by means of ropes, and that the sound amazed and deafened the inhabitants. on one side is a crack large enough to admit the figure of a man. i went inside and called aloud, and received an echo like the reverberations of thunder. [illustration: the great bell.] besides the great bell, there is another noisy musical instrument, namely, the great gun, like the bell, the largest in the world, being a four thousand three hundred and twenty pounder. it is sixteen feet long, and the diameter of its calibre nearly three feet. i jumped in and turned round in its mouth, and sat upright, my head not reaching the top. all around were planted cannon taken from the french in their unhappy expedition against the capital of russia; immense fieldpieces, whose throats once poured their iron hail against the walls within which they now repose as trophies. i was attracted by a crowd at the door of one of the principal buildings, which i found to be the treasury, containing what a russian prizes as his birthright, the repository of sacred heirlooms; the doorkeeper demanded a permit, and i answered him with rubles and entered the treasury. on the first floor are the ancient imperial carriages; large, heavy, and extraordinary vehicles, covered with carving and gilding, and having large plate glass windows; among them was an enormous sleigh, carved and profusely gilded, and containing a long table with cushioned seats on each side; all together, these vehicles were most primitive and asiatic in appearance, and each one had some long and interesting story connected with it. i ascended by a noble staircase to the _belle etage_, a gallery composed of five parts, in the first of which are the portraits of all the emperors and czars and their wives, in the exact costume of the times in which they lived; in another is a model of a palace projected by the empress catharine to unite the whole kremlin under one roof, having a circumference of two miles, and make of it one magnificent palace; if it had been completed according to the plan, this palace would probably have surpassed the temple of solomon or any of the seven wonders of the world. in another is a collection of precious relics, such as the crowns worn by the different emperors and czars, loaded with precious stones; the dresses worn at their marriages; the canopies under which the emperors are married, surmounted by magnificent plumes; two canopies of red velvet, studded with gold, and a throne with two seats. the crown of prince vladimir is surmounted by a golden cross, and ornamented with pearls and precious stones, and, until the time of peter the great, was used to crown the czars; the crown of the conquered kingdom of cazan was placed there by the victorious hands of john vassilivitch. besides these were the crowns of the conquered countries of astrachan and siberia. that of john alexius has eight hundred and eighty-one diamonds, and under the cross which surmounts it is an immense ruby. there were also the crown of peter the great, containing eight hundred and forty-seven diamonds; that of catharine the first, his widow, containing two thousand five hundred and thirty-six fine diamonds, to which the empress anne added a ruby of enormous size, bought by the russian ambassador at pekin; and, lastly, the crown of unhappy poland! it is of polished gold, surmounted by a cross, but no other ornament. and there were other emblems of royalty: a throne or greek fauteuil of ivory, in arabesque, presented to john the great by the ambassadors who accompanied from rome to moscow the princess sophia, whom he had demanded in marriage. she was the daughter of thomas paleologus porphrygenitus brother of constantine paleologus, who died in fourteen hundred and fifty-three, after seeing his empire fall into the hands of the turks. by this marriage john considered himself the heir of constantine, and took the title of czar, meaning cæsar (this is one of the derivations of the name), and thus the emperor and autocrat of all the russias has the fairest claim to the throne of the cæsars, and, consequently, has always had an eye upon constantinople; then there are the throne of boris, adorned with two thousand seven hundred and sixty turquoises and other precious stones; that of michel, containing eight thousand eight hundred and twenty-four precious stones; that of alexius, containing eight hundred and seventy-six diamonds, one thousand two hundred and twenty-four other jewels, and many pearls, bought of a company of merchants trafficking to ispahan; the throne of the czars john and peter, made of massive silver, separated in the middle, the back a cloth of gold, concealing a hole through which the czarina used to dictate answers to the foreign ambassadors; and, lastly, the throne of poland! in the armory are specimens of ancient armour, the workmanship of every age and nation; coats of mail, sabres adorned with jewels, swords, batons, crosses in armour, imperial robes, ermines in abundance, and, finally, the clothes in which peter the great worked at saardam, including his old boots, from which it appears that he had considerable of a foot. these memorials were all interesting, and i wandered through the apartments till ordered out by the footman, when i returned to my hotel to meet my old friend the marquis, who was engaged to dine with me. at his suggestion we went to a new restaurant, patronized by a different set of people from those who frequented the restaurant au coin du pont des mareschaux, being chiefly frenchmen, manufacturers, and small merchants of various kinds, who, while they detested the country, found it a profitable business to introduce parisian luxuries and refinements among the barbarous russians. a party of about twenty sat at a long table, and relieved the severity of exile by talking of their beautiful and beloved france; many of them were old militaires; and my octogenarian friend, as a soldier distinguished under the empire, and identified with the glory of the french arms, was treated with a consideration and respect honourable to them and flattering to himself. at another table was another circle of strangers, composed almost exclusively of swiss, forming here, as elsewhere, one of the most valuable parts of the foreign population; keeping alive by intercourse with each other the recollections of home, and looking to the time when, with the profits of successful industry, they might return to their wild and beloved native mountains. "dear is that hill to which his soul conforms, and dear that cliff which lifts him to the storms." before we rose from table my friend of the theatre came in and took his seat at one end; he talked and laughed louder than any one else, and was received generally with an outward appearance of cordiality; but the old marquis could not endure his presence. he said he had become too old to learn, and it was too late in life to temporize with dishonour; that he did not blame his countrymen; fair words cost nothing, and it was not worth their while wilfully to make an enemy who would always be on their haunches; but as to himself, he had but a few years to live, and he would not sully the last moments of his life by tolerating a man whom he regarded as a disgrace to his country. we rose from the table, the old marquis leaning on my arm, and pouring in my ears his honest indignation at the disgraceful character of his countryman, and proceeded to the kitaigorod, or chinese town, the division immediately encircling the kremlin. it is enclosed by a wall with battlements, towers, and gates; is handsomely and compactly built, with wide, clean, and regular streets, and thronged with every variety of people, greeks, turks, tartars, cossacks, chinese, muscovites, french, italians, poles, and germans, in the costumes of their respective nations. the quarter is entirely russian, and i did not find in the shops a single person who could speak any language but russian. in one of them, where i was conducted by the marquis, i found the old mongik to whom i before referred, who could not agree with his master for the price of his ransom. the principal shops resemble the bazars in the east, though they are far superior even to those in constantinople, being built of stone, and generally in the form of arcades. they are well filled with every description of asiatic goods; and some of them, particularly their tea, and tobacco, and pipe shops, are models of propriety and cleanliness. the façade of the great bazar or market is very imposing, resting the whole length on corinthian columns. it fronts on a noble square, bounded on the opposite side by the white walls of the kremlin, and contains six thousand "bargaining shops." the merchants live at a distance, and, on leaving their shops at sundown, each of them winds a piece of cord round the padlock of his door, and seals it with soft wax; a seal being with the russians more sacred than a lock. in another section of the kitaigorod is the finest part of the city, containing the hotels and residences of the nobles, many of which are truly magnificent. the hotel at which i put up would in italy be called a palace. as we moved slowly along the street by the pont des mareschaux, we discoursed of the terrible inroads at this moment making by the french in the capital of the north, almost every shop having an inviting sign of nouveautés from paris. foiled in their attempt with the bayonet, they are now advancing with apparently more feeble but far more insidious and fatal weapons; and the rugged russian, whom french arms could not conquer, bows to the supremacy of the french modistes and artistes, and quietly wears the livery of the great mistress of fashion. chapter iv. the drosky.--salle des nobles.--russian gaming.--gastronomy.--pedroski.--a sunday in moscow.--a gipsy belle.--tea drinking.--the emperor's garden.--retrospective. early the next morning i mounted a drosky and rode to a celebrated garden or springs, furnished with every description of mineral water. i have several times spoken of the drosky. this may be called the russian national vehicle, for it is found all over russia, and nowhere else that i know of, except at warsaw, where it was introduced by its russian conquerors. it is on four wheels, with a long cushioned seat running lengthwise, on which the rider sits astride as on horseback, and so low that he can mount from the street. it is drawn by two horses; one in shafts, with a high arched bow over the neck called the douga, and the other, called "le furieux," in traces alongside, this last being trained to curb his neck and canter while the shaft-horse trots. the seat is long enough for two besides the driver, the riders sitting with their feet on different sides; or sometimes there is a cross-seat behind, on which the riders sit, with their faces to the horses, and the drosky boy, always dressed in a long surtout, with a bell-crowned hat turned up at the sides, sits on the end. but to return to the springs. the waters are prepared under the direction of medical men, who have the chymical analysis of all the principal mineral waters known, and manufacture them to order. as is universally the case in russia, where there is any attempt at style, the establishment is upon a magnificent scale. the building contains a room perhaps one hundred and fifty feet long, with a clean and highly-polished floor, large looking-glasses, elegant sofas, and mahogany chairs and tables. the windows open upon a balcony extending along the whole front, which is furnished with tables and rustic chairs, and opens upon a large garden ornamented with gravel-walks, trees, and the most rare and valuable plants and flowers, at the time of my visit in full bloom. every morning, from sunrise till noon, crowds of people, and particularly the nobility and higher classes, frequent this establishment, and that morning there was a larger collection than usual. russian hospitality is conspicuous at a place like this. a stranger, instead of being avoided, is sought out; and after one or two promenades i was accosted by more than one gentleman, ready to show me every civility. in the long room and on the balconies, scattered about at the different tables, i saw the gourmand who had distended his stomach almost to bursting, and near him the gaunt and bilious dyspeptic, drinking their favourite waters; the dashing officer and the blooming girl, the lover and coquette, and, in short, all the style and fashion of moscow, their eyes occasionally turning to the long mirrors, and then singly, in pairs and in groups, strolling gently through the gardens, enjoying the music that was poured forth from hidden arbours. returning through a street not far from my hotel, i saw a line of carriages, and gentlemen and ladies passing under a light arcade, which formed the entrance to a large building. i joined the throng, and was put back by the doorkeeper because i was not in a dresscoat. i ran to my hotel and changed my frockcoat, but now i had no biglietto of entrance. a few rubles obviated this difficulty and admitted me to the _salle des nobles_, a magnificent apartment surrounded by a colonnade, capable of containing more than three thousand persons, and said to be the finest ballroom in europe. it belongs to a club of the nobility, and none are admitted as members but nobles. all games of hazard are forbidden; but, nevertheless, all games of hazard are played. indeed, among the "on dits" which a traveller picks up, gambling is said to be the great vice of russia. young men who have not two rubles to rub together will bet thousands; and, when all other resources fail, the dishonourable will cheat, but the delicate-minded will kill themselves. it is not uncommon for a young man to say at the cardtable over night, "i must shoot myself to-morrow;" and he is as good as his word. the salle was open for a few days, as a sort of fair, for the exhibition of specimens of russian manufacture; and, besides tables, workboxes, &c., there were some of the finest living specimens of genuine russian men and women that i had yet seen, though not to be compared, as a russian officer said, to whom i made the remark, with the exhibition of the same specimens in the waltz and mazourka, when the salle was lighted up and decorated for a ball. i returned to my hotel, where i found my old friend the marquis waiting, according to appointment, to dine with me. he would have accompanied me everywhere, but i saw that he suffered from the exertion, and would not allow it. meeting with me had struck a chord that had not been touched for years, and he was never tired of talking of his friends in america. every morning he breakfasted in my room, and we dined together every day. we went to the restaurant where i had supped with my friend of the theatre. the saloon was crowded, and at a table next us sat a seigneur, who was dining upon a delicacy that will surprise the reader, viz., one of his own female slaves, a very pretty girl, whom he had hired to the keeper of the restaurant for her maintenance and a dinner a volonté per annum for himself. this was the second time he had dined on her account, and she was then waiting upon him; a pretty, modest, delicate-looking girl, and the old noble seemed never to know when he had enough of her. we left him gloating over still untasted dishes, and apparently mourning that human ability could hold out no longer. in going out my old friend, in homely but pithy phrase, said the only difference between a russian seigneur and a russian serf is, that the one wears his shirt inside his trousers and the other outside; but my friend spoke with the prejudices of a soldier of france aggravated by more than twenty years of exile. so far as my observation extended, the higher classes are rather extraordinary for talent and acquirements. their government is unfortunate for the development and exercise of abilities. they have none of the learned profession; merchandise is disgraceful, and the army is the only field. with an ardent love of country and an ambition to distinguish himself, every nobleman becomes a soldier, and there is hardly an old or middle-aged individual of this class who was not in arms to repel the invasion of napoleon, and hardly a young man who did not serve lately in a less noble cause, the campaign in poland. the consequence of service in the army seems to have been generally a passion for display and expensive living, which sent them back to their estates, after their terms of service expired, over head and ears in debt. unable to come often to the cities, and obliged to live at their chateaux, deprived of all society, surrounded only by slaves, and feeling the want of the excitement incident to a military life, many of them become great gourmands, or rather, as my french friend said, gluttons. they do not eat, said he, they swallow; and the manner in which, with the true spirit of a frenchman who still remembered the cuisine of the palais royal, he commented upon their eating entremets, hors d'oeuvres, rotis, and desserts all pellmell, would have formed a proper episode to major hamilton's chapter upon americans eating eggs out of wineglasses. the old marquis, although he retained all his french prejudices against the russians, and always asserted, as the russians themselves admit, that, but for the early setting in of winter, napoleon would have conquered russia, allowed them the virtue of unbounded hospitality, and enumerated several principal families at whose tables he could at any time take a seat without any express invitation, and with whom he was always sure of being a welcome guest; and he mentioned the case of a compatriot who for years had a place regularly reserved for him at the table of a seigneur, which he took whenever he pleased without any questions being asked, until, having stayed away longer than usual, the seigneur sent to inquire for him, and learned that he was dead. but to return. toward evening i parted with the marquis, mounted a drosky, and rode to the country theatre at pedroski. pedroski is a place dear to the heart of every russian, having been the favourite residence of peter the great, to whom russia owes its existence among civilized nations. it is about three versts from the barrier, on the st. petersburgh road. the st. petersburgh gate is a very imposing piece of architecture. six spirited horses rest lightly upon the top, like the brazen horses at st. mark's in venice. a wide road, divided into avenues for carriages and pedestrians, gravelled and lined with trees, leads from the gate. the chateau is an old and singular, but interesting building of red brick, with a green dome and white cornices, and enclosed by a circular wall flanked with turrets. in the plain in front two regiments of cossack cavalry were going through their exercises. the grounds around the chateau are very extensive, handsomely laid out for carriages and promenades, public and retired, to suit every taste. the principal promenade is about a mile in length, through a forest of majestic old trees. on each side is a handsome footpath of continual shade; and sometimes almost completely hidden by the luxuriant foliage are beautiful little summer-houses, abundantly supplied with all kinds of refreshments. the theatre is at a little distance from the extreme end of the great promenade, a plain and unpretending building; and this and the grand operahouse are the only theatres i have seen built like ours, merely with continued rows of seats, and not partitioned off into private boxes. the opera was some little russian piece, and was followed by the grand ballet, the revolt of the seraglio. he who goes to russia expecting to see a people just emerging from a state of barbarism, will often be astonished to find himself suddenly in a scene of parisian elegance and refinement; and in no place will he feel this wonder more than in an operahouse at moscow. the house was rather full, and contained more of the russian nobility than i had yet seen at any one time. they were well dressed, adorned with stars and ribands, and, as a class of men, the "biggest in the round" i ever saw. orders and titles of nobility, by-the-way, are given with a liberality which makes them of no value; and all over russia princes are as plenty as pickpockets in london. the seigneurs of russia have jumped over all intermediate grades of civilization, and plunged at once into the luxuries of metropolitan life. the ballet was, of course, inferior to that of paris or london, but it is speaking in no mean praise of it to say that at this country theatre it might be made a subject of comparison. the dancers were the prettiest, the most interesting, and, what i was particularly struck with, the most modest looking i ever saw on the stage. it was melancholy to look at those beautiful girls, who, amid the glare and glitter of the stage, and in the graceful movements of the dance, were perfectly captivating and entrancing, and who, in the shades of domestic life, might fill the measure of man's happiness on earth, and know them to be slaves. the whole troop belongs to the emperor. they are selected when young with reference to their beauty and talents, and are brought up with great care and expense for the stage. with light fairy figures, seeming rather spirits than corporeal substances, and trained to inspire admiration and love, they can never give way to these feelings themselves, for their affections and marriages are regulated entirely by the manager's convenience. what though they are taken from the very poorest class of life, leaving their parents, their brothers and sisters, the tenants of miserable cabins, oppressed and vilified, and cold and hungry, while they are rolling in luxuries. a chain does not gall the less because it is gilded. raised from the lot to which they were born, taught ideas they would never have known, they but feel more sensibly the weight of their bonds; and the veriest sylph, whose graceful movements have brought down the loudest thunders of applause, and whose little heart flutters with the admiration she has excited, would probably give all her shortlived triumph for the privilege of bestowing that little flutterer where it would be loved and cherished. there was one among them whom i long remembered. i followed her with my eyes till the curtain fell and left a blank around me. i saw her go out, and afterward she passed me in one of a long train of dark blue carriages belonging to the direction, in which they are carried about like merchandise from theatre to theatre, but, like many other bright visions that broke upon me for a moment, i never saw her again. at about eleven i left the steps of the theatre to return home. it was a most magnificent night, or, rather, it is almost profanation to call it by so black a name, for in that bright northern climate the day seemed to linger, unwilling to give place before the shades of night. i strolled on alone, wrapped in lonely but not melancholy meditations; the carriages rolled rapidly by me, and i was almost the last of the throng that entered the gate of moscow. a sunday at moscow. to one who had for a long time been a stranger to the sound of the church-going bell, few things could be more interesting than a sunday at moscow. any one who has rambled along the maritime alps, and has heard from some lofty eminence the convent bell ringing for matins, vespers, and midnight prayers, will long remember the sweet yet melancholy sounds. to me there is always something touching in the sound of the church-going bell; touching in its own notes, but far more so in its associations. and these feelings were exceedingly fresh when i awoke on sunday in the holy city of moscow. in greece and turkey there are no bells; in russia they are almost innumerable, but this was the first time i had happened to pass the sabbath in a city. i lay and listened, almost fearing to move lest i should hush the sounds; thoughts of home came over me; of the day of rest, of the gathering for church, and the greeting of friends at the church door. but he who has never heard the ringing of bells at moscow does not know its music. imagine a city containing more than six hundred churches and innumerable convents, all with bells, and these all sounding together, from the sharp, quick hammer-note, to the loudest, deepest peals that ever broke and lingered on the ear, struck at long intervals, and swelling on the air as if unwilling to die away. i rose and threw open my window, dressed myself, and after breakfast, joining the throng called to their respective churches by their well-known bells, i went to what is called the english chapel, where, for the first time in many months, i joined in a regular church service, and listened to an orthodox sermon. i was surprised to see so large a congregation, though i remarked among them many english governesses with children, the english language being at that moment the rage among the russians, and multitudes of cast-off chambermaids adventuring thither to teach the rising russian nobility the beauties of the english tongue. all over the continent sunday is the great day for observing national manners and customs. i dined at an early hour with my friend the marquis, and, under his escort, mounting a drosky, rode to a great promenade of the people called _l'allée des peuples_. it lies outside the barrier, and beyond the state prisons, where the exiles for siberia are confined, on the land of count schremetow, the richest nobleman in russia, having one hundred and thirty thousand slaves on his estate; the chateau is about eight versts from the city, and a noble road through his own land leads from the barrier to his door. this promenade is the great rendezvous of the people; that is, of the merchants and shopkeepers of moscow. the promenade is simply a large piece of ground ornamented with noble trees, and provided with everything necessary for the enjoyment of all the national amusements, among which the russian mountain is the favourite; and refreshments were distributed in great abundance. soldiers were stationed at different points to preserve order, and the people seemed all cheerful and happy; but the life and soul of the place were the bohemian or gipsy girls. wherever they moved, a crowd gathered round them. they were the first i had seen of this extraordinary people. coming no one knows whence, and living no one knows how, wanderers from their birth, and with a history enveloped in doubt, it was impossible to mistake the dark complexion and piercing coal-black eyes of the gipsy women. the men were nowhere to be seen, nor were there any old women with them; and these young girls, well dressed, though, in general, with nothing peculiar in their costume, moved about in parties of five or six, singing, playing, and dancing to admiring crowds. one of them, with a red silk cloak trimmed with gold, and a gold band round her hair, struck me as the very _beau ideal_ of a gipsy queen. recognising me as a stranger, she stopped just in front of me, struck her castanets and danced, at the same time directing the movements of her companions, who formed a circle around me. there was a beauty in her face, combined with intelligence and spirit, that riveted my attention, and when she spoke her eyes seemed to read me through. i ought, perhaps, to be ashamed of it, but in all my wanderings i never regretted so much my ignorance of the language as when it denied me the pleasure of conversing with that gipsy girl. i would fain have known whether her soul did not soar above the scene and the employment in which i found her; whether she was not formed for better things than to display her beautiful person before crowds of boors; but i am sorry to add, that the character of my queen was not above reproach; and, as i had nothing but my character to stand upon in moscow, i was obliged to withdraw from the observation which her attention fixed upon me. leaving my swarthy princess with this melancholy reflection, and leaving the scene of humbler enjoyment, i mounted a drosky, and, depositing my old friend in the suburbs of the city, in half an hour was in another world, in the great promenade of pedroski, the gathering-place of the nobility, where all the rank and fashion of moscow were vying with each other in style and magnificence. the extensive grounds around the old chateau are handsomely disposed and ornamented with trees, but the great carriage promenade is equal to anything i ever saw. it is a straight road, more than a mile in length, through a thick forest of noble trees. for two hours before dark all the equipages in moscow paraded up and down this promenade. these equipages were striking and showy without being handsome, and the russian manner of driving four horses makes a very dashing appearance, the leaders being harnessed with long traces, perhaps twenty feet from the wheel horses, and guided by a lad riding the near leader, the coachman sitting as if nailed to the box, and merely holding the reins. all the rules of good taste, as understood in the capitals of southern europe, were set at defiance; and many a seigneur, who thought he was doing the thing in the very best style, had no idea how much his turnout would have shocked an english whip. but all this extravagance, in my eyes, added much to the effect of the scene; and the star-spangled muscovite who dashed up and down the promenade on horseback, with two calmuc tartars at his heels, attracted more of my attention than the plain gentleman who paced along with his english jockey and quiet elegance of equipment. the stars and decorations of the seigneurs set them off to great advantage; and scores of officers, with their showy uniforms, added brilliancy to the scene, while the footmen made as good an appearance as their masters. on either side of the grand promenade is a walk for foot passengers, and behind this, almost hidden from view by the thick shade of trees, are little cottages, arbours, and tents, furnished with ices and all kinds of refreshments suited to the season. i should have mentioned long since that tea, the very pabulum of all domestic virtues, is the russian's favourite beverage. they say that they have better tea than can be obtained in europe, which they ascribe to the circumstance of its being brought by caravans over land, and saved the exposure of a sea voyage. whether this be the cause or not, if i am any judge they are right as to the superiority of their article; and it was one of the most striking features in the animating scene at pedroski to see family groups distributed about, all over the grounds, under the shade of noble trees, with their large brass urn hissing before them, and taking their tea under the passing gaze of thousands of people with as much unconcern as if by their own firesides. leaving for a moment the thronged promenade, i turned into a thick forest and entered the old chateau of the great peter. there all was solitude; the footman and i had the palace to ourselves. i followed him through the whole range of apartments, in which there was an appearance of staid respectability that quite won my heart, neither of them being any better furnished than one of our oldfashioned country houses. the pomp and show that i saw glittering through the openings in the trees were unknown in the days of the good old peter; the chateau was silent and deserted; the hand that built it was stiff and cold, and the heart that loved it had ceased to beat; old peter was in his grave, and his descendants loved better their splendid palaces on the banks of the neva. when moscow was burning, napoleon fled to this chateau for refuge. i stopped for a moment in the chamber where, by the blaze of the burning city, he dictated his despatches for the capital of france; gave the attendant a ruble, and again mixed with the throng, with whom i rambled up and down the principal promenade, and at eleven o'clock was at my hotel. i ought not to forget the russian ladies; but, after the gay scene at pedroski, it is no disparagement to them if i say that, in my quiet walk home, the dark-eyed gipsy girl was uppermost in my thoughts. the reader may perhaps ask if such is indeed what the traveller finds in russia; "where are the eternal snows that cover the steppes and the immense wastes of that northern empire? that chill the sources of enjoyment, and congeal the very fountains of life?" i answer, they have but just passed by, and they will soon come again; the present is the season of enjoyment; the russians know it to be brief and fleeting, and, like butterflies, unfold themselves to the sun and flutter among the flowers. like them, i made the most of it at moscow. mounted in a drosky, i hurried from church to church, from convent to convent, and from quarter to quarter. but although it is the duty of a traveller to see everything that is to be seen, and although there is a kind of excitement in hurrying from place to place, which he is apt to mistake for pleasure, it is not in this that his real enjoyment is found. his true pleasure is in turning quietly to those things which are interesting to the imagination as well as to the eyes, and so i found myself often turning from the churches and palaces, specimens of architecture and art, to the sainted walls of the kremlin. here were the first and last of my visits; and whenever i sauntered forth without any specific object, perhaps to the neglect of many other places i ought to have seen, my footsteps involuntarily turned thitherward. outside and beneath the walls of the kremlin, and running almost the whole extent of its circumference, are boulevards and a public garden, called the emperor's, made within a few years, and the handsomest thing of the kind in moscow; i am not sure but that i may add anywhere else. i have compared it in my mind to the gardens of the luxembourg and tuileries, and in many respects hold it to be more beautiful. it is more agreeably irregular and undulating in its surface, and has a more rural aspect, and the groves and plants are better arranged, although it has not the statues, lakes, and fountains of the pride of paris. i loved to stroll through this garden, having on one side of me the magnificent buildings of the great russian princes, seigneurs, and merchants, among the finest and most conspicuous of which is the former residence of the unhappy queen of georgia; and on the other side, visible through the foliage of the trees, the white walls of the kremlin, and, towering above them, the domes of the palaces and churches within, and the lofty tower of ivan veliki. thence i loved to stroll to the holy gate of the kremlin. it is a vaulted portal, and over the entrance is a picture, with a lamp constantly burning; and a sentinel is always posted at the gate. i loved to stand by it and see the haughty seigneurs and the degraded serf alike humble themselves on crossing the sacred threshold, and then, with my hat in my hand, follow the footsteps of the venerating russian. once i attempted to brave the interdict, and go in with my head covered; but the soldier at the gate stopped me, and forbade my violating the sacred prohibition. within the walls i wandered about, without any definite object, sometimes entering the great church and beholding for a moment the prostrate russian praying before the image of some saint, or descending to look once more at the great bell, or at other times mounting the tower and gazing at the beautiful panorama of the city. on the last day of my stay in moscow a great crowd drew me to the door of the church, where some fête was in course of celebration, in honour of the birth, marriage, or some other incident in the life of the emperor or empress. the archbishop, a venerable-looking old man, was officiating, and when he came out a double line of men, women, and children was drawn up from the door of the church to his carriage, all pressing forward and struggling to kiss his hands. the crowd dispersed, and i strolled once more through the repository of heirlooms, and imperial reliques and trophies; but, passing by the crowns loaded with jewels, the canopies and thrones adorned with velvet and gold, i paused before the throne of unhappy poland! i have seen great cities desolate and in ruins, magnificent temples buried in the sands of the african desert, and places once teeming with fertility now lying waste and silent; but no monument of fallen greatness ever affected me more than this. it was covered with blue velvet and studded with golden stars. it had been the seat of casimir, and sobieski, and stanislaus augustus. brave men had gathered round it and sworn to defend it, and died in redeeming their pledge. their oaths are registered in heaven, their bodies rest in bloody graves; poland is blotted from the list of nations, and her throne, unspotted with dishonour, brilliant as the stars which glitter on its surface, is exhibited as a russian trophy, before which the stoutest manhood need not blush to drop a tear. toward evening i returned to my favourite place, the porch of the palace of the czars. i seated myself on the step, took out my tablets, and commenced a letter to my friends at home. what should i write? above me was the lofty tower of ivan veliki; below, a solitary soldier, in his gray overcoat, was retiring to a sentry-box to avoid a drizzling rain. his eyes were fixed upon me, and i closed my book. i am not given to musing, but i could not help it. here was the theatre of one of the most extraordinary events in the history of the world. after sixty battles and a march of more than two thousand miles, the grand army of napoleon entered moscow, and found no smoke issuing from a single chimney, nor a muscovite even to gaze upon them from the battlements or walls. moscow was deserted, her magnificent palaces forsaken by their owners, her three hundred thousand inhabitants vanished as if they had never been. silent and amazed, the grand army filed through its desolate streets. approaching the kremlin, a few miserable, ferocious, and intoxicated wretches, left behind as a savage token of the national hatred, poured a volley of musketry from the battlements. at midnight the flames broke out in the city; napoleon, driven from his quarters in the suburbs, hurried to the kremlin, ascended the steps, and entered the door at which i sat. for two days the french soldiers laboured to repress the fierce attempts to burn the city. russian police-officers were seen stirring up the fire with tarred lances; hideous-looking men and women, covered with rags, were wandering like demons amid the flames, armed with torches, and striving to spread the conflagration. at midnight again the whole city was in a blaze; and while the roof of the kremlin was on fire, and the panes of the window against which he leaned were burning to the touch, napoleon watched the course of the flames and exclaimed, "what a tremendous spectacle! these are scythians indeed." amid volumes of smoke and fire, his eyes blinded by the intense heat, and his hands burned in shielding his face from its fury, and traversing streets arched with fire, he escaped from the burning city. russia is not classic ground. it does not stand before us covered with the shadow of great men's deeds. a few centuries ago it was overrun by wandering tribes of barbarians; but what is there in those lands which stand forth on the pages of history, crowned with the glory of their ancient deeds, that, for extraordinary daring, for terrible sublimity, and undaunted patriotism, exceeds the burning of moscow. neither marathon, nor thermopylæ, nor the battle of the horatii, nor the defence of cocles, nor the devotion of the decii, can equal it; and when time shall cover with its dim and quiet glories that bold and extraordinary deed, the burning of moscow will be regarded as outstripping all that we read of grecian or roman patriotism, and the name of the russian governor (rostopchin), if it be not too tough a name to hand down to posterity, will never be forgotten. chapter v. getting a passport.--parting with the marquis.--the language of signs.--a loquacious traveller.--from moscow to st. petersburgh.--the wolga.--novogorod.--newski perspective.--an unfortunate mistake.--northern twilight. unable to remain longer in moscow, i prepared for my journey for st. petersburgh. several diligences run regularly between these two great cities; one of which, the velocifère, is superior to any public conveyance on the continent of europe. i took my place in that, and two days beforehand sent my passport to be _viséd_. i sent for it the next day, and it was not ready. i went myself, and could not get it. i knew that nothing could be done at the russian offices without paying for it, and was ready and willing to do so, and time after time i called the attention of the officer to my passport. he replied coolly, "_dans un instant_," and, turning to something else, kept me waiting two hours; and when at length he took it up and arranged it, he led me down stairs out of sight to receive the expected _douceur_. he was a well-dressed man, with the large government button on his coat, and rather distingué in his appearance and manners. i took the passport, folded it up, and put it in my pocket with a coolness equal to his own, and with malicious pleasure put into his hand a single ruble, equal to twenty cents of our money; he expected at least twenty-five rubles, or about five dollars, and his look of rage and disappointment amply repaid me for all the vexation he had caused by his delay. i bade him farewell with a smile that almost drove him mad. bribery is said to be almost universal among the inferior officers of government, and there is a story of a frenchman in russia which illustrates the system. he had an office, of which the salary was so small that he could not live upon it. at first he would not take bribes, but stern necessity drove him to it, and while he was about it he did the thing handsomely. having overreached the mark, and been guilty of being detected, he was brought before the proper tribunal; and when asked, "why did you take a bribe?" his answer was original and conclusive, "i take, thou takest, he takes, we take, you take, they take!" i told the marquis the story of my parting interview at the police-office, which he said was capital, but startled me by suggesting that, if there should happen to be any irregularity, i would have great trouble in getting it rectified; even this, however, did not disturb my immediate satisfaction, and, fortunately, all was right. the morning of my departure, before i was out of bed, the marquis was in my room. meeting with me had revived in him feelings long since dead; and at the moment of parting he told me, what his pride had till that moment concealed, that his heart yearned once more to his kindred; and that, if he had the means, old as he was, he would go to america. and yet, though his frame trembled and his voice was broken, and his lamp was almost burned out, his spirit was as high as when he fought the battles of the empire; and he told me to say to them that he would not come to be a dependant upon their bounty; that he could repay all they should do for him by teaching their children. he gave me his last painting, which he regarded with the pride of an artist, as a souvenir for his sister; but having no means of carrying it safely, i was obliged to return it to him. he remained with me till the moment of my departure, clung to my hand after i had taken my place in the drosky, and when we had started i looked back and saw him still standing in the road. it seemed as if the last link that bound him to earth was broken. he gave me a letter, which i forwarded to his friends at home; his sister was still living, and had not forgotten her long-lost brother; she had not heard from him in twenty years, and had long believed him dead. pecuniary assistance was immediately sent to him, and, unhappily, since my return home, intelligence has been received that it arrived only at the last moment when human aid could avail him; in time to smooth the pillow of death by the assurance that his friends had not forgotten him. and perhaps, in his dying moments, he remembered me. at all events, it is some satisfaction, amid the recollections of an unprofitable life, to think that, when his checkered career was drawing to its close, i had been the means of gladdening for a moment the old exile's heart. i must not forget my host, the quondam exile to siberia. in his old days his spirit too was chafed at living under despotism, and, like the marquis, he also hoped, before he died, to visit america. i gave him my address, with the hope, but with very little expectation, of seeing him again. a travelling companion once remarked, that if every vagabond to whom i gave my address should find his way to america, i would have a precious set to present to my friends. be it so; there is not a vagabond among them whom i would not be glad to see. my english companion and myself had seen but little of each other at moscow. he intended to remain longer than i did, but changed his mind, and took a place in the same diligence for st. petersburgh. this diligence was the best i ever rode in; and, for a journey of nearly five hundred miles, we could not have been more comfortably arranged. it started at the hour punctually, as from the messagere in paris. we rolled for the last time through the streets of moscow, and in a few minutes passed out at the st. petersburgh gate. our companions were a man about thirty-five, a cattle-driver, with his trousers torn, and his linen hanging out ostentatiously in different places, and an old man about sixty-five, just so far civilized as to have cut off the long beard and put on broadcloth clothes. it was the first time the old man had ever been on a journey from home; everything was new to him, and he seemed puzzled to know what to make of us; he could not comprehend how we could look, and walk, and eat like russians, and not talk like them. my place was directly opposite his, and, as soon as we were seated, he began to talk to me. i looked at him and made no answer; he began again, and went on in an uninterrupted strain for several minutes, more and more surprised that i did not answer, or answered only in unintelligible sounds. after a while he seemed to come to the conclusion that i was deaf and dumb and turned to my companion as to my keeper for an explanation. finding he could do nothing there, he appeared alarmed, and it was some time before he could get a clear idea of the matter. when he did, however, he pulled off an amazingly white glove, took my hand and shook it, pointed to his head, shook it, and touched my head, then put his hand to his heart, then to my heart; all which was to say, that though our heads did not understand each other, our hearts did. but though he saw we did not understand him, he did not on that account stop talking; indeed, he talked incessantly, and the only way of stopping him was to look directly in his face and talk back again; and i read him long lectures, particularly upon the snares and temptations of the world into which he was about to plunge, and wound up with stanzas of poetry and scraps of greek and latin, all which the old man listened to without ever interrupting me, bending his ear as if he expected every moment to catch something he understood; and when i had finished, after a moment's blank expression he whipped off his white glove, took my hand, and touched significantly his head and heart. indeed, a dozen times a day he did this; and particularly whenever we got out, on resuming our seats, as a sort of renewal of the compact of good fellowship, the glove invariably came off, and the significant movement between the hand, head, and heart was repeated. the second day a young seigneur named chickoff, who spoke french, joined the diligence, and through him we had full explanations with the old russian. he always called me the american graff or noble, and said that, after being presented to the emperor, i should go down with him into the country. my worthy comrade appeared at first to be not a little bored by the old man's garrulous humour; but at length, seized by a sudden whim, began, as he said, to teach him english. but such english! he taught him, after a fashion peculiarly his own, the manner of addressing a lady and gentleman in english; and very soon, with the remarkable facility of the russians in acquiring languages, the old man, utterly unconscious of their meaning, repeated the words with extraordinary distinctness; and regularly, when he took his place in the diligence, he accompanied the significant movements of his hand, head, and heart to me with the not very elegant address taught him by my companion. though compelled to smile inwardly at the absurdity of the thing, i could not but feel the inherent impropriety of the conduct of my eccentric fellow-traveller; and ventured to suggest to him that, though he had an undoubted right to do as he pleased in matters that could not implicate me, yet, independent of the very questionable character of the joke itself (for the words savoured more of wapping than of st. james's), as we were known to have travelled together, a portion of the credit of having taught the old russian english might fall upon me--an honour of which i was not covetous, and, therefore, should tell the old man never to repeat the words he had been taught, which i did without assigning any reason for it, and before we arrived at st. petersburgh he had forgotten them. the road from moscow to st. petersburgh is now one of the best in europe. it is macadamized nearly the whole way, and a great part is bordered with trees; the posthouses are generally large and handsome, under the direction of government, where soup, cutlets, &c., are always ready at a moment's notice, at prices regulated by a tariff hanging up in the room, which, however, being written in russian, was of no particular use to us. the country is comparatively thickly settled, and villages are numerous. even on this road, however, the villages are forlorn things, being generally the property and occupied by the serfs of the seigneurs, and consisting of a single long street, with houses on both sides built of logs, the better sort squared, with the gable end to the street, the roofs projecting two or three feet from the houses, and sometimes ornamented with rude carving and small holes for windows. we passed several chateaux, large, imposing buildings, with parks and gardens, and a large church, painted white, with a green dome surmounted by a cross. in many places on the road are chapels with figures of the panagia, or all holy virgin, or some of the saints; and our old russian, constantly on the lookout for them, never passed one without taking off his hat and going through the whole formula of crosses; sometimes, in entering a town, they came upon us in such quick succession, first on one side, then on the other, that, if he had not been engaged in, to him, a sacred ceremony, his hurry and perplexity would have been ludicrous. during the night we saw fires ahead, and a little off the road were the bivouacs of teamsters or wayfarers, who could not pay for lodging in a miserable russian hut. all the way we met the great caravan teams carrying tallow, hides, hemp, and other merchandise to the cities, and bringing back wrought fabrics, groceries, &c., into the interior. they were generally thirty or forty together, one man or woman attending to three or four carts, or, rather, neglecting them, as the driver was generally asleep on the top of his load. the horses, however, seemed to know what they were about; for as the diligence came rolling toward them, before the postillion could reach them with his whip, they intuitively hurried out of the way. the bridges over the streams and rivers are strong, substantial structures, built of heavy hewn granite, with iron balustrades, and ornamented in the centre with the double-headed eagle, the arms of russia. at tver we passed the wolga on a bridge of boats. this noble river, the longest in europe, navigable almost from its source for an extent of four thousand versts, dividing, for a great part of its course, europe and asia, runs majestically through the city, and rolls on, bathing the walls of the city of astrachan, till it reaches the distant caspian; its banks still inhabited by the same tribes of warlike cossacks who hovered on the skirts of the french army during their invasion of russia. by its junction with the tverza, a communication is made between the wolga and neva, or, in other words, between the caspian and baltic. the impetus of internal improvements has extended even to the north of europe, and the emperor nicolas is now actively engaged in directing surveys of the great rivers of russia for the purpose of connecting them by canals and railroads, and opening steam communications throughout the whole interior of his empire. a great number of boats of all sizes, for carrying grain to the capital, were lying off the city. these boats are generally provided with one mast, which, in the largest, may equal a frigate's mainmast. "the weight of the matsail," an english officer remarks, "must be prodigious, having no fewer than one hundred breadths in it; yet the facility with which it is managed bears comparison with that of the yankees with their boom mainsail in their fore-and-aft clippers." the rudder is a ponderous machine, being a broad piece of timber floating astern twelve or fifteen feet, and fastened to the tiller by a pole, which descends perpendicularly into the water; the tiller is from thirty to forty feet long, and the pilot who turns it stands upon a scaffold at that distance from the stern. down the stream a group of cossacks were bathing, and i could not resist the temptation to throw myself for a moment into this king of rivers. the diligence hurried me, and, as it came along, i gathered up my clothes and dressed myself inside. about eighty versts from st. petersburgh we came to the ancient city of novogorod. in the words of an old traveller, "next unto moscow, the city of novogorod is reputed the chiefest in russia; for although it be in majestie inferior to it, yet in greatness it goeth beyond it. it is the chiefest and greatest mart-town of all muscovy; and albeit the emperor's seat is not there, but at moscow, yet the commodiousness of the river, falling into that gulf which is called sinus finnicus, whereby it is well frequented by merchants, makes it more famous than moscow itself." few of the ruined cities of the old world present so striking an appearance of fallen greatness as this comparatively unknown place. there is an ancient saying, "who can resist the gods and novogorod the great?" three centuries ago it covered an area of sixty-three versts in circumference, and contained a population of more than four hundred thousand inhabitants. some parts of it are still in good condition, but the larger portion has fallen to decay. its streets present marks of desolation, mouldering walls, and ruined churches, and its population has dwindled to little more than seven thousand inhabitants. the steeples in this ancient city bear the cross, unaccompanied by the crescent, the proud token showing that the tartars, in all their invasions, never conquered it, while in the reconquered cities the steeples all exhibit the crescent surmounted by the cross. late in the afternoon of the fourth day we were approaching st. petersburgh. the ground is low and flat, and i was disappointed in the first view of the capital of russia; but passing the barrier, and riding up the newski perspective, the most magnificent street in that magnificent city, i felt that the stories of its splendour were not exaggerated, and that this was, indeed, entitled to the proud appellation of the "palmyra of the north." my english companion again stopped at a house kept by an englishwoman and frequented by his countrymen, and i took an apartment at a hotel in a broad street with an unpronounceable russian name, a little off the newski perspective. i was worn and fatigued with my journey, but i could not resist the inclination to take a gentle promenade along the newski perspective. while in the coffee-room refreshing myself with a cup of the best russian tea, i heard some one outside the door giving directions to a tailor, and presently a man entered, whom, without looking at him, i told he was just the person i wanted to see, as i had a pair of pantaloons to be mended. he made no answer, and, without being able to see distinctly, i told him to wait till i could go up stairs and change them, and that he must mend them strongly and bring them back in the morning. in all probability, the next moment i should have been sprawling on the floor; but the landlady, a clever frenchwoman, who saw my error stepped up, and crying out, "ah, monsieur colonel, attendez, attendez," explained my mistake as clearly as i could have done myself, and i followed closely with an apology, adding that my remark could not be intended as disrespectful to him, inasmuch as even then, with the windows closed, i could scarcely distinguish his person. he understood the thing at once, accepted my apology with great frankness, and, instead of knocking me down, or challenging me to fight with sabre or some other diabolical thing, finding i was a stranger just arrived from moscow, sat down at the table, and before we rose offered to accompany me in my walk. there could be no mistake as to the caste of my new friend. the landlady had called him colonel, and, in repelling the imputation of his being a tailor, had spoken of him as a rich seigneur, who for ten years had occupied the front apartments _au premier_ in her hotel. we walked out into the newski perspective, and strolled along that magnificent street down to the admiralty, and along the noble quays of the neva. i had reached the terminus of my journey; for many months i had been moving farther and farther away, and the next step i took would carry me toward home. it was the eve of the fourth of july; and as i strolled through the broad streets and looked up at the long ranges of magnificent buildings, i poured into the ear of my companion the recollections connected with this moment at home: in boyhood, crackers and fireworks in readiness for the great jubilee of the morrow; and, latterly, the excursion into the country to avoid the bustle and confusion of "the glorious fourth." at moscow and during the journey i had admired the exceeding beauty of the twilight in these northern latitudes but this night in st. petersburgh it was magnificent. i cannot describe the peculiar shades of this northern twilight. it is as if the glare and brilliancy of the sun were softened by the mellowing influence of the moon, and the city, with its superb ranges of palaces, its statues, its bridges, and its clear and rapid river, seemed, under the reflection of that northern light, of a brilliant and almost unearthly beauty. i felt like rambling all night. even though worn with three days' travel, it was with me as with a young lady at her first ball; the night was too short. i could not bear to throw it away in sleep. my companion was tough, and by no means sentimental, and the scene was familiar to him; but he told me that, even in his eyes, it never lost its interest. moonlight is something, but this glorious twilight is a thing to enjoy and to remember; and, as the colonel remarked when we sat down in his apartment to a comfortable supper, it always gave him such an appetite. after supper i walked through a long corridor to my apartment, threw myself upon my bed and tried to sleep, but the mellow twilight poured through my window and reproached me with the base attempt. i was not restless, but i could not sleep; lest, however, the reader should find himself of a different humour, i will consider myself asleep the first night in st. petersburgh. chapter vi. police requisites.--the russian capital.--equestrian statue of peter the great.--the alexandrine column.--architectural wonders.--the summer islands.--a perilous achievement.--origin of st. petersburgh.--tombs of dead monarchs.--origin of the russian navy. july fourth. i had intended to pass this day at moscow, and to commemorate it in napoleon style by issuing a bulletin from the kremlin, but it was a long time since i had heard from home. at constantinople i had written to paris, directing my letters to be sent to petersburgh, and, notwithstanding my late hours the night before, i was at the postoffice before the door was open. i had never been so long without hearing from home, and my lips quivered when i asked for letters, my hand shook when i received them, and i hardly drew breath until i had finished the last postscript. my next business was at the bureau of general police for a _carte de sejour_, without which no stranger can remain in st. petersburgh. as usual, i was questioned as to my reasons for coming into russia; age, time of sojourn, destination, &c.; and, satisfied that i had no intention of preaching democratic doctrines or subverting the government of the autocrat, i received permission to remain two weeks, which, according to direction, i gave to my landlord to be entered at the police-office of his district. as no stranger can stay in petersburgh without permission, neither can he leave without it; and, to obtain this, he must advertise three times in the government gazette, stating his name, address, and intention of leaving the empire; and as the gazette is only published twice a week, this formality occupies eight days. one of the objects of this is to apprize his creditors, and give them an opportunity of securing their debts; and few things show the barbarity and imperfect civilization of the russians more clearly than this; making it utterly impossible for a gentleman to spend a winter in st. petersburgh and go away without paying his landlord. this must prevent many a soaring spirit from wending its way hither, and keep the residents from being enlivened by the flight of those birds of passage which dazzle the eyes of the denizens of other cities. as there was no other way of getting out of the dominions of the czar, i caused my name and intention to be advertised. it did not create much of a sensation; and though it was proclaimed in three different languages, no one except my landlord seemed to feel any interest in it. after all, to get in debt is the true way to make friends; a man's creditors always feel an interest in him; hope no misfortune may happen to him, and always wish him prosperity and success. these formalities over, i turned to other things. different from every other principal city i had visited, st. petersburgh had no storied associations to interest the traveller. there is no colosseum, as at rome; no acropolis, as at athens; no rialto, as at venice; and no kremlin, as at moscow; nothing identified with the men and scenes hallowed in our eyes, and nothing that can touch the heart. it depends entirely upon itself for the interest it creates in the mind of the traveller. st. petersburgh is situated at the mouth of the neva, at the eastern extremity of the gulf of finland. it is built partly on islands formed by the neva, and partly on both sides of that river. but little more than a century ago, the ground now covered with stately palaces consisted of wild morasses and primeval forests, and a few huts tenanted by savage natives, who lived upon the fish of the sea. in seventeen hundred and three peter the great appeared as a captain of grenadiers under the orders of one of his own generals, on the wild and dreary banks of the neva, drove the swedes from their fortress at its mouth, cut down the forests on the rude islands of the river, and laid the foundations of a city which now surpasses in architectural magnificence every other in the world. i do not believe that rome, when adrian reared the mighty colosseum, and the palace of the cæsars covered the capitoline hill, exhibited such a range of noble structures as now exists in the admiralty quarter. the admiralty itself is the central point, on one side fronting the neva, and on the other a large open square, and has a façade of marble, with ranges of columns, a quarter of a mile in length. a beautiful golden spire shoots up from the centre, towering above every other object, and seen from every part of the city glittering in the sun; and three principal streets, each two miles in length, radiate from this point. in front is a range of boulevards, ornamented with trees, and an open square, at one extremity of which stands the great church of st. isaac, of marble, jasper, and porphyry, upon a foundation of granite; it has been once destroyed, and reared again with increased splendour, enormous columns of a single block of red granite already lifting their capitals in the air. on the right of the façade, and near the isaac bridge, itself a magnificent structure, a thousand and fifty feet long and sixty feet wide, with two drawbridges, stands the well-known equestrian statue of peter the great. the huge block of granite forming the pedestal is fifteen hundred tons in weight. the height of the figure of the emperor is eleven feet, that of the horse seventeen feet, and the weight of the metal in the group nearly thirty-seven thousand pounds. both the idea and the execution of this superb monument are regarded as masterpieces of genius. to immortalize the enterprise and personal courage with which that extraordinary man conquered all difficulties and converted a few fishermen's huts into palaces, peter is represented on a fiery steed, rushing up a steep and precipitous rock to the very brink of a precipice; the horse rears with his fore feet in the air, and seems to be impatient of restraint, while the imperial rider, in an attitude of triumph, extends the hand of protection over his capital rising out of the waters. to aid the inspiration of the artist, a russian officer, the boldest rider of his time, daily rode the wildest arabian of count orloff's stud to the summit of a steep mound, where he halted him suddenly, with his forelegs raised pawing the air over the brink of the precipice. the monument is surrounded by an iron railing, and the pedestal bears the simple inscription, petro primo, catharina secunda, mdcclxxxii. on the other side of the square, and in front of the winter palace, raised within the last two years, and the most gigantic work of modern days, rivalling those magnificent monuments in the old world whose ruins now startle the wondering traveller, and towering to the heavens, as if to proclaim that the days of architectural greatness are not gone by for ever, is the great alexandrine column, a single shaft of red granite, exclusive of pedestal and capital, eighty-four feet high. on the summit stands an angel holding a cross with the left hand, and pointing to heaven with the right. the pedestal contains the simple inscription, "to alexander i. grateful russia." [illustration: column of alexander i.] surrounding this is a crescent of lofty buildings, denominated the etat major, its central portion having before it a majestic colonnade of the corinthian order, placed on a high rustic basement, with a balustrade of solid bronze gilt between the columns. in the middle is a triumphal arch, which, with its frieze, reaches nearly to the upper part of the lofty building, having a span of seventy feet, the entablature sculptured with military trophies, allegorical figures, and groups in alto relievo. next on a line with the admiralty, and fronting the quay, stands the first of a long range of imperial palaces, extending in the form of a crescent for more than a mile along the neva. the winter palace is a gigantic and princely structure, built of marble, with a façade of seven hundred and forty feet. next are the two palaces of the hermitage, connected with it and with each other by covered galleries on bold arches; the beautiful and tasteful fronts of these palaces are strangely in contrast with their simple and unpretending name. next is the stately grecian theatre of the hermitage. beyond this are the barracks of the guards, then the palace of the french ambassador, then the marble palace built by catharine ii. for her favourite, prince orloff, with a basement of granite and superstructure of bluish marble, ornamented with marble columns and pillars. in this palace died stanislaus poniatowsky, the last of the polish sovereigns. this magnificent range, presenting an uninterrupted front of marble palaces upward of a mile in length, unequalled in any city in the world, is terminated by an open square, in which stands a colossal statue of suwarrow; beyond this, still on the neva, is the beautiful summer garden fronting the palace of paul ii.; and near it, and at the upper end of the square, is the palace of the grand-duke michael. opposite is the citadel, with its low bastions of solid granite, washed all around by the neva; beautiful in its structure, and beautifully decorated by the tall, slender, and richly gilded spire of its church. on the one side of the admiralty is the senatorial palace, and beyond opens the english quay, with a range of buildings that might well be called the residence of "merchant princes;" while the opposite bank is crowded with public buildings, among which the most conspicuous are the palace of the academy of the fine arts; the obelisk, rising in the centre of a wide square, recording the glory of some long-named russian hero; the building of the naval cadet corps, with its handsome front, and the barracks of the guard of finland; finally, the great pile of palace-like buildings belonging to the military cadet corps, reaching nearly to the palace of the academy of sciences, and terminating with the magnificent grecian front of the exchange. i know that a verbal description can give but a faint idea of the character of this scene, nor would it help the understanding of it to say that it exhibits all that wealth and architectural skill can do, for few in our country know what even these powerful engines can effect; as for myself, hardly noting the details, it was my greatest delight to walk daily to the bridge across the neva, at the summer gardens, the view from which more than realized all the crude and imperfect notions of architectural magnificence that had ever floated through my mind; a result that i had never found in any other city i had yet seen, not excepting venice the rich or genoa the proud, although the latter is designated in guide-books the city of palaces. next to the palaces in solidity and beauty of structure are the bridges crossing the neva, and the magnificent quays along its course, these last being embankments of solid granite, lining the stream on either side the whole length of its winding course through the city. i was always at a loss whether to ride or walk in st. petersburgh; sometimes i mounted a drosky and rode up and down the newski perspective, merely for the sake of rolling over the wooden pavement. this street is perhaps more than twice as wide as broadway; the gutter is in the middle, and on each side are wooden pavements wide enough for vehicles to pass each other freely. the experiment of wooden pavements was first made in this street, and found to answer so well that it has since been introduced into many others; and as the frost is more severe than with us, and it has stood the test of a russian winter, if rightly constructed it will, no doubt, prove equally successful in our own city. the road is first covered with broken stone, or macadamized; then logs are laid across it, the interstices being filled up with sand and stone, and upon this are placed hexagonal blocks of pine about eighteen inches long, fitted like joiner's work, fastened with long pegs, and covered with a preparation of melted lead. when i left paris i had no expectation of travelling in russia, and, consequently, had no letter of introduction to mr. wilkins, our minister; but, long before reaching st. petersburgh, i had made it a rule, immediately on my arrival in a strange place, to call upon our representative, whatever he might be, from a minister plenipotentiary down to a little greek consul. i did so here, and was probably as well received upon my own introduction as if i had been recommended by letter; for i got from mr. wilkins the invitation to dinner usually consequent upon a letter, and besides much interesting information from home, and, more than all, a budget of new-york newspapers. it was a long time since i had seen a new-york paper, and i hailed all the well-known names, informed myself of every house to let, every vessel to sail, all the cotton in market, and a new kind of shaving-soap for sale at hart's bazar; read with particular interest the sales of real estate by james bleecker and sons; wondered at the rapid increase of the city in creating a demand for building lots in one hundred and twenty-seventh street, and reflected that some of my old friends had probably grown so rich that they would not recognise me on my return. having made arrangements for the afternoon to visit the summer islands, i dined with my friend the colonel, in company with prince ---- (i have his name in my pocketbook, written by himself, and could give a facsimile of it, but i could not spell it). the prince was about forty-five, a high-toned gentleman, a nobleman in his feelings, and courtly in his manners, though, for a prince, rather out at elbows in fortune. the colonel and he had been fellow-soldiers, had served in the guards during the whole of the french invasion, and entered paris with the allied armies as officers in the same regiment. like most of the russian seigneurs, they had run through their fortunes in their military career. the colonel, however, had been set up again by an inheritance from a deceased relative, but the prince remained ruined. he was now living upon a fragment saved from the wreck of his estate, a pension for his military services, and the bitter experience acquired by a course of youthful extravagance. like many of the reduced russian seigneurs, he was disaffected toward the government, and liberal in politics; he was a warm admirer of liberal institutions, had speculated upon and studied them both in france and america, and analyzed understandingly the spirit of liberty as developed by the american and french revolutions; when he talked of washington, he folded his hands and looked up to heaven, as if utterly unable to express the fulness of his emotions. with us, the story of our revolution is a hackneyed theme, and even the sacred name of washington has become almost commonplace; but the freshness of feeling with which the prince spoke of him invested him in my eyes with a new and holy character. after dinner, and while on our way to the summer islands, we stopped at his apartments, when he showed me the picture of washington conspicuous on the wall; under it, by way of contrast, was that of napoleon; and he summed up the characters of both in few words, by saying that the one was all for himself, the other all for his country. the summer islands on sundays and fête days are the great promenade of the residents of the capital, and the approach to them is either by land or water. we preferred the latter, and at the admiralty took a boat on the neva. all along the quay are flights of steps cut in the granite, and descending to a granite platform, where boats are constantly in attendance for passengers. these boats are fantastically painted, and have the stern raised some three or four feet; sometimes they are covered with an awning. the oar is of disproportionate thickness toward the handle, the blade very broad, always feathered in rowing, and the boatman, in his calico or linen shirt and pantaloons, his long yellowish beard and mustaches, looks like anything but the gondolier of venice. in passing down the neva i noticed, about half way between low-water mark and the top of the quay, a ring which serves to fasten vessels, and is the mark, to which if the water rises, an inundation may be expected. the police are always on the watch, and the fearful moment is announced by the firing of cannon, by the display of white flags from the admiralty steeple by day, and by lanterns and the tolling of the bells at night. in the last dreadful inundation of eighteen hundred and twenty-four, bridges were swept away, boats floated in some parts of the town above the tops of the houses, and many villages were entirely destroyed. at cronstadt, a vessel of one hundred tons was left in the middle of one of the principal streets; eight thousand dead bodies were found and buried, and probably many thousands more were hurried on to the waters of the gulf of finland. it was a fête day in honour of some church festival, and a great portion of the population of st. petersburgh was bending its way toward the summer islands. the emperor and empress were expected to honour the promenade with their presence, and all along the quay boats were shooting out loaded with gay parties, and, as they approached the islands, they formed into a fleet, almost covering the surface of the river. we were obliged to wait till perhaps a dozen boats had discharged their passengers before we could land. these islands are formed by the branches of the neva, at about three versts from st. petersburgh. they are beautifully laid out in grass and gravel-walks, ornamented with trees, lakes, shrubs, and flowers, connected together by light and elegant bridges, and adorned with beautiful little summer-houses. these summer-houses are perfectly captivating; light and airy in their construction, and completely buried among the trees. as we walked along we heard music or gentle voices, and now and then came upon a charming cottage, with a beautiful lawn or garden, just enough exposed to let the passer-by imagine what he pleased; and on the lawn was a light fanciful tent, or an arbour hung with foliage, under which the occupants, with perhaps a party of friends from the city, were taking tea, and groups of rosy children were romping around them, while thousands were passing by and looking on, with as perfect an appearance of domestic _abandon_ as if in the privacy of the fireside. i have sometimes reproached myself that my humour changed with every passing scene; but, inasmuch as it generally tended toward at least a momentary satisfaction, i did not seek to check it; and though, from habit and education, i would have shrunk from such a family exhibition, here it was perfectly delightful. it seemed like going back to a simpler and purer age. the gay and smiling faces seemed to indicate happy hearts; and when i saw a mother playing on the green with a little cherub daughter, i felt how i hung upon the community, a loose and disjointed member, and would fain have added myself to some cheerful family group. a little farther on, however, i saw a papa flogging a chubby urchin, who drowned with his bellowing the music from a neighbouring arbour, which somewhat broke the charm of this public exhibition of scenes of domestic life. besides these little retiring-places or summer residences of citizens, restaurants and houses of refreshments were distributed in great abundance, and numerous groups were sitting under the shade of trees or arbours, taking ices or refreshments; and the grounds for promenade were so large and beautifully disposed, that, although thousands were walking through them, there was no crowd, except before the door of a principal refectory, where a rope-dancer was flourishing in the air among the tops of the trees. in addition to the many enchanting retreats and summer residences created by the taste, luxury, and wealth of private individuals, there are summer theatres and imperial villas. but the gem of the islands is the little imperial palace at cammenoi. i have walked through royal palaces, and admired their state and magnificence without one wish to possess them, but i felt a strong yearning toward this imperial villa. it is not so grand and stately as to freeze and chill one, but a thing of extraordinary simplicity and elegance, in a beautifully picturesque situation, heightened by a charming disposition of lawn and trees, so elegant, and, if i may add such an unpoetical word in the description of this imperial residence, so comfortable, that i told the prince if i were a rasselas escaped from the happy valley, i would look no farther for a resting-place. the prince replied that in the good old days of russian barbarism, when a queen swayed the sceptre, russia had been a great field for enterprising and adventurous young men, and in more than one instance a palace had been the reward of a favourite. we gave a sigh to the memory of those good old days, and at eleven o'clock returned to the city on the top of an omnibus. the whole road from the summer islands and the great street leading to the admiralty were lighted with little glass lamps, arranged on the sidewalks about six feet apart, but they almost realized the conceit of illuminating the sun by hanging candles around it, seeming ashamed of their own sickly glare and struggling vainly with the glorious twilight. the next morning the valet who had taken me as his master, and who told others in the house that he could not attend to them, as he was in my service, informed me that a traveller arrived from warsaw the night before had taken apartments in the same hotel, and could give me all necessary information in regard to that route; and, after breakfast, i sent him, with my compliments, to ask the traveller if he would admit me, and shortly after called myself. he was a young man, under thirty, above the middle size, strong and robust of frame, with good features, light complexion, but very much freckled, a head of extraordinary red hair, and a mustache of the same brilliant colour; and he was dressed in a coloured stuff morning-gown, and smoking a pipe with an air of no small dignity and importance. i explained the purpose of my visit, and he gave me as precise information as could possibly be had; and the most gratifying part of the interview was, that before we separated he told me that he intended returning to warsaw in about ten days, and would be happy to have me bear him company. i gladly embraced his offer, and left him, better pleased with the result of my interview than i had expected from his rather unprepossessing appearance. he was a frenchman by descent, born in belgium, and educated and resident in poland, and possessed in a striking degree the compounded amor patriæ incident to the relationship in which he stood to these three countries. but, as i shall be obliged to speak of him frequently hereafter, i will leave him for the present to his morning-gown and pipe. well pleased with having my plans arranged, i went out without any specific object, and found myself on the banks of the neva. directly opposite the winter palace, and one of the most conspicuous objects on the whole line of the neva, is the citadel or old fortress, and, in reality, the foundation of the city. i looked long and intently on the golden spire of its church, shooting toward the sky and glittering in the sun. this spire, which rises tapering till it seems almost to fade away into nothing, is surmounted by a large globe, on which stands an angel supporting a cross. this angel, being made of corruptible stuff, once manifested symptoms of decay, and fears were entertained that he would soon be numbered with the fallen. government became perplexed how to repair it, for to raise a scaffolding to such a height would cost more than the angel was worth. among the crowd which daily assembled to gaze at it from below was a roofer of houses, who, after a long and silent examination, went to the government and offered to repair it without any scaffolding or assistance of any kind. his offer was accepted; and on the day appointed for the attempt, provided with nothing but a coil of cords, he ascended inside to the highest window, and, looking for a moment at the crowd below and at the spire tapering away above him, stood up on the outer ledge of the window. the spire was covered with sheets of gilded copper, which, to beholders from below, presented only a smooth surface of burnished gold; but the sheets were roughly laid, and fastened by large nails, which projected from the sides of the spire. he cut two pieces of cord, and tied loops at each end of both, fastened the upper loops over two projecting nails, and stood with his feet in the lower; then, clinching the fingers of one hand over the rough edges of the sheets of copper, raised himself till he could hitch one of the loops on a higher nail with the other hand; he did the same for the other loop, and so he raised one leg after the other, and at length ascended, nail by nail, and stirrup by stirrup, till he clasped his arms around the spire directly under the ball. here it seemed impossible to go any farther, for the ball was ten or twelve feet in circumference, with a smooth and glittering surface, and no projecting nails, and the angel was above the ball, as completely out of sight as if it were in the habitation of its prototypes. but the daring roofer was not disheartened. raising himself in his stirrups, he encircled the spire with a cord, which he tied round his waist; and, so supported, leaned gradually back until the soles of his feet were braced against the spire, and his body fixed almost horizontally in the air. in this position he threw a cord over the top of the ball, and threw it so coolly and skilfully that at the first attempt it fell down on the other side, just as he wanted it; then he drew himself up to his original position, and, by means of his cord, climbed over the smooth sides of the globe, and in a few moments, amid thunders of applause from the crowd below, which at that great height sounded only like a faint murmur, he stood by the side of the angel. after attaching a cord to it he descended, and the next day carried up with him a ladder of ropes, and effected the necessary repairs. but to return. with my eyes fixed upon the spire, i crossed the bridge and entered the gate of the fortress. it is built on a small island, fortified by five bastions, which, on the land side, are mere ramparts connected with st. petersburgh quarter by drawbridges, and on the river side it is surrounded by walls cased with granite, in the centre of which is a large gate or sallyport. as a fortress, it is now useless; but it is a striking object of embellishment to the river, and an interesting monument in the history of the city. peter himself selected this spot for his citadel and the foundation of his city. at that time it contained two fishing-huts in ruins, the only original habitations on the island. it was necessary to cut down the trees, and elevate the surface of the island with dirt and stone brought from other places before he commenced building the fortress; and the labour of the work was immense, no less than forty thousand workmen being employed at one time. soldiers, swedish prisoners, ingrians, carelians, and cossacks, tartars and calmucs, were brought from their distant solitudes to lay the foundation of the imperial city, labouring entirely destitute of all the comforts of life, sleeping on the damp ground and in the open air, often without being able, in that wilderness, to procure their daily meal; and, moreover, without pickaxes, spades, or other instruments of labour, and using only their bare hands for digging; but, in spite of all this, the work advanced with amazing rapidity, and in four months the fortress was completed. the principal objects of interest it now contains are the imperial mint and the cathedral of st. peter and st. paul. brought up in a community where "making money" is the great business of life, i ought, perhaps, to have entered the former, but i turned away from the ingots of gold and silver, and entered the old church, the burial-place of peter the great, and nearly all the czars and czarinas, emperors and empresses, since his time. around the walls were arranged flags and banners, trophies taken in war, principally from the turks, waving mournfully over the tombs of the dead. a sombre light broke through the lofty windows, and i moved directly to the tomb of peter. it is near the great altar, of plain marble, in the shape of a square coffin, without any ornament but a gold plate, on one end of which are engraved his name and title; and at the moment of my entrance an old russian was dusting it with a brush. it was with a mingled feeling of veneration and awe that i stood by the tomb of peter. i had always felt a profound admiration for this extraordinary man, one of those prodigies of nature which appear on the earth only once in many centuries; a combination of greatness and cruelty, the sternness of whose temper spared neither age nor sex, nor the dearest ties of kindred; whose single mind changed the face of an immense empire and the character of millions, and yet who often remarked with bitter compunction, "i can reform my people, but i cannot reform myself." by his side lies the body of his wife, catharine i., the beautiful livonian, the daughter of a peasant girl, and the wife of a common soldier, who, by a wonderful train of events, was raised to wield the sceptre of a gigantic empire. her fascination soothed the savage peter in his moodiest hours. she was the mediatrix between the stern monarch and his subjects; mercy was ever on her lips, and one who knew her well writes what might be inscribed in letters of gold upon her tomb: "she was a pretty, well-looked woman, but not of that sublimity of wit, or, rather, that quickness of imagination which some people have supposed. the great reason why the czar was so fond of her was her exceeding good temper; she never was seen peevish or out of humour; obliging and civil to all, and never forgetful of her former condition, and withal mighty grateful." near their imperial parents lie the bodies of their two daughters, anne of holstein and the empress elizabeth. peter, on his deathbed, in an interval of delirium, called to him his daughter anne, as it was supposed, with the intention of settling upon her the crown, but suddenly relapsed into insensibility; and anne, brought up in the expectation of two crowns, died in exile, leaving one son, the unfortunate peter iii. elizabeth died on the throne, a motley character of goodness, indolence, and voluptuousness, and extremely admired for her great personal attractions. she was never married, but, as she frequently owned to her confidants, never happy but when in love. she was so tender of heart that she made a vow to inflict no capital punishment during her reign; shed tears upon the news of every victory gained by her troops, from the reflection that it could not have been gained without bloodshed, and would never give her consent for the execution of a felon, however deserving; and yet she condemned two noble ladies, one of them the most beautiful woman in russia, to receive fifty strokes of the knout in the open square of st. petersburgh. i strolled for a few moments among the other imperial sepulchres, and returned to the tombs of peter's family. separate monuments are erected over their bodies, all in the shape of large oblong tombstones, ornamented with gold, and enclosed by high iron railings. as i leaned against the railing of peter's tomb, i missed one member of his imperial family. it was an awful chasm. where was his firstborn child and only son? the presumptive heir of his throne and empire? early the object of his unnatural prejudice, excluded from the throne, imprisoned, tortured, tried, condemned, sentenced to death by the stern decree of his offended father! the ill-starred alexius lies in the vaults of the church, in the imperial sepulchre, but without any tomb or inscription to perpetuate the recollection of his unhappy existence. and there is something awful in the juxtaposition of the dead; he lies by the side of his unhappy consort, the amiable princess charlotte, who died the victim of his brutal neglect; so subdued by affliction that, in a most affecting farewell to peter, unwilling to disturb the tranquillity of her last hour, she never mentioned his name, and welcomed death as a release from her sufferings. leaving the church, i went to a detached building within the fortress, where is preserved, in a separate building, a four-oared boat, as a memorial of the origin of the russian navy. its history is interesting. about the year peter saw this boat at a village near moscow; and inquiring the cause of its being built differently from those he was in the habit of seeing, learned that it was contrived to go against the wind. under the direction of brandt, the dutch shipwright who built it, he acquired the art of managing it. he afterward had a large pleasure-yacht constructed after the same model, and from this beginning went on till he surprised all europe by a large fleet on the baltic and the black sea. twenty years afterward he had it brought up from moscow, and gave a grand public entertainment, which he called the consecration of the "little grandsire." the fleet, consisting of twenty-seven men-of-war, was arranged at cronstadt in the shape of a half moon. peter embarked in the little grandsire, himself steering, and three admirals and prince mendzikoff rowing, and made a circuit in the gulf, passing by the fleet, the ships striking their flags and saluting it with their guns, while the little grandsire returned each salute by a discharge of three small pieces. it was then towed up to st. petersburgh, where its arrival was celebrated by a masquerade upon the waters, and, peter again steering, the boat proceeded to the fortress, and under a discharge of all the artillery it was deposited where it now lies. returning, i took a bath in the neva. in bathing, as in everything else, the russians profit by the short breath of summer, and large public bathing-houses are stationed at intervals along the quay of the river, besides several smaller ones, tasteful and ornamental in appearance, being the private property of rich seigneurs. i went into one of the former, where a swimming-master was teaching a school of boys the art of swimming. the water of the neva was the first thing i had found regularly russian, that is, excessively cold; and though i bathed in it several times afterward, i always found it the same. at five o'clock i went to dine with mr. wilkins. he had broken up his establishment and taken apartments at the house of an english lady, where he lived much in the same style as at home. he had been at st. petersburgh but a short time, and, i believe, was not particularly well pleased with it, and was then making arrangements to return. i had never met with mr. wilkins in our own country, and i consider myself under obligations to him; for, not bringing him any letter, i stood an entire stranger in st. petersburgh, with nothing but my passport to show that i was an american citizen, and he might have even avoided the dinner, or have given me the dinner and troubled himself no more about me. but the politeness which he had shown me as a stranger increased to kindness; and i was in the habit of calling upon him at all times, and certainly without any expectation of ever putting him in print. we had at table a parti quarré, consisting of mr. wilkins, mr. gibson, who has been our consul, i believe, for twenty years, if, he being still a bachelor, it be not unfriendly to carry him back so far, and mr. clay, the secretary of legation, who had been twice left as chargé d'affaires at the imperial court, and was then lately married to an english lady in st. petersburgh. after dinner, three or four american merchants came in; and at eleven o'clock, having made an appointment to go with mr. wilkins and see a boatrace on the neva, mr. clay and i walked home along the quay, under that enchanting twilight which i have already so often thrust upon the reader, and which i only regret that i cannot make him realize and enjoy. chapter vii. a new friend.--the winter palace.--importance of a hat.--an artificial mine.--remains of a huge monster.--peter the great's workshop.--the greek religion.--tomb of a hero.--a saint militant.--another love affair.--the hermitage.--the winter and summer gardens. early in the morning, while at breakfast, i heard a loud knock at my door, which was opened without waiting for an answer, and in stalked a tall, stout, dashing-looking young man, with a blue frock, white pantaloons, and a vest of many colours, a heavy gold chain around his neck, an enormous indian cane in his hand, and a broad-brimmed hat brought down on one side, over his right eye in particular. he had a terrible scowl on his face, which seemed to be put on to sustain the dignity of his amazing costume, and he bowed on his entrance with as much _hauteur_ as if he meant to turn me out of my own room. i stared at him in unfeigned astonishment, when, putting his cane under his arm, and pulling off his hat, his intensely red head broke upon me with a blaze of beauty, and i recognised my friend and intended fellow-traveller, the french belgian pole, whom i had seen in an old morning-gown and slippers. i saw through my man at once; and speedily knocking in the head his overwhelming formality, came upon him with the old college salutation, asking him to pull off his clothes and stay a week; and he complied almost literally, for in less than ten minutes he had off his coat and waistcoat, cravat and boots, and was kicking up his heels on my bed. i soon discovered that he was a capital fellow, a great beau in his little town on the frontiers of poland, and one of a class by no means uncommon, that of the very ugly men who imagine themselves very handsome. while he was kicking his heels over the footboard, he asked me what we thought of red hair in america; and i told him that i could not undertake to speak the public voice, but that, for myself, i did not admire it as much as some people did, though, as to his, there was something striking about it, which was strictly true, for it was such an enormous mop that, as his head lay on the pillow, it looked like a bust set in a large red frame. all the time he held in his hand a pocket looking-glass and a small brush, with which he kept brushing his mustaches, giving them a peculiar twirl toward the ears. i told him that he was wrong about the mustache; and, taking the brush, brought them out of their twist, and gave them an inclination à la turque, recommending my own as a model; but he soon got them back to their place, and, rising, shook his gory locks and began to dress himself, or, as he said, to put himself in parchment for a walk. my new friend was for no small game, and proposed visiting some of the palaces. on the way he confided to me a conquest he had already made since his arrival; a beautiful young lady, of course, the daughter of an italian music-master, who resided directly opposite our hotel. he said he had applied for an apartment next to mine, which commanded a view of the window at which she sat, and asked me, as a friend, whether it would be interfering with me. having received my assurance that i had no intentions in that quarter, he said he would order his effects to be removed the same day. by this time we had arrived at the winter palace, presenting, as i have before remarked, a marble front on the neva of more than seven hundred feet, or as long as the side of washington square, and larger and more imposing than that of the tuileries or any other royal palace in europe. we approached the large door of entrance to this stately pile, and, notwithstanding my modest application, backed by my companion's dashing exterior, we were turned away by the imperial footman because we had not on dresscoats. we went home and soon returned equipped as the law of etiquette requires, and were admitted to the imperial residence. we ascended the principal story by the great marble staircase, remarkable for its magnificence and the grandeur of its architecture. there are nearly a hundred principal rooms on the first floor, occupying an area of four hundred thousand square feet, and forming almost a labyrinth of splendour. the great banqueting-hall is one hundred and eighty-nine feet by one hundred and ten, incrusted with the finest marble, with a row of columns at each end, and the side decorated with attached columns, rich gilding, and splendid mirrors. the great hall of st. george is one of the richest and most superb rooms on the continent, not excepting the pride of the tuileries or versailles. it is a parallelogram of one hundred and forty feet by sixty, decorated with forty fluted corinthian columns of porphyritic marble, with capitals and bases of bronze richly gilded, and supporting a gallery with a gilded bronze balustrade of exquisite workmanship. at one end, on a platform, is the throne, approached by a flight of eight steps, covered with the richest genoa velvet, embroidered with gold, with the double-headed eagle expanding his wings above it. the large windows on both sides are hung with the richest drapery, and the room is embellished by magnificent mirrors and colossal candelabra profusely gilded. we passed on to the _salle blanche_, which is nearly of the same dimensions, and beautifully chaste in design and finish. its elevation is greater, and the sides are decorated with pilasters, columns, and bas-reliefs of a soft white tint, without the least admixture of gaudy colours. the space between the hall of st. george and the _salle blanche_ is occupied as a gallery of national portraits, where the russians who distinguished themselves during the french invasion are exhibited in half-length portraits as rewards for their military services. the three field-marshals, kutuzow, barclay de tolly, and the duke of wellington, are represented at full length. the symbol which accompanies the hero of waterloo is that of imperishable strength, the british oak, "the triumpher of many storms." i will not carry the reader through all the magnificent apartments, but i cannot help mentioning the diamond room, containing the crowns and jewels of the imperial family. diamonds, rubies, and emeralds are arranged round the room in small cases, of such dazzling beauty that it is almost bewildering to look at them. i had already acquired almost a passion for gazing at precious stones. at constantinople i had wandered through the bazars, under the guidance of a jew, and seen all the diamonds collected and for sale in the capital of the east, but i was astonished at the brilliancy of this little chamber, and, in my strongly-awakened admiration, looked upon the miser who, before the degrading days of bonds and mortgages, converted his wealth into jewels and precious stones, as a man of elegant and refined taste. the crown of the emperor is adorned with a chaplet of oak-leaves made of diamonds of an extraordinary size, and the imperial sceptre contains one supposed to be the largest in the world, being the celebrated stone purchased by the empress catharine ii. from a greek slave for four hundred and fifty thousand rubles and a large pension for life. eighty thousand persons were employed in the construction of this palace; upward of two thousand habitually reside in it, and even a larger number when the emperor is in st. petersburgh. the imperial flag was then floating from the top of the palace, as an indication to his subjects of his majesty's presence in the capital; and about the time that his majesty sat down to his royal dinner we were working upon a cotelette de mouton, and drinking in vin ordinaire health and long life to nicolas the first; and afterward, in talking of the splendour of the imperial palace and the courtesy of the imperial footmen, we added health and long life to the lady autocrat and all the little autocrats.[ ] after dinner we took our coffee at the café chinois, on the newski perspective, equal, if not superior, in style and decoration to anything in paris. even the rules of etiquette in france are not orthodox all over the world. in paris it is not necessary to take off the hat on entering a café or restaurant, and in the south of france a frenchman will sit down to dinner next a lady with his head covered; but in russia, even on entering an apartment where there are only gentlemen, it is necessary to uncover the head. i neglected this rule from ignorance and want of attention, and was treated with rudeness by the proprietor, and afterward learned the cause, with the suggestion that it was fortunate that i had not been insulted. this is a small matter, but a man's character in a strange place is often affected by a trifling circumstance; and americans, at least i know it to be the case with myself, are, perhaps, too much in the habit of neglecting the minor rules of etiquette. that night my new friend had his effects removed to a room adjoining mine, and the next morning i found him sitting in his window with a book in his hand, watching the young lady opposite. he was so pleased with his occupation that i could not get him away, and went off without him. mr. wilkins having offered to accompany me to some of the public institutions, i called for him; and, finding him disengaged, we took a boat on the neva, and went first to the academy of arts, standing conspicuously on the right bank opposite the english quay, and, perhaps, the chastest and most classical structure in st. petersburgh. in the court are two noble egyptian sphynxes. a magnificent staircase, with a double flight of granite steps, leads to a grand landing-place with broad galleries around it, supporting, by means of ionic columns, the cupola, which crowns the whole. the rotunda is a fine apartment of exquisite proportions, decorated with statues and busts; and at the upper end of the conference-room stands a large table, at the head of which is a full-length portrait of nicolas under a rich canopy. in one room are a collection of models from the antique, and another of the paintings of native artists, some of which are considered as indicating extraordinary talent. from hence we went to the _hotel des mines_, where the name of the american minister procured us admission without the usual permit. the _hotel des mines_ was instituted by the great peter for the purpose of training a mining engineer corps, to explore scientifically the vast mineral resources of the empire, and also engineers for the army. like all the other public edifices, the building is grand and imposing, and the arrangement of the different rooms and galleries is admirable. in one room is a large collection of medals, and in another of coins. besides specimens of general mineralogy of extraordinary beauty, there are native iron from the lake olonetz, silver ore from tobolsk and gold sand from the oural mountains; and in iron-bound cases, beautifully ornamented, there is a rich collection of native gold, found either in the mines belonging to government or in those of individuals, one piece of which was discovered at the depth of three and a half feet in the sand, weighing more than twenty-four pounds. the largest piece of platinum in existence, from the mines of demidoff, weighing ten pounds, is here also; and, above all, a colossal specimen of amalachite weighing three thousand four hundred and fifty-six pounds, and, at the common average price of this combination of copper and carbonic acid, worth three thousand seven hundred and fifty pounds sterling. but the most curious part of this valuable repository is under ground, being a model of a mine in siberia. furnished with lighted tapers, we followed our guides through winding passages cut into the bowels of the earth, the sides of which represented, by the aggregation of real specimens, the various stratifications, with all the different ores, and minerals, and different species of earth, as they were found in the natural state; the coal formation, veins of copper, and in one place of gold, being particularly well represented, forming an admirable practical school for the study of geology, though under a chillness of atmosphere which would be likely very soon to put an end to studies of all kinds. from here we passed to the imperial academy of sciences, by far the most interesting part of our day's visiting. this, too, was founded by the great peter. i hardly know why, but i had already acquired a warm admiration for the stout old czar. there was nothing high or chivalric about him, but every step in russia, from the black sea to the baltic, showed me what he had done to advance the condition of his people. i knew all this as matter of history, but here i felt it as fact. we strolled through the mineralogical and zoological repositories, and stopped before the skeleton of that stupendous inhabitant of a former world, denominated the mammoth, whose fame had been carried over the waste of waters even to our distant country, and beside which even the skeletons of elephants looked insignificant. what was he? where did he live, and is his race extinct? it gave rise to a long train of interesting speculation, to endow him with life, and see him striding with gigantic steps, the living tenant of a former world; and more interesting still to question, as others had done, whether he was not, after all, one of a race of animals not yet extinct, and perhaps wandering even now within a short distance of the polar sea. there is also in this part of the museum a collection of anatomical specimens and of human monsters; an unpleasing exhibition, though, no doubt, useful to medical science; among them was a child with two heads from america. more interesting to me was a large collection of insects, of medals, and particularly of the different objects in gold found in the tumuli of siberia, consisting of bracelets, vases, crowns, bucklers, rings, sabres with golden hilts, tartar idols, &c., many of them of great value and of very elegant workmanship, which have given rise to much interesting speculation in regard to the character of the people who formerly inhabited that country. the asiatic museum contains a library of chinese, japanese, mongolese, and tibetan books and manuscripts; mohammedan, chinese, and japanese coins; an interesting assemblage of mongolese idols cut in bronze and gilded, and illustrating the religion of buddha. there is also an egyptian museum, containing about a thousand articles. the cabinet of curiosities contains figures of all the different people conquered under the government of russia, habited in their national costumes; also of chinese, persians, aleutans, carelians, and the inhabitants of many of the eastern, pacific, or northern islands discovered or visited by russian travellers and navigators, as well as of the different nations inhabiting siberia. but by far the most interesting part of the museum is the cabinet of peter himself, consisting of a suite of apartments, in which the old czar was in the habit of passing his leisure hours engaged in some mechanical employment. in one room are several brass cylinders turned by his own hands, and covered with battle-scenes of his own engraving. also an iron bar forged by him; bas-reliefs executed in copper, representing his desperate battles in livonia; an ivory chandelier of curious and highly-wrought workmanship, and a group in ivory representing abraham offering up his son isaac, the ram and the angel gabriel cut out entire. in another room is his workshop, containing a variety of vessels and models etched in copper, and a copperplate with an unfinished battle-scene. his tools and implements are strewed about the room precisely in the state in which he left them the last time he was there. in another chamber were the distended skin of his french body-servant, seven feet high; the arabian horse which he rode at the bloody battle of pultowa, and the two favourite dogs which always accompanied him; and in another the figure of the old czar himself in wax, as large as life; the features, beyond doubt, bearing the exact resemblance to the original, being taken from a cast applied to his face when dead, and shaded in imitation of his real complexion. the eyebrows and hair are black, the eyes dark, the complexion swarthy, and aspect stern. this figure is surrounded by the portraits of his predecessors, in their barbarian costumes, himself seated in an armchair in the same splendid dress which he wore when with his own hands he placed the imperial crown on the head of his beloved catharine. here, also, are his uniform of the guards, gorget, scarf, and sword, and hat shot through at the battle of pultowa; and the last thing which the guide put into my hands was a long stick measuring his exact height, and showing him literally a great man, being six russian feet. i must not forget a pair of shoes made by his own hands; but the old czar was no shoemaker. nevertheless, these memorials were all deeply interesting; and though i had seen the fruits of his labours from the black sea to the baltic, i never felt such a strong personal attraction to him as i did here. i was obliged to decline dining with mr. wilkins in consequence of an engagement with my friend the pole; and, returning, i found him at the window with a book in his hand, precisely in the same position in which i had left him. after dinner a servant came in and delivered a message, and he proposed a walk on the admiralty boulevards. it was the fashionable hour for promenade, and, after a turn or two, he discovered his fair enslaver, accompanied by her father and several ladies and gentlemen, one of whom seemed particularly devoted to her. she was a pretty little girl, and seemed to me a mere child, certainly not more than fifteen. his admiration had commenced on the boulevards the first afternoon of his arrival, and had increased violently during the whole day, while he was sitting at the window. he paraded me up and down the walk once or twice, and, when they had seated themselves on a bench, took a seat opposite. he was sure she was pleased with his admiration, but i could not see that her look indicated any very flattering acknowledgment. in fact, i could but remark that the eyes of the gentlemen were turned toward us quite as often as those of the lady, and suggested that, if he persisted, he would involve us in some difficulty with them; but he said there could not be any difficulty about it, for, if he offended them, he would give them satisfaction. as this view of the case did not hit my humour, i told him that, as i had come out with him, i would remain, but if he made any farther demonstrations, i should leave him, and, at all events, after that he must excuse me from joining his evening promenades. soon after they left the boulevards, and we returned to our hotel, where he entertained me with a history of his love adventures at home, and felicitations upon his good fortune in finding himself already engaged in one here. sunday. until the early part of the tenth century the religion of russia was a gross idolatry. in nine hundred and thirty-five, olga, the widow of igor the son of runic, sailed down the dnieper from kief, was baptized at constantinople, and introduced christianity into russia, though her family and nation adhered for a long time to the idolatry of their fathers. the great schism between the eastern and western churches had already taken place, and the christianity derived from constantinople was of course of the greek persuasion. the greek church believes in the doctrines of the trinity, but differs from the catholic in some refined and subtle distinction in regard to what is called the procession of the holy ghost. it enjoins the invocation of saints as mediators, and permits the use of pictures as a means of inspiring and strengthening devotion. the well-informed understand the use for which they are intended, but these form a very small portion of the community, and probably the great bulk of the people worship the pictures themselves. the clergy are, in general, very poor and very ignorant. the priests are not received at the tables of the upper classes, but they exercise an almost controlling influence over the lower, and they exhibited this influence in rousing the serfs against the french, which may be ascribed partly, perhaps, to feelings of patriotism, and partly to the certainty that napoleon would strip their churches of their treasures, tear down their monasteries, and turn themselves out of doors. but of the population of fifty-five millions, fifteen are divided into roman catholics, armenians, protestants, jews, and mohammedans, and among the caucasians, georgians, circassians, and mongol tribes nearly two millions are pagans or idolaters, brahmins, lamists, and worshippers of the sun. for a people so devout as the russians, the utmost toleration prevails throughout the whole empire, and particularly in st. petersburgh. churches of every denomination stand but a short distance apart on the newski perspective. the russian cathedral is nearly opposite the great catholic chapel; near them is the armenian, then the lutheran, two churches for dissenters, and a mosque for the mohammedans! and on sunday thousands are seen bending their steps to their separate churches, to worship according to the faith handed down to them by their fathers. early in the morning, taking with me a valet and joining the crowd that was already hurrying with devout and serious air along the newski perspective, i entered the cathedral of our lady of cazan, a splendid monument of architecture, and more remarkable as the work of a native artist, with a semicircular colonnade in front, consisting of one hundred and thirty-two corinthian columns thirty-five feet high, somewhat after the style of the great circular colonnade of st. peter's at rome, and surmounted by a dome crowned with a cross of exquisite workmanship, supported on a large gilded ball. within, fifty noble columns, each of one piece of solid granite from finland, forty-eight feet high and four feet in diameter, surmounted by a rich capital of bronze, and resting on a massive bronze base, support an arched roof richly ornamented with flowers in bas-relief. the jewels and decorations of the altar are rich and splendid, the doors leading to the sanctum sanctorum, with the railing in front, being of silver. as in the catholic churches, there are no pews, chairs, or benches, and all over the floor were the praying figures of the russians. around the walls were arranged military trophies, flags, banners, and the keys of fortresses wrested from the enemies of russia; but far more interesting than her columns, and colossal statues, and military trophies, is the tomb of the warrior kutuzow; simple, and remarkable for the appropriate warlike trophy over it, formed of french flags and the eagles of napoleon. admiration for heroism owns no geographical or territorial limits, and i pity the man who could stand by the grave of kutuzow without feeling it a sacred spot. the emperor alexander with his own hands took the most precious jewel from his crown and sent it to the warrior, with a letter announcing to him his elevation to the rank of prince of smolensko; but richer than jewels or principalities is the tribute which his countrymen pay at his tomb. the church of our lady of cazan contains another monument of barbarian patriotism. the celebrated leader of the cossacks during the period of the french invasion, having intercepted a great part of the booty which the french were carrying from moscow, sent it to the metropolitan or head of the church, with a characteristic letter, directing it to be "made into an image of the four evangelists, and adorn the church of the mother of god of cazan." the concluding paragraph is, "hasten to erect in the temple of god this monument of battle and victory; and while you erect it, say with thankfulness to providence, the enemies of russia are no more; the vengeance of god has overtaken them on the soil of russia; and the road they have gone has been strewed with their bones, to the utter confusion of their frantic and proud ambition." (signed) "platoff." from the church of our lady of cazan i went to the protestant church, where i again joined in an orthodox service. the interior of the church is elegant, though externally it can scarcely be distinguished from a private building. the seats are free, the men sitting on one side and the women on the other. mr. law, the clergyman, has been there many years, and is respected and loved by his congregation. after church i walked to the convent of alexander newski, the burial-place of prince alexander, who obtained in the thirteenth century a splendid victory over the allied forces of sweden, denmark, and livonia; afterward became a monk, and for his pure and holy life was canonized, and now ranks among the principal saints in the russian calendar. the warrior was first buried at moscow, but peter the great had his remains transported with great ceremony to this place, a procession of a thousand priests walking barefoot all the way. the monastery stands at the extreme end of the newski perspective, and within its precincts are several churches and a large cemetery. it is the residence of the distinguished prelates of the greek church and a large fraternity of monks. the dress of the monks is a loose black cloak and round black cap, and no one can be admitted a member until the age of thirty. we entered a grand portal, walked up a long avenue, and, crossing a bridge over a stream, worked our way between lines of the carriages of nobles and ladies, and crowds of the people in their best bell-crowned hats; and, amid a throng of miserable beggars, penetrated to the door of the principal church, a large and beautiful specimen of modern corinthian architecture. i remarked the great entrance, the lofty dome, the fresco paintings on the ceilings, and the arabesque decorations on the walls; the altar-piece of white carrara marble, paintings by rubens and vandyck, the holy door in the iconastos, raised on a flight of steps of rich gilded bronze, and surmounted by the representation of a dazzling aureola of different colored metals, and in the centre the initials of that awful name which none in israel save the initiated were permitted to pronounce. i walked around and paused before the tomb of the warrior saint. a sarcophagus or coffin of massive silver, standing on an elevated platform, ornamented in bas-relief, representing scenes of battles with the swedes, contains his relics; a rich ermine lies upon the coffin, and above is a silver canopy. on each side is a warrior clothed in armour, with his helmet, breastplate, shield, and spear also of massive silver. the altar rises thirty feet in height, of solid silver, with groups of military figures and trophies of warriors, also of silver, as large as life; and over it hangs a golden lamp, with a magnificent candelabrum of silver, together with a vessel of curious workmanship holding the bones of several holy men, the whole of extraordinary magnificence and costliness of material, upward of four thousand pounds weight of silver having been used in the construction of the chapel and shrine. the dead sleep the same whether in silver coffins or in the bare earth, but the stately character of the church, dimly lighted, and the splendour and richness of the material, gave a peculiar solemnity to the tomb of the warrior saint. leaving the churches, i strolled through the cloisters of the monastery and entered the great cemetery. there, as in the great cemetery of père la chaise at paris, all that respect, and love, and affection can do to honour the memory of the dead, and all that vanity and folly can do to ridicule it, have been accomplished. there are seen epitaphs of affecting brevity and elaborate amplification; every design, every device, figure, emblem, and decoration; every species of material, from native granite to carrara marble and pure gold. among the simpler tombs of poets, warriors, and statesmen, a monument of the most gigantic proportions is erected to snatch from oblivion the name of a rich russian merchant. the base is a solid cubic block of the most superb marble, on which is a solid pedestal of black marble ten feet square, bearing a sarcophagus fourteen feet high, and of most elegant proportions, surmounted by a gold cross twenty feet in height. at each of the four corners is a colossal candelabrum of cast iron, with entwining serpents of bronze gilded. the ground alone cost a thousand pounds, and the whole monument about twenty thousand dollars. near the centre of this asylum of the dead, a tetrastyle ionic temple of the purest white marble records the virtues of an interesting lady, the countess of potemkin, and alto relievos of the most exquisite execution on three sides of the temple tell the melancholy story of a mother snatched from three lovely children. the countess, prophetically conscious of her approaching fate, is looking up calmly and majestically to the figure of religion, and resting with confidence her left hand on the symbol of christianity. in front are the inscription and arms of the family in solid gold. but what are the russian dead to me? the granite and marble monument of the merchant is a conglomeration of hides, hemp, and tallow; a man may be excused if he linger a moment at the tomb of an interesting woman, a mother cut off in her prime; but melancholy is infectious, and induces drowsiness and closing of the book. in consideration for my valet, at the grand portal i took a drosky, rolled over the wooden pavement of the newski perspective, and, with hardly motion enough to disturb my revery, was set down at the door of my hotel. my pole was waiting to dine with me, and roused me from my dreams of the dead to recount his dreams of the living. all day he had sat at his window, and a few straggling glances from the lady opposite had abundantly rewarded him, and given him great spirits for his evening's promenade on the boulevards. i declined accompanying him, and he went alone, and returned in the evening almost in raptures. we strolled an hour by the twilight, and retired early. it will hardly be believed, but early the next morning he came to my room with a letter on fine pink paper addressed to his fair enslaver. the reader may remember that this was not the first time i had been made a confidant in an affaire du coeur. to be sure, the missionary at smyrna turned out to be crazy; and on this point, at least, my pole was a little touched; nevertheless, i listened to his epistle. it was the regular oldfashioned document, full of hanging, shooting, drowning, and other extravagances. he sealed it with an amatory device, and, calling up a servant in his confidence, told him to carry it over, and then took his place in my window to watch the result. in the mean time, finding it impossible to dislodge him, and that i could not count upon him to accompany me on my visits to the palaces as he had promised, i went to the hermitage alone. the great and little hermitages are connected with the winter palace and with each other by covered galleries, and the theatre is connected with the two hermitages by means of another great arch thrown over a canal, so that the whole present a continued line of imperial palaces, unequalled in extent in any part of europe, measuring one thousand five hundred and ninety-six feet, or one third of an english mile. if i were to select a building designed to realize the most extravagant notions of grandeur and luxury, it would be the gorgeous palace known under the modest name of the hermitage. i shall not attempt any description of the interior of this splendid edifice, but confine myself to a brief enumeration of its contents. i ascended by a spacious staircase to the anteroom, where i gave, or, rather, where my cane was demanded by the footman, and proceeded through a suite of magnificent rooms, every one surpassing the last, and richer in objects of the fine arts, science, and literature; embellished throughout by a profusion of the most splendid ornaments and furniture, and remarkable for beauty of proportion and variety of design. in rooms and galleries appropriated to the separate schools and masters are upward of thirteen hundred paintings by raphael, titian, guido, andrea del sarto, luca giordano, the caracci, perugino, corregio, and leonardi da vinci; here is also the best collection in existence, of pictures by wouvermans and teniers, with some of the masterpieces of rubens and vandyck, of the french claude, poussin, and vernet. the celebrated houghton collection is here, with a gallery of paintings of the spanish schools, many of them murillos. in one room is a superb vase of siberian jasper, of a lilac colour, five feet high, and of exquisite form and polish; in another are two magnificent candelabras, said to be valued at two hundred and twenty thousand rubles, or about fifty thousand dollars; i must mention also the great musical clock, representing an antique grecian temple, and containing within a combination of instruments, having the power of two orchestras, which accompany each other; two golden tripods, seven feet high, supporting the gold salvers on which salt and bread were exhibited to the emperor alexander on his triumphal return from paris, as emblems of wisdom and plenty, a large musical and magical secretary, which opens spontaneously in a hundred directions at the sound of music, purchased by the late emperor for eight hundred guineas; a room surrounded with books, some of which were originals, placed there by catharine for the use of the domestics, as she said, to keep the devil out of their heads; a saloon containing the largest collection of engravings and books of engravings in europe, amounting to upward of thirty thousand; a library of upward of one hundred and ten thousand volumes; an extensive cabinet of medals, and another of gems and pastes; a jewel-cabinet, containing the rich ornaments which have served for the toilettes of succeeding empresses, innumerable precious stones and pearls, many of extraordinary magnitude; a superb collection of antiques and cameos, amounting to upward of fifteen thousand, the cameos alone affording employment for days. in one room are curious works in ivory and fishbones, by the inhabitants of archangel, who are skilled in that species of workmanship; and in another is the celebrated clock, known by the name of l'horloge du paon. it is enclosed in a large glass case ten feet high, being the trunk of a golden tree, with its branches and leaves all of gold. on the top of the trunk sits a peacock, which, when the chimes begin, expands its brilliant tail, while an owl rolls its eyes with its own peculiar stare, and, instead of a bell striking the hours, a golden cock flaps his wings and crows. the clock is now out of order, and the machinery is so complicated that no artist has hitherto been able to repair it. but perhaps the most extraordinary and interesting of the wonders of the hermitage are the winter and summer gardens. as i strolled through the suites of apartments, and looked out through the windows of a long gallery, it was hardly possible to believe that the flourishing trees, shrubs, and flowers stood upon an artificial soil, raised nearly fifty feet above the surface of the earth. the winter garden is a large quadrangular conservatory, planted with laurels and orange trees, in which linnets and canary birds formerly flew about enjoying the freedom of nature; but the feathered tribe have disappeared. the summer garden connected with it is four hundred feet long; and here, suspended, as it were, in the air, near the top of the palace, i strolled along gravel-walks, and among parterres of shrubs and flowers growing in rich luxuriance, and under a thick foliage inhaled their delightful fragrance. it is idle to attempt a description of this scene. i returned to my pole, whom i found at his window with a melancholy and sentimental visage, his beautiful epistle returned upon his hands--having, in sportsman's phrase, entirely missed fire--and then lying with a most reproving look on his table. my friend had come up to st. petersburgh in consequence of a lawsuit, and as this occupied but a small portion of his time, he had involved himself in a lovesuit, and, so far as i could see, with about an equal chance of success in both. l'amour was the great business of his life, and he could not be content unless he had on hand what he called une affaire du coeur. footnote: [ ] the winter palace has since been destroyed by fire. the author has not seen any account of the particulars, but has heard that the contents of the diamond chamber were saved. chapter viii. an imperial fête.--nicolas of russia.--varied splendours.--a soliloquy.--house of peter the great.--a boatrace.--czarskoselo.--the amber chamber.--catharine ii.--the emperor alexander. the next day was that appointed for the great fête at peterhoff. in spite of the confining nature of his two suits, my pole had determined to accompany me thither, being prompted somewhat by the expectation of seeing his damsel; and, no way disheartened by the fate of his first letter, he had manufactured another, by comparison with which the first was an icicle. i admitted it to be a masterpiece, though when he gave it to a servant to carry over, as we were on the point of setting off, suggested that it might be worth while to wait and pick it up when she threw it out of the window. but he had great confidence, and thought much better of her spirit for sending back his first letter. the whole population of petersburgh was already in motion and on the way to peterhoff. it was expected that the fête would be more than usually splendid, on account of the presence of the queen of holland, then on a visit to her sister the empress; and at an early hour the splendid equipages of the nobility, carriages, droskys, telegas, and carts, were hurrying along the banks of the neva, while steamboats, sailboats, rowboats, and craft of every description were gliding on the bosom of the river. as the least trouble, we chose a steamboat, and at twelve o'clock embarked at the english quay. the boat was crowded with passengers, and among them was an old english gentleman, a merchant of thirty years' standing in st. petersburgh. i soon became acquainted with him, how i do not know, and his lady told me that the first time i passed them she remarked to her husband that i was an american. the reader may remember that a lady made the same remark at smyrna; without knowing exactly how to understand it, i mention it as a fact showing the nice discrimination acquired by persons in the habit of seeing travellers from different countries. before landing, the old gentleman told me that his boys had gone down in a pleasure-boat, abundantly provided with materials, and asked me to go on board and lunch with them, which, upon the invitation being extended to my friend, i accepted. peterhoff is about twenty-five versts from st. petersburgh, and the whole bank of the neva on that side is adorned with palaces and beautiful summer residences of the russian seigneurs. it stands at the mouth of the neva, on the borders of the gulf of finland. opposite is the city of cronstadt, the seaport of st. petersburgh and the anchorage of the russian fleet. it was then crowded with merchant ships of every nation, with flags of every colour streaming from their spars in honour of the day. on landing, we accompanied our new friends, and found "the boys," three fine young fellows just growing up to manhood, in a handsome little pleasure-boat, with a sail arranged as an awning, waiting for their parents. we were introduced and received with open arms, and sat down to a cold collation in good old english style, at which, for the first time since i left home, i fastened upon an oldfashioned sirloin of roastbeef. it was a delightful meeting for me. the old people talked to me about my travels; and the old lady particularly, with almost a motherly interest in a straggling young man, inquired about my parents, brothers, and sisters, &c.; and i made my way with the frankhearted "boys" by talking "boat." altogether, it was a regular home family scene; and, after the lunch, we left the old people under the awning, promising to return at nine o'clock for tea, and with "the boys" set off to view the fête. from the time when we entered the grounds until we left at three o'clock the next morning, the whole was a fairy scene. the grounds extended some distance along the shore, and the palace stands on an embankment perhaps a hundred and fifty feet high, commanding a full view of the neva, cronstadt with its shipping, and the gulf of finland. we followed along the banks of a canal five hundred yards long, bordered by noble trees. on each side of the canal were large wooden frames about sixty feet high, filled with glass lamps for the illumination; and at the foot of each was another high framework with lamps, forming, among other things, the arms of russia, the double-headed eagle, and under it a gigantic star thirty or forty feet in diameter. at the head of the canal was a large basin of water, and in the centre of the basin stood a colossal group in brass, of a man tearing open the jaws of a rampant lion; and out of the mouth of the lion rushed a jet d'eau perhaps a hundred and fifty feet high. on each side of this basin, at a distance of about three hundred feet, was a smaller basin, with a jet d'eau in each about half its height, and all around were jets d'eau of various kinds, throwing water vertically and horizontally; among them i remember a figure larger than life, leaning forward in the attitude of a man throwing the discus, with a powerful stream of water rushing from his clinched fist. these basins were at the foot of the embankment on which stands the palace. in the centre was a broad flight of steps leading to the palace, and on each side was a continuous range of marble slabs to the top of the hill, over which poured down a sheet of water, the slabs being placed so high and far apart as to allow lamps to be arranged behind the water. all over, along the public walks and in retired alcoves, were frames hung with lamps; and everywhere, under the trees and on the open lawn, were tents of every size and fashion, beautifully decorated; many of them, oriental in style and elegance, were fitted up as places of refreshment. thousands of people, dressed in their best attire, were promenading the grounds, but no vehicles were to be seen, until, in turning a point, we espied at some distance up an avenue, and coming quietly toward us, a plain open carriage, with two horses and two english jockey outriders, in which were a gentleman and lady, whom, without the universal taking off of hats around us, i recognised at once as the emperor and empress. i am not apt to be carried away by any profound admiration for royalty, but, without consideration of their rank, i never saw a finer specimen of true gentility; in fact, he looked every inch a king, and she was my beau ideal of a queen in appearance and manners. they bowed as they passed, and, as i thought, being outside of the line of russians and easily recognised as a stranger, their courtesy was directed particularly to me; but i found that my companion took it very much to himself, and no doubt every long-bearded russian near us did the same. in justice to myself, however, i may almost say that i had a conversation with the emperor; for although his imperial highness did not speak to me, he spoke in a language which none but i (and the queen and his jockey outriders) understood; for, waving his hand to them, i heard him say in english, "to the right." after this _interview_ with his majesty we walked up to the palace. the splendid regiments of cavalier guards were drawn up around it, every private carrying himself like a prince; and i did not admire all his palaces, nor hardly his queen, so much as this splendid body of armed followers. behind the palace is a large plain cut up into gravel-walks, having in one place a basin of water, with waterworks of various kinds, among which were some of peculiar beauty falling in the form of a semiglobe. a little before dark we retired to a refectory under a tent until the garden was completely lighted up, that we might have the full effect of the illumination at one coup d'oeil, and, when we went out, the dazzling brilliancy of the scene within the semicircular illumination around the waterworks was beyond description. this semicircular framework enclosed in a large sweep the three basins, and terminated at the embankment on which the palace stands, presenting all around an immense fiery scroll in the air, sixty or eighty feet high, and filled with all manner of devices; and for its background a broad sheet of water falling over a range of steps, with lighted lamps behind it, forming an illuminated cascade, while the basins were blazing with the light thrown upon them from myriads of lamps, and the colossal figures of a reddened and unearthly hue were spouting columns of water into the air. more than two hundred thousand people were supposed to be assembled in the garden, in every variety of gay, brilliant, and extraordinary costume. st. petersburgh was half depopulated, and thousands of peasants were assembled from the neighbouring provinces. i was accidentally separated from all my companions; and, alone among thousands, sat down on the grass, and for an hour watched the throng passing through the illuminated circle, and ascending the broad steps leading toward the palace. among all this immense crowd there was no rabble; not a dress that could offend the eye; but intermingled with the ordinary costumes of europeans were the russian shopkeeper, with his long surtout, his bell-crowned hat, and solemn beard; cossacks, and circassian soldiers, and calmuc tartars, and cavalier guards, hussars, with the sleeves of their rich jackets dangling loose over their shoulders, tossing plumes, and helmets glittering with steel, intermingled throughout with the gay dresses of ladies; while near me, and, like me, carelessly stretched on the grass, under the light of thousands of lamps, was a group of peasants from finland fiddling and dancing; the women with light hair, bands around their heads, and long jackets enwrapping their square forms, and the men with long greatcoats, broad-brimmed hats, and a bunch of shells in front. leaving this brilliant scene, i joined the throng on the steps, and by the side of a splendid hussar, stooping his manly figure to whisper in the ears of a lovely young girl, i ascended to the palace and presented my ticket of admission to the bal masqué, so called from their being no masks there. i had not been presented at court, and, consequently, had only admission to the outer apartments with the people. i had, however, the range of a succession of splendid rooms, richly decorated with vases and tazzas of precious stones, candelabra, couches, ottomans, superb mirrors, and inlaid floors; and the centre room, extending several hundred feet in length, had its lofty walls covered to the very ceilings with portraits of all the female beauties in russia about eighty years ago. i was about being tired of gazing at these pictures of long-sleeping beauties, when the great doors at one end were thrown open, and the emperor and empress, attended by the whole court, passed through on their way to the banqueting-hall. although i had been in company with the emperor before in the garden, and though i had taken off my hat to the empress, both passed without recognising me. the court at st. petersburgh is admitted to be the most brilliant in europe; the dresses of the members of the diplomatic corps and the uniforms of the general and staff-officers being really magnificent, while those of the ladies sparkled with jewels. besides the emperor and empress, the only acquaintance i recognised in that constellation of brilliantly-dressed people were mr. wilkins and mr. clay, who, for republicans, made a very fair blaze. i saw them enter the banqueting-hall, painted in oriental style to represent a tent, and might have had the pleasure of seeing the emperor and empress and all that brilliant collection eat; but, turning away from a noise that destroyed much of the illusion, viz., the clatter of knives and forks, and a little piqued at the cavalier treatment i had received from the court circles, i went out on the balcony and soliloquized, "fine feathers make fine birds; but look back a little, ye dashing cavaliers and supercilious ladies. in the latter part of the seventeenth century, a french traveller in russia wrote that 'most men treat their wives as a necessary evil, regarding them with a proud and stern eye, and even beating them after.' dr. collins, physician to the czar in , as an evidence of the progress of civilization in russia, says that the custom of tying up wives by the hair of the head and flogging them 'begins to be left off;' accounting for it, however, by the prudence of parents, who made a stipulative provision in the marriage contract that their daughters were not to be whipped, struck, kicked, &c. but, even in this improved state of society, one man 'put upon his wife a shirt dipped in ardent spirits, and burned her to death,' and was not punished, there being, according to the doctor, 'no punishment in russia for killing a wife or a slave.' when no provision was made in the marriage contract, he says they were accustomed to discipline their wives very severely. at the marriage the bridegroom had a whip in one boot and a jewel in the other, and this poor girl tried her fortune by choosing. 'if she happens upon the jewel,' says another traveller, 'she is lucky; but if on the whip, she gets it.' the bridegroom rarely saw his companion's face till after the marriage, when, it is said, 'if she be ugly she pays for it soundly, maybe the first time he sees her.' ugliness being punished with the whip, the women painted to great excess; and a traveller in sixteen hundred and thirty-six saw the grand duchess and her ladies on horseback astride, 'most wickedly bepainted.' the day after a lady had been at an entertainment, the hostess was accustomed to ask how she got home; and the polite answer was, 'your ladyship's hospitality made me so tipsy that i don't know how i got home;' and for the climax of their barbarity it can scarcely be believed, but it is recorded as a fact, that the women did not begin to wear stays till the beginning of the present century!" soothed by these rather ill-natured reflections, i turned to the illuminated scene and the thronging thousands below, descended once more to the garden, passed down the steps, worked my way through the crowd, and fell into a long avenue, like all the rest of the garden, brilliantly lighted, but entirely deserted. at the end of the avenue i came to an artificial lake, opposite which was a small square two-story cottage, being the old residence of peter the great, the founder of all the magnificence of peterhoff. it was exactly in the style of our ordinary country houses, and the furniture was of a simplicity that contrasted strangely with the surrounding luxury and splendour. the door opened into a little hall, in which were two oldfashioned dutch mahogany tables, with oval leaves, legs tapering and enlarging at the feet into something like a horseshoe; just such a table as every one may remember in his grandfather's house, and recalling to mind the simple style of our own country some thirty or forty years ago. in a room on one side was the old czar's bed, a low, broad wooden bedstead, with a sort of canopy over it, the covering of the canopy and the coverlet being of striped calico; the whole house, inside and out, was hung with lamps, illumining with a glare that was almost distressing the simplicity of peter's residence; and, as if to give greater contrast to this simplicity, while i was standing in the door of the hall, i saw roll by me in splendid equipages, the emperor and empress, with the whole of the brilliant court which i had left in the banqueting-hall, now making a tour of the gardens. the carriages were all of one pattern, long, hung low, without any tops, and somewhat like our omnibuses, except that, instead of the seats being on one side, there was a partition in the middle not higher than the back of a sofa, with large seats like sofas on each side, on which the company sat in a row, with their backs to each other; in front was a high and large box for the coachmen, and a footman behind. it was so light that i could distinguish the face of every gentleman and lady as they passed; and there was something so unique in the exhibition, that, with the splendour of the court dresses, it seemed the climax of the brilliant scenes at peterhoff. i followed them with my eyes till they were out of sight, gave one more look to the modest pillow on which old peter reposed his careworn head, and at about one o'clock in the morning left the garden. a frigate brilliantly illuminated was firing a salute, the flash of her guns lighting up the dark surface of the water as i embarked on board the steamboat. at two o'clock the morning twilight was like that of day; at three o'clock i was at my hotel, and, probably, at ten minutes past, asleep. about eight o'clock the next morning my pole came into my room. he had returned from peterhoff before me, and found waiting for him his second epistle, with a note from the mother of the young lady, which he read to me as i lay in bed. though more than half asleep, i was rather roused by the strange effect this letter had upon him, for he was now encouraged to go on with his suit, since he found that the backwardness of the young lady was to be ascribed to the influence of the mother, and not to any indifference on her part. in the afternoon i went to a boatrace between english amateurs that had excited some interest among the english residents. the boats were badly matched; a six-oared boat thirty-two feet long, and weighing two hundred and thirty pounds, being pitted against three pairs of sculls, with a boat twenty-eight feet long and weighing only one hundred and eight pounds. one belonged to the english legation and the other to some english merchants. the race was from the english quay to the bridge opposite the suwarrow monument at the foot of the summer garden, and back, a little more than two miles each way. the rapidity of the current was between two and three miles an hour, though its full strength was avoided by both boats keeping in the eddies along shore. it was a beautiful place for a boatrace; the banks of the neva were lined with spectators, and the six-oared boat beat easily, performing the distance in thirty-one minutes. the next morning, in company with a frenchman lately arrived at our hotel, i set out for the imperial palace of czarskoselo, about seventeen versts from st. petersburgh. about seven versts from the city we passed the imperial seat of zechenne, built by the empress catharine to commemorate the victory obtained by orloff over the turks on the coast of anatolia. the edifice is in the form of a turkish pavilion, with a central rotunda containing the full-length portraits of the sovereigns cotemporary with catharine. since her death this palace has been deserted. in eighteen hundred and twenty-five, alexander and the empress passed it on their way to the south of russia, and about eight months after their mortal remains found shelter in it for a night, on their way to the imperial sepulchre. there was no other object of interest on the road until we approached czarskoselo. opposite the "caprice gate" is a cluster of white houses, in two rows, of different sizes, diminishing as they recede from the road, and converging at the farthest extremity; altogether a bizarre arrangement, and showing the magnificence of russian gallantry. the empress catharine at the theatre one night happened to express her pleasure at the perspective view of a small town, and the next time she visited czarskoselo she saw the scene realized in a town erected by count orloff at immense expense before the gate of the palace. the façade of the palace is unequalled by any royal residence in the world, being twelve hundred feet in length. originally, every statue, pedestal, and capital of the numerous columns; the vases, carvings, and other ornaments in front, were covered with gold leaf, the gold used for that purpose amounting to more than a million of ducats. in a few years the gilding wore off, and the contractors engaged in repairing it offered the empress nearly half a million of rubles (silver) for the fragments of gold; but the empress scornfully refused, saying, "je ne suis pas dans l'usage de vendre mes vielles hardes." i shall not attempt to carry the reader through the magnificent apartments of this palace. but i must not forget the famed amber chamber, the whole walls and ceilings being of amber, some of the pieces of great size, neatly fitted together, and even the frames of the pictures an elaborate workmanship of the same precious material. but even this did not strike me so forcibly as when, conducted through a magnificent apartment, the walls covered with black paper shining like ebony, and ornamented with gold and immense looking-glasses, the footman opened a window at the other end, and we looked down into the chapel, an asiatic structure, presenting an _ensemble_ of rich gilding of surpassing beauty, every part of it, the groups of columns, the iconastos, and the gallery for the imperial family, resplendent with gold. in one of the staterooms where the empress's mother resides, the floor consists of a parquet of fine wood inlaid with wreaths of mother-of-pearl, and the panels of the room were incrusted with lapis lazuli. but to me all these magnificent chambers were as nothing compared with those which were associated with the memory of the late occupant. "uneasy rests the head that wears a crown;" and perhaps it is for this reason that i like to look upon the pillow of a king, far more on that of a queen. the bedchamber of catharine ii. is adorned with walls of porcelain and pillars of purple glass; the bedclothes are those under which she slept the last time she was at the palace, and in one place was a concealed door, by which, as the unmannerly footman, without any respect to her memory, told us, her imperial highness admitted her six-feet paramours. in the bedchamber of alexander were his cap, gloves, boots, and other articles of dress, lying precisely as he left them previous to his departure for the southern part of his empire. his bed was of leather, stuffed with straw, and his boots were patched over and over worse than mine, which i had worn all the way from paris. i tried on his cap and gloves, and moralized over his patched boots. i remembered alexander as the head of a gigantic empire, the friend and ally, and then the deadly foe of napoleon; the companion of kings and princes; the arbiter of thrones and empires, and playing with crowns and sceptres. i sat with the patched boots in my hand. like old peter, he had considerable of a foot, and i respected him for it. i saw him, as it were, in an undress, simple and unostentatious in his habits; and there was a domestic air in his whole suite of apartments that interested me more than when i considered him on his throne. his sitting-room showed quiet and gentlemanly as well as domestic habits, for along the wall was a border of earth, with shrubs and flowers growing out of it, a delicate vine trailed around and almost covering a little mahogany railing. the grounds around the palace are eighteen miles in circumference, abounding in picturesque and beautiful scenery, improved by taste and an unbounded expenditure of money, and at this time they were in the fulness of summer beauty. we may talk simplicity and republicanism, but, after all, it must be a pleasant thing to be an emperor. i always felt this, particularly when strolling through imperial parks or pleasure-grounds, and sometimes i almost came to the unsentimental conclusion that, to be rural, a man must be rich. we wandered through the grounds without any plan, taking any path that offered, and at every step some new beauty broke upon us: a theatre; turkish kiosk or chinese pagoda; splendid bridges, arches, and columns; and an egyptian gate; a summer-house in the form of an ionic colonnade, a masterpiece of taste and elegance, supporting an aerial garden crowded with flowers; and a gothic building called the admiralty, on the borders of an extensive lake, on which lay several boats--rigged as frigates, elegant barges and pleasure-boats, and beautiful white swans floating majestically upon its surface; on the islands and the shores of the lake were little summer-houses; at the other end was a magnificent stone landing, and in full view a marble bridge, with corinthian columns of polished marble; an arsenal, with many curious and interesting objects, antique suits of armour, and two splendid sets of horse trappings, holsters, pistols, and bridles, all studded with diamonds, presented by the sultan on occasion of the peace of adrianople. nor must i forget the dairy, and a superb collection of goats and lamas from siberia. amid this congregation of beauties one thing offended me; a gothic tower built as a ruin for the sake of the picturesque, which, wanting the associations connected with monuments ruined by time, struck me as a downright mockery. we had intended to visit the palace of paulowsky, but time slipped away, and it was six o'clock before we started to return to st. petersburgh. chapter ix. the soldier's reward.--review of the russian army.--american cannibals.--palace of potemkin.--palace of the grand-duke michael.--equipments for travelling.--rough riding.--poland.--vitepsk.--napoleon in poland.--the disastrous retreat.--passage of the berezina. early the next morning i went out about twelve versts from the city to attend a grand military review by the emperor in person. the government of russia is a military despotism, and her immense army, nominally amounting to a million, even on the peace establishment numbers actually six hundred thousand, of which sixty thousand follow the person of the emperor, and were at that time under arms at st. petersburgh. when i rode on the parade-ground, the spectacle of this great army, combining the élite of barbaric chivalry with soldiers trained in the best schools of european discipline, drawn up in battle's stern array, and glittering with steel, was brilliant and almost sublime; in numbers and military bearing, in costliness of armour and equipment, far surpassing any martial parade that i had seen, not excepting a grand review of french troops at paris, or even a _fourth of july parade at home_. i once had the honour to be a paymaster in the valiant one hundred and ninety-seventh regiment of new-york state militia; and i can say what, perhaps, no other man who ever served in our _army_ can say, that i served out my whole term without being once promoted. men came in below and went out above me; ensigns became colonels and lieutenants generals, but i remained the same; it was hard work to escape promotion, but i was resolute. associated with me was a friend as quartermaster, with as little of the spirit of a soldier in him as myself, for which we were rather looked down upon by the warriors of our day; and when, at the end of our term, in company with several other officers, we resigned, the next regimental orders were filled with military panegyrics, such as, "the colonel has received, with the greatest regret, the resignation of lieutenant a.;" "the country has reason to deplore the loss of the services of captain b.;" and wound up with, "quartermaster g. and paymaster s. have tendered their resignations, _both of which are hereby accepted_." but when strains of martial music burst from a hundred bands, and companies, and regiments, and brigades wheeled and manoeuvred before me, and the emperor rode by, escorted by general and field officers, and the most magnificent staff in europe, and the earth shook under the charge of cavalry, i felt a strong martial spirit roused within me, perhaps i was excited by the reflection that these soldiers had been in battles, and that the stars and medals glittering on their breasts were not mere holyday ornaments, but the tokens of desperate service on bloody battle-fields. in a body, the russian soldiers present an exceedingly fine appearance. when the serf is enrolled, his hair and beard are cut off, except on the upper lip, his uniform is simple and graceful, a belt is worn tightly round the waist, and the breast of the coat is thickly padded, increasing the manliness of the figure, though sometimes at the expense of health. in evolutions they move like a great machine, as if all the arms and legs were governed by a single impulse. the army under review was composed of representatives from all the nations under the sway of russia; cossacks of the don, and the wolga, and the black sea, in jackets and wide pantaloons of blue cloth, riding on small horses, with high-peaked saddles, and carrying spears eight or ten feet in length. one regiment had the privilege of wearing a ragged flag and caps full of holes, as proofs of their gallant service, being the only regiment that fought at pultowa. and there were calmucs in their extraordinary war-dress; a helmet with a gilded crest, or a chain cap with a network of iron rings falling over the head and shoulders, and hanging as low as the eyebrows in front; a shirt of mail, composed of steel rings matted together and yielding to the body, the arms protected by plates, and the back of the hand by steel network fastened to the plates on each side; their offensive weapons were bows and arrows, silver-mounted pistols peeping out of their holsters, cartridge-boxes on each side of the breast, and a dagger, sword, and gun. the kirguish, a noble-looking race, come from the steppes of siberia. their uniform is magnificent, consisting of a blue frockcoat and pantaloons covered with silver lace, a grecian helmet, and a great variety of splendid arms, the yataghan alone costing a thousand rubles. they are all noble, and have no regular duty, except to attend the imperial family on extraordinary occasions. at home they are always at war among themselves. they are mohammedans; and one of them said to an american friend who had a long conversation with him, that he had four wives at home; that some had more, but it was not considered becoming to exceed that number. a bearded russian came up and said that these kirguish eat dogs and cats against which the kirguish protested. the same russian afterward observed that the americans were worse than the kirguish, for that a patriarch of the church had written, and therefore it must be true, that the number of human beings eaten by americans could not be counted; adding, with emphasis, "sir, you were created in the likeness of your maker, and you should endeavour to keep yourself so." he continued that the russians were the first christians, and he felt much disposed to send missionaries among the americans to meliorate their condition. the imperial guards are the finest-looking set of men i ever saw. the standard is six feet, and none are admitted below that height. their uniform is a white cloth coat, with buckskin breeches, boots reaching up to the hips, and swords that wallace himself would not have been ashamed to wield. but perhaps the most striking in that brilliant army was the emperor himself; seeming its natural head, towering even above his gigantic guards, and looking, as mr. wilkins once said of him, like one who, among savages, would have been chosen for a chief. in the midst of this martial spectacle, the thought came over me of militia musters at home; and though smiling at the insignificance of our military array as i rode back in my drosky, i could but think of the happiness of our isolated position, which spares us the necessity of keeping a large portion of our countrymen constantly in arms to preserve the rest in the enjoyment of life and fortune. the next morning my polish friend, hopeless of success either in his lawsuit or his lovesuit, fixed a day for our departure; and, with the suggestion that i am about leaving st. petersburgh, i turn once more, and for the last time, to the imperial palaces. not far from the hermitage is the marble palace; a colossal pile, built by the empress catharine for her favourite, count orloff, presenting one of its fronts to the neva. all the decorations are of marble and gilded bronze, and the capitals and bases of the columns and pilasters, and the window-frames and balustrades of the balconies, of cast bronze richly gilded. the effect is heightened by the unusually large dimensions of the squares of fine plate glass. a traveller in seventeen hundred and fifty-nine says "that the prodigies of enchantment which we read of in the tales of the genii are here called forth into reality; and the temples reared by the luxuriant fancy of our poets may be considered as a picture of the marble palace, which jupiter, when the burden of cares drives him from heaven, might make his delightful abode." at present, however, there are but few remains of this olympian magnificence, and i think jupiter at the same expense would prefer the winter palace or the hermitage. the taurida palace, erected by catharine ii. for her lover, potemkin, in general effect realizes the exaggerated accounts of travellers. the entrance is into a spacious hall, which leads to a circular vestibule of extraordinary magnitude, decorated with busts and statues in marble, with a dome supported by white columns. from thence you pass between the columns into an immense hall or ballroom, two hundred and eighty feet long and eighty wide, with double colonnades of lofty ionic pillars decorated with gold and silver festoons, thirty-five feet high and ten feet in circumference. from the colonnade, running the whole length of the ballroom, you enter the winter garden, which concealed flues and stoves keep always at the temperature of summer; and here, upon great occasions, under the light of magnificent lustres and the reflection of numerous mirrors, during the fierceness of the russian winter, when the whole earth is covered with snow, and "water tossed in the air drops down in ice," the imperial visiter may stroll through gravel-walks bordered with the choicest plants and flowers, blooming hedges and groves of orange, and inhale the fragrance of an arabian garden. paul, in one of his "darkened hours," converted this palace into barracks and a riding-school; but it has since been restored, in some degree, to its ancient splendour. the palace of paul, in which he was assassinated, has been uninhabited since his death. but the triumph of modern architecture in st. petersburgh is the palace of the grand-duke michael. i shall not attempt any description of this palace; but, to give some notion of its splendours to my calculating countrymen, i shall merely remark that it cost upward of seventeen millions of rubles. but i am weary of palaces; of wandering through magnificent apartments, where scene after scene bursts upon my eyes, and, before i begin to feel at home in them, i find myself ordered out by the footman. will the reader believe me? on the opposite side of the river is a little wooden house, more interesting in my eyes than all the palaces in st. petersburgh. it is the humble residence of peter the great. i visited it for the last time after rambling through the gorgeous palace of the grand-duke michael. it is one story high, low roofed, with a little piazza around it, and contains a sitting-room, bedroom, and dining-parlours; and peter himself, with his own axe, assisted in its construction. the rooms are only eight feet in height, the sitting-room is fifteen feet square, the dining-room fifteen feet by twelve, and the bedchamber ten feet square. in the first there is a chapel and shrine, where the russian visiter performs his orisons and prays for the soul of peter. around the cottage is a neat garden, and a boat made by peter himself is suspended to one of the walls. i walked around the cottage, inside and out; listened attentively, without understanding a word he said, to the garrulous russian cicerone, and sat down on the step of the front piazza. opposite was that long range of imperial palaces extending for more than a mile on the neva, and surpassing all other royal residences in europe or the world. when peter sat in the door of this humble cottage, the ground where they stood was all morass and forest. where i saw the lofty spires of magnificent churches, he looked out upon fishermen's huts. my eyes fell upon the golden spire of the church of the citadel glittering in the sunbeams, and reminding me that in its dismal charnelhouse slept the tenant of the humble cottage, the master-spirit which had almost created out of nothing all this splendour. i saw at the same time the beginning and the end of greatness. the humble dwelling is preserved with religious reverence, and even now is the most interesting monument which the imperial city can show. and here, at this starting-point in her career, i take my leave of the palmyra of the north. i am compelled to omit many things which he who speaks of st. petersburgh at all ought not to omit: her magnificent churches; her gigantic and splendid theatres; her literary, scientific, and eleemosynary institutions, and that which might form the subject of a chapter in her capital, her government and laws. i might have seen something of russian society, as my friend luoff had arrived in st. petersburgh; but, with my limited time, the interchange of these civilities interfered with my seeing the curiosities of the capital. my intimacy with the colonel had fallen off, though we still were on good terms. the fact is, i believe i fell into rather queer company in st. petersburgh, and very soon found the colonel to be the most thorough roué i ever met. he seemed to think that travelling meant dissipating; he had never travelled but once, and that was with the army to paris; and, except when on duty, his whole time had been spent in riot and dissipation; and though sometimes he referred to hard fighting, he talked more of the pleasures of that terrible campaign than of its toils and dangers. in consideration of my being a stranger and a young man, he constituted himself my mentor, and the advice which, in all soberness, he gave me as the fruits of his experience, was a beautiful guide for the road to ruin. i have no doubt that, if i had given myself up entirely to him, he would have fêted me all the time i was in st. petersburgh; but this did not suit me, and i afterward fell in with the pole, who had his own vagaries too, and who, being the proprietor of a cloth manufactory, did not suit the aristocratic notions of the colonel, and so our friendship cooled. my intimacy with his friend the prince, however, increased. i called upon him frequently, and he offered to accompany me everywhere; but as in sightseeing i love to be alone, i seldom asked him, except for a twilight walk. old associations were all that now bound together him and the colonel; their feelings, their fortunes, and their habits of life were entirely different; and the colonel, instead of being displeased with my seeking the prince in preference to himself, was rather gratified. altogether, the colonel told me, he was much mistaken in me, but he believed i was a good fellow after all; excused my regular habits somewhat on the ground of my health; and the day before that fixed for my departure, asked me to pass the evening with him, and to bring my friend the pole. in the evening we went to the colonel's apartments. the prince was there, and, after an elegant little supper, happening to speak of a frenchman and a prussian living in the hotel, with whom i had become acquainted, he sent down for them to come up and join us. the table was cleared, pipes and tobacco were brought on, and champagne was the only wine. we had a long and interesting conversation on the subject of the road to warsaw, and particularly in regard to the bloody passage of the berezina, at which both the colonel and the prince were present. the servant, a favourite serf (who the next day robbed the colonel of every valuable article in his apartment), being clumsy in opening a new bottle of champagne, the colonel said he must return to army practice, and reaching down his sabre, with a scientific blow took off the neck without materially injuring the bottle or disturbing the contents. this military way of decanting champagne aided its circulation, and head after head fell rapidly before the naked sabre. i had for some time avoided emptying my glass, which, in the general hurry of business, was not noticed; but, as soon as the colonel discovered it, he cried out, "treason, treason against good fellowship. america is a traitor." i pleaded ill health, but he would not listen to me; upbraided me that the friend and old ally of russia should fail him; turned up his glass on the table, and swore he would not touch it again unless i did him justice. all followed his example; all decided that america was disturbing the peace of nations; the glasses were turned up all around, and a dead stop was put to the merriment. i appealed, begged, and protested; and the colonel became positive, dogged, and outrageous. the prince came to my aid, and proposed that the difficulty between russia and america should be submitted to the arbitration of france and prussia. he had observed these powers rather backing out. the eyes of france were already in a fine phrensy rolling, and prussia's tongue had long been wandering; and in apprehension of their own fate, these mighty powers leaned to mercy. it was necessary, however, to propitiate the colonel, and they decided that, to prevent the effusion of blood, i should start once more the flow of wine; that we should begin again with a bumper all around; and, after that, every man should do as he pleased. the colonel was obliged to be content; and swearing that he would drink for us all, started anew. the prussian was from berlin, and this led the colonel to speak of the stirring scenes that had taken place in that capital on the return of the russian army from paris; and, after a while, the prussian, personally unknown to the colonel, told him that his name was still remembered in berlin as a leader in russian riot and dissipation, and particularly as having carried off, in a most daring manner, a lady of distinguished family; and--"go on," said the colonel--"killed her husband." "he refused my challenge," said the colonel, "but sought my life, and i shot him like a dog." the whole party now became uproarious; the colonel begged me, by all the friendly relations between russia and america, to hold on till breakfast-time; but, being the coolest man present, and not knowing what farther developments might take place, i broke up the party. in the morning my passport was not ready. i went off to the police-office for it, and when i returned the horses had not come, and the valet brought me the usual answer, that there were none. my pole was glad to linger another day for the sake of his flirtation with the little girl opposite, and so we lounged through the day, part of the time in the bazar of a persian, where i came near ruining myself by an offer i made for a beautiful emerald; and after one more and the last twilight stroll on the banks of the neva and up the newski perspective, we returned at an early hour, and for the last time in russia, slept in a bed. at nine o'clock the next morning a kibitka drove up to the door of our hotel, demanding an american and a pole for warsaw. all the servants of the hotel were gathered around, arranging the luggage, and making a great parade of getting off the distinguished travellers. the travellers themselves seemed equipped for a long journey. one wore a blue roundabout jacket, military cap and cloak, with whiskers and a mustache tending to red; the other, a tall, stout, herculean fellow, was habited in the most outré costume of a russian traveller; a cotton dressing-gown of every variety of colours, red and yellow predominating; coarse gray trousers; boots coming above his knees; a cap _tout a fait farouche_, and there was no mistake about the colour of his hair and mustaches; he was moving slowly around the kibitka in his travelling dress, and looking up to the window opposite, to give his dulcinea the melancholy intelligence that he was going away, and perhaps to catch one farewell smile at parting. the carriage of these distinguished travellers was the kibitka, one of the national vehicles of russia, being a long, round-bottomed box or cradle on four wheels, probably the old scythian wagon, resting, in proud contempt of the effeminacy of springs, on the oaken axles; the hubs of the wheels were two feet long, the linchpins of wood, the body of the carriage fastened to the wheels by wooden pins, ropes, and sticks; and, except the tires of the wheels, there was not a nail or piece of iron about it. the hinder part was covered with matting, open in front somewhat like an oldfashioned bonnet, and supported by an arched stick, which served as a linchpin for the hind wheels; a bucket of grease hung under the hind axle, and the bottom of the kibitka was filled with straw; whole cost of outfit, thirteen dollars. before it were three horses, one in shafts and one on each side, the centre one having a high bow over his neck, painted yellow and red, to which a rein was tied for holding up his head, and also a bell, to a russian postillion more necessary than harness. the travellers took their places in the bottom of the kibitka, and the postillion, a rough, brutal-looking fellow, in gray coat and hat turned up at the sides, mounted in front, catching a seat where he could on the rim of the wagon, about three inches wide; and in this dashing equipage we started for a journey of a thousand miles to the capital of another kingdom. we rolled for the last time through the streets of st. petersburgh, gazed at the domes, and spires, and magnificent palaces, and in a few moments passed the barrier. i left st. petersburgh, as i did every other city, with a certain feeling of regret that, in all probability, i should never see it more; still the cracking of the postillion's whip and the galloping of the horses created in me that high excitement which i always felt in setting out for a new region. our first stage was to czarskoselo, our second to cazena, where there was another palace. it was dark when we reached the third, a small village, of which i did not even note the name. i shall not linger on this road, for it was barren of interest and incident, and through a continued succession of swamps and forests. for two hundred miles it tried the tenure of adhesion between soul and body, being made of the trunks of trees laid transversely, bound down by long poles or beams fastened into the ground with wooden pegs covered with layers of boughs, and the whole strewed over with sand and earth; the trunks in general were decayed and sunken, and the sand worn or washed away, reminding me of the worst of our western corduroy roads. our wagon being without springs, and our seats a full-length extension on straw on the bottom, without the bed, pillows, and cushions which the russians usually have, i found this ride one of the severest trials of physical endurance i ever experienced. my companion groaned and brushed his mustaches, and talked of the little girl at st. petersburgh. in my previous journey in russia i had found the refreshment of tea, and on this, often when almost exhausted, i was revived by that precious beverage. i stood it three days and nights, but on the fourth completely broke down. i insensibly slipped down at full length in the bottom of the wagon; the night was cold and rainy; my companion covered me up to the eyes with straw, and i slept from the early part of the evening like a dead man. the horses were changed three times; the wagon was lifted up under me, and the wheels greased; and three times my companion quarrelled with the postmaster over my body without waking me. about six o'clock in the morning he roused me. i could not stir hand or foot; my mouth was full of dust and straw, and i felt a sense of suffocation. in a few moments i crawled out, staggered a few steps, and threw myself down on the floor of a wretched posthouse. my companion put my carpet-bag under my head, wrapped cloaks and greatcoats around me, and prepared me some tea; but i loathed everything. i was in that miserable condition which every traveller has some time experienced; my head ringing, every bone aching, and perfectly reckless as to what became of me. while my companion stood over me i fell asleep, and believe i should have been sleeping there yet if he had not waked me. he said we must go on at all risks until we found a place where we could remain with some degree of comfort. i begged and entreated to be left to myself, but he was inexorable. he lifted me up, hauled me out to the kibitka, which was filled with fresh straw, and seated me within, supporting me on his shoulder. it was a beautiful day. we moved moderately, and toward evening came to a posthouse kept by a jew, or, rather, a jewess, who was so kind and attentive that we determined to stay there all night. she brought in some clean straw and spread it on the floor, where i slept gloriously. my companion was tougher than i, but he could not stand the fleas and bugs, and about midnight went out and slept in the kibitka. in the morning we found that he had been too late; that the kibitka had been stripped of every article except himself and the straw. fortunately, my carpet-bag had been brought in; but i received a severe blow in the loss of a cane, an old friend and travelling companion, which had been with me in every variety of scene, and which i had intended to carry home with me, and retain as a companion through life. it is almost inconceivable how much this little incident distressed me. it was a hundred times worse than the loss of my carpet-bag. i felt the want of it every moment; i had rattled it on the boulevards of paris, in the eternal city, the colosseum, and the places thereabout; had carried it up the burning mountain, and poked it into the red-hot lava; had borne it in the acropolis, on the field of marathon, and among the ruins of ephesus; had flourished it under the beard of the sultan, and the eyes and nose of the emperor and autocrat of all the russias; in deserts and in cities it had been my companion and friend. unsparing nemesis, let loose your vengeance upon the thief who stole it! the rascals had even carried off the rope traces, and every loose article about the kibitka. notwithstanding this, however, i ought not to omit remarking the general security of travelling in russia and poland. the immense plains; the distance of habitations; the number of forests; the custom of travelling by night as well as by day; the negligence of all measures to ensure the safety of the roads, all contribute to favour robbery and murders; and yet an instance of either is scarcely known in years. it was difficult on those immense levels, which seemed independent of either general or individual proprietors, to recognise even the bounds of empires. the dwina, however, a natural boundary, rolls between russia and poland; and at vitepsk we entered the territories of what was once another kingdom. the surface of poland forms part of that immense and unvaried plain which constitutes the northern portion of all the central european countries. a great portion of this plain is overspread with a deep layer of sand, alternating however, with large clayey tracts and extensive marshes; a winter nearly as severe as that of sweden, and violent winds blowing uninterruptedly over this wide open region, are consequences of its physical structure and position. the roman arms never penetrated any part of this great level tract, the whole of which was called by them sarmatia; and sarmatia and scythia were in their descriptions always named together as the abode of nomadic and savage tribes. from the earliest era it appears to have been peopled by the sclavonic tribes; a race widely diffused, and distinguished by a peculiar language, by a strong national feeling, and by a particular train of superstitious ideas. though shepherds, they did not partake of the migratory character of the teutonic or tartar nations; and were long held in the most cruel bondage by the huns, the goths, and other nations of asia, for whom their country was a path to the conquest of the west of europe. in the tenth century the poles were a powerful and warlike nation. in the fourteenth lithuania was incorporated with it, and poland became one of the most powerful monarchies in europe. for two centuries it was the bulwark of christendom against the alarming invasions of the turks; the reigns of sigismund and sobieski hold a high place in military history; and, until the beginning of the last century, its martial character gave it a commanding influence in europe. it is unnecessary to trace the rapid and irrecoverable fall of poland. on the second partition, kosciusko, animated by his recent struggle for liberty in america, roused his countrymen to arms. but the feet of three giants were upon her breast; and suwarrow, marching upon the capital, storming the fortress of praga, and butchering in cold blood thirty thousand inhabitants, extinguished, apparently for ever, the rights and the glories of poland. living as we do apart from the rest of the world, with no national animosities transmitted by our fathers, it is impossible to realize the feeling of deadly hatred existing between neighbouring nations from the disputes of ancestors centuries ago. the history of russia and poland presents a continued series of bloodstained pages. battle after battle has nourished their mutual hate, and for a long time it had been the settled feeling of both that russia or poland must fall. it is perhaps fortunate for the rest of europe that this feeling has always existed; for, if they were united in heart, the whole south of europe would lie at the mercy of their invading armies. napoleon committed a fatal error in tampering with the brave and patriotic poles; for he might have rallied around him a nation of soldiers who, in gratitude, would have stood by him until they were exterminated. but to return to vitepsk. here, for the first time, we fell into the memorable road traversed by napoleon on his way to moscow. the town stands on the banks of the dwina, built on both sides of the river, and contains a population of about fifteen thousand, a great portion of whom are jews. in itself, it has but little to engage the attention of the traveller; but i strolled through its streets with extraordinary interest, remembering it as the place where napoleon decided on his fatal march to moscow. it was at the same season and on the very same day of the year that the "grand army," having traversed the gloomy forests of lithuania in pursuit of an invincible and intangible enemy, with the loss of more than a hundred thousand men, emerged from the last range of woods and halted at the presence of the hostile fires that covered the plain before the city. napoleon slept in his tent on an eminence at the left of the main road, and before sunrise appeared at the advanced posts, and by its first rays saw the russian army, eighty thousand strong, encamped on a high plain commanding all the avenues of the city. ten thousand horsemen made a show of defending its passes; and at about ten o'clock, murat le beau sabreur, intoxicated by the admiration his presence excited, at the head of a single regiment of chasseurs charged the whole russian cavalry. he was repulsed, and driven back to the foot of the hillock on which napoleon stood. the chasseurs of the french guards formed a circle around him, drove off the assailant lancers, and the emperor ordered the attack to cease; and, pointing to the city, his parting words to murat were, "to-morrow at five o'clock the sun of austerlitz." at daylight the camp of barclay de tolly was deserted; not a weapon, not a single valuable left behind; and a russian soldier asleep under a bush was the sole result of the day expected to be so decisive. vitepsk, except by a few miserable jews and jesuits, like the russian camp, was also abandoned. the emperor mounted his horse and rode through the deserted camp and desolate streets of the city. chagrined and mortified, he pitched his tents in an open courtyard; but, after a council of war with murat, eugene, and others of his principal officers, laid his sword upon the table, and resolved to finish in vitepsk the campaign of that year. well had it been for him had he never changed that determination. he traced his line of defence on the map, and explored vitepsk and its environs as a place where he was likely to make a long residence; formed establishments of all kinds; erected large ovens capable of baking at once thirty thousand loaves of bread; pulled down a range of stone houses which injured the appearance of the square of the palace, and made arrangements for opening the theatre with parisian actors. but in a few days he was observed to grow restless; the members of his household recollected his expression at the first view of the deserted vitepsk, "do you think i have come so far to conquer these miserable huts?" segur says that he was observed to wander about his apartments as if pursued by some dangerous temptation. nothing could rivet his attention. every moment he began, stopped, and resumed his labour. at length, overwhelmed with the importance of the considerations that agitated him, "he threw himself on the floor of his apartment; his frame, exhausted by the heat and the struggles of his mind, could only bear a covering of the slightest texture. he rose from his sleepless pillow possessed once more with the genius of war; his voice deepens, his eyes flash fire, and his countenance darkens. his attendants retreat from his presence, struck with mingled awe and respect. his plan is fixed, his determination taken, his order of march traced out." the last council occupied eight hours. berthier by a melancholy countenance, by lamentations, and even by tears; lobau by the cold and haughty frankness of a warrior; caulaincourt with obstinacy and impetuosity amounting to violence; duroc by a chilling silence, and afterward by stern replies; and daru straightforward and with firmness immoveable, opposed his going; but, as if driven on by that fate he almost defied, he broke up the council with the fatal determination. "blood has not been shed, and russia is too great to yield without fighting. alexander can only negotiate after a great battle. i will proceed to the holy city in search of that battle, and i will gain it. peace waits me at the gates of moscow." from that hour commenced that train of terrible disasters which finally drove him from the throne of france, and sent him to die an exile on a small island in the indian ocean. i walked out on the moscow road, by which the grand army, with pomp and martial music, with murat, and ney, and duroc, and daru, inspired by the great names of smolensk and moscow, plunged into a region of almost pathless forest, where most of them were destined to find a grave. i was at first surprised at the utter ignorance of the inhabitants of vitepsk, in regard to the circumstances attending the occupation of the city by napoleon. a jew was my cicerone, who talked of the great scenes of which this little city had in his own day been the theatre almost as matter of tradition, and without half the interest with which, even now, the greek points the stranger to the ruins of argos or the field of marathon; and this ignorance in regard to the only matters that give an interest to this dreary road i remarked during the whole journey. i was so unsuccessful in my questions, and the answers were so unsatisfactory, that my companion soon became tired of acting as my interpreter. indeed, as he said, he himself knew more than any one i met, for he had travelled it before in company with an uncle, of the polish legion; but even he was by no means familiar with the ground. we left vitepsk with a set of miserable horses, rode all night, and at noon of the next day were approaching the banks of the berezina, memorable for the dreadful passage which almost annihilated the wretched remnant of napoleon's army. it was impossible, in passing over the same ground, not to recur to the events of which it had been the scene. the "invincible legions," which left vitepsk two hundred thousand strong, were now fighting their dreadful retreat from moscow through regulars and cossacks, reduced to less than twelve thousand men marching in column, with a train of thirty thousand undisciplined followers, sick, wounded, and marauders of every description. the cavalry which crossed the niemen thirty-seven thousand in number was reduced to one hundred and fifty men on horseback. napoleon collected all the officers who remained mounted, and formed them into a body, in all about five hundred, which he called his sacred squadron; officers served as privates, and generals of divisions as captains. he ordered the carriages of the officers, many of the wagons, and even the eagles belonging to the different corps, to be burned in his presence; and drawing his sword, with the stern remark that he had sufficiently acted the emperor, and must once more play the general, marched on foot at the head of his old guard. he had hardly reorganized before the immense pine forests which border the berezina echoed with the thunder of the russian artillery; in a moment all remains of discipline were lost. in the last stage of weakness and confusion they were roused by loud cries before them, and, to their great surprise and joy, recognised the armies of victor and oudinot. the latter knew nothing of the terrible disasters of the army of moscow, and they were thrown into consternation and then melted to tears when they saw behind napoleon, instead of the invincible legions which had left them in splendid equipments, a train of gaunt and spectral figures, their faces black with dirt, and long bristly beards, covered with rags, female pelisses, pieces of carpet, with bare and bleeding feet, or bundled with rags, and colonels and generals marching pellmell with soldiers, unarmed and shameless, without any order or discipline, kept together and sleeping round the same fires only by the instinct of self-preservation. about noon we drove into the town of borizoff. it stands on the banks of the berezina, and is an old, irregular-looking place, with a heavy wooden church in the centre of an open square. as usual, at the door of the posthouse a group of jews gathered around us. when napoleon took possession of borizoff the jews were the only inhabitants who remained; and they, a scattered, wandering, and migratory people, without any attachment of soil or country, were ready to serve either the french or russians, according to the inducements held out to them. a few noble instances are recorded where this persecuted and degraded people exhibited a devotion to the land that sheltered them honourable to their race and to the character of man; but in general they were false and faithless. those who gathered around us in borizoff looked as though they might be the very people who betrayed the russians. one of them told us that a great battle had been fought there, but we could not find any who had been present at the fatal passage of the river. we dined at the posthouse, probably with less anxiety than was felt by napoleon or any of the flying frenchmen; but even we were not permitted to eat in peace; for, before we had finished, our vehicle was ready, with worse horses than usual, and a surlier postillion. we sent the postillion on ahead, and walked down to the bank of the river. on the night preceding the passage, napoleon himself had command of borizoff, with six thousand guards prepared for a desperate contest. he passed the whole night on his feet; and while waiting for the approach of daylight in one of the houses on the border of the river, so impracticable seemed the chance of crossing with the army that murat proposed to him to put himself under the escort of some brave and determined poles, and save himself while there was yet time; but the emperor indignantly rejected the proposition as a cowardly flight. the river is here very broad, and divided into branches. on the opposite side are the remains of an embankment that formed part of the russian fortifications. when the russians were driven out of borizoff by oudinot, they crossed the river, burned the bridge, and erected these embankments. besides the sanguinary contest of the french and russians, this river is also memorable for a great battle between my companion and our postillion. in the middle of the bridge the postillion stopped and waited till we came up; he grumbled loudly at being detained, to which my companion replied in his usual conciliatory and insinuating manner, by laying his cane over the fellow's shoulders; but on the bridge of borizoff the blood of the lithuanian was roused; and, perhaps, urged on by the memory of the deeds done there by his fathers, he sprang out of the wagon, and with a warcry that would not have disgraced a cossack of the don, rushed furiously upon my friend. oh for a homer to celebrate that fight on the bridge of borizoff! the warriors met, not like grecian heroes, with spear and shield, and clad in steel, but with their naked fists and faces bare to take the blows. my friend was a sublime spectacle. like a rock, firm and immoveable, he stood and met the charge of the postillion; in short, in the twinkling of an eye he knocked the postillion down. those who know say that it is more trying to walk over a field of battle after all is over than to be in the fight; and i believe it from my experience in our trying passage of the berezina; for, when i picked up the discomfited postillion, whose face was covered with blood, i believe that i had the worst of it. all great victories are tested by their results, and nothing could be more decisive than that over the postillion. he arose a wiser and much more tractable man. at first he looked very stupid when he saw me leaning over him, and very startled when he rubbed his hand over his face and saw it stained with blood; but, raising himself, he caught sight of his victor, and without a word got into the wagon, walked the horses over the bridge, and at the other end got out and threw himself on the ground. it was a beautiful afternoon, and we lingered on the bridge. crossing it, we walked up the bank on the opposite side toward the place where napoleon erected his bridges for the passage of his army. all night the french worked at the bridges by the light of the enemy's fires on the opposite side. at daylight the fires were abandoned, and the russians, supposing the attempt here to be a feint, were seen in full retreat. the emperor, impatient to get possession of the opposite bank, pointed it out to the bravest. a french aiddecamp and lithuanian count threw themselves into the river, and, in spite of the ice, which cut their horses' breasts, reached the opposite bank in safety. about one o'clock the bank on which we stood was entirely cleared of cossacks, and the bridge for the infantry was finished. the first division crossed it rapidly with its cannon, the men shouting "_vive l'empereur!_" the passage occupied three days. the number of stragglers and the quantity of baggage were immense. on the night of the twenty-seventh the stragglers left the bridge, tore down the whole village, and made fires with the materials, around which they crouched their shivering figures, and from which it was impossible to tear themselves away. at daylight they were roused by the report of witgenstein's cannon thundering over their heads, and again all rushed tumultuously to the bridges. the russians, with platow and his cossacks, were now in full communication on both sides of the river. on the left bank, napoleon's own presence of mind and the bravery of his soldiers gave him a decided superiority; but, in the language of scott, the scene on the right bank had become the wildest and most horrible which war can exhibit. "victor, with eight or ten thousand men, covered the retreat over the bridges, while behind his line thousands of stragglers, old men, women, and children, were wandering by the side of this river like the fabled spectres which throng the banks of the infernal styx, seeking in vain for passage. the balls of the russians began to fall among the disordered mass, and the whole body rushed like distracted beings toward the bridges, every feeling of prudence or humanity swallowed up by the animal instinct of self-preservation. the weak and helpless either shrunk from the fray and sat down to wait their fate at a distance, or, mixing in it, were thrust over the bridges, crushed under carriages, cut down with sabres, or trampled to death under the feet of their countrymen. all this while the action continued with fury; and, as if the heavens meant to match their wrath with that of man, a hurricane arose and added terrors to a scene which was already of a character so dreadful. about midday the larger bridge, constructed for artillery and heavy carriages, broke down, and multitudes were forced into the water. the scream of the despairing multitude became at this crisis for a moment so universal, that it rose shrilly above the wild whistling of the tempest and the sustained and redoubled hourras of the cossacks. the dreadful scene continued till dark. as the obscurity came on, victor abandoned the station he had defended so bravely, and led the remnant of his troops in their turn across. all night the miscellaneous multitude continued to throng across the bridge under the fire of the russian artillery. at daybreak the french engineers finally set fire to the bridge, and all that remained on the other side, including many prisoners, and a great quantity of guns and baggage, became the property of the russians. the amount of the french loss was never exactly known; but the russian report concerning the bodies of the invaders, which were collected and burned as soon as the thaw permitted, states that upward of thirty-six thousand were found in the berezina." the whole of this scene was familiar to me as matter of history; the passage of the berezina had in some way fastened itself upon my mind as one of the most fearful scenes in the annals of war; and, besides this, at st. petersburgh the colonel and prince had given me a detailed account of the horrors of that dreadful night, for they were both with witgenstein's army, by the light of the snow, the course of the river, and the noise, directing a murderous fire of artillery against the dark mass moving over the bridge; and nearer still, my companion had visited the place in company with his uncle, of the polish legion, and repeated to me the circumstances of individual horror which he had heard from his relative, surpassing human belief. the reader will excuse me if i have lingered too long on the banks of that river; and perhaps, too, he will excuse me when i tell him that, before leaving it, i walked down to its brink and bathed my face in its waters. others have done so at the classic streams of italy and greece; but i rolled over the arno and the tiber in a vetturino without stopping, and the reader will remember that i jumped over the ilissus. chapter x. travel by night.--a rencounter.--a traveller's message.--lithuania.--poverty of the country.--agricultural implements.--minsk.--polish jews.--a coin of freedom.--riding in a basket.--brezc.--the bug.--a searching operation.--women labourers.--warsaw. it was after dark when we returned to our wagon, still standing at the end of the bridge opposite borizoff. our postillion, like a sensible man, had lain down to sleep at the head of his horses, so they could not move without treading on him and waking him; and, when we roused him, the pain of his beating was over, and with it all sense of the indignity; and, in fact, we made him very grateful for the flogging by promising him a few additional kopeks. we hauled up the straw and seated ourselves in the bottom of our kibitka. night closed upon us amid the gloomy forests bordering the banks of the berezina. we talked for a little while, and by degrees drawing our cloaks around us, each fell into a revery. the continued tinkling of the bell, which, on my first entering russia, grated on my ear, had become agreeable to me, and in a dark night particularly was a pleasing sound. the song of the postillion, too, harmonized with the repose of spirit at that moment most grateful to us; that too died away, the bell almost ceased its tinkling, and, in spite of the alarum of war which we had all day been ringing in our own ears, we should probably soon have fallen into a sleep as sound, for a little while at least, as that of them who slept under the waters of the berezina, but we were suddenly roused by a shock as alarming to quiet travellers as the hourra of the cossack in the ears of the flying frenchmen. our horses sprang out of the road, but not in time to avoid a concussion with another wagon going toward borizoff. both postillions were thrown off their seats; and the stranger, picking himself up, came at us with a stream of lithuanian russian almost harsh enough to frighten the horses. i will not suggest what its effect was upon us, but only that, as to myself, it seemed at first equal to the voice of at least a dozen freebooters and marauders; and if the english of it had been "stand and deliver," i should probably have given up my carpet-bag without asking to reserve a change of linen. but i was restored by the return fire of our postillion, who drowned completely the attack of his adversary by his outrageous clamour; and when he stopped to take breath my companion followed up the defence, and this brought out a fourth voice from the bottom of the opposite wagon. a truce was called, and waiving the question on which side the fault lay, we all got out to ascertain the damage. our antagonist passenger was a german merchant, used to roughing it twice every year between berlin, warsaw, petersburgh, and moscow, and took our smashing together at night in this desolate forest as coolly as a rub of the shoulders in the streets; and, when satisfied that his wagon was not injured, kindly asked us if we had any bones broken. we returned his kind inquiries; and, after farther interchanges of politeness, he said that he was happy to make our acquaintance, and invited us to come and see him at berlin. we wanted him to go back and let us have a look at him by torchlight, but he declined; and, after feeling him stretched out in his bed in the bottom of his wagon, we started him on his way. we resumed our own places, and, without dozing again, arrived at the posthouse, where first of all we made ourselves agreeable to the postmaster by delivering our german friend's message to him, that he ought to be whipped and condemned to live where he was till he was a hundred years old for putting the neck of a traveller at the mercy of a sleepy postillion; but the postmaster was a jew, and thought the vile place where he lived equal to any on earth. he was a miserable, squalid-looking object, with a pine torch in his hand lighting up the poverty and filthiness of his wretched habitation, and confessed that he should be too happy to enjoy the fortune which the german would have entailed upon him as a curse. he offered to make us a bed of some dirty straw which had often been slept on before; but we shrank from it; and, as soon as we could get horses, returned to our kibitka and resumed our journey. the whole province of lithuania is much the same in appearance. we lost nothing by travelling through it at night; indeed, every step that we advanced was a decided gain, as it brought us so much nearer its farthermost border. the vast provinces of lithuania, formerly a part of the kingdom of poland, and, since the partition of that unhappy country, subject to the throne of russia, until the fourteenth century were independent of either. the lithuanians and samogitians are supposed to be of a different race from the poles, and spoke a language widely dissimilar to the polish or russian. their religion was a strange idolatry; they worshipped the god of thunder, and paid homage to a god of the harvest; they maintained priests, who were constantly feeding a sacred fire in honour of the god of the seasons; they worshipped trees, fountains, and plants; had sacred serpents, and believed in guardian spirits of trees, cattle, &c. their government, like that of all other barbarous nations, was despotic, and the nobles were less numerous and more tyrannical than in poland. in the latter part of the fourteenth century, on the death of louis, successor to casimir the great, hedwiga was called to the throne of poland, under a stipulation, however, that she should follow the will of the poles in the choice of her husband. many candidates offered themselves for the hand dowered with a kingdom; but the offers of jagellon, duke of lithuania, were most tempting; he promised to unite his extensive dominions to the territory of poland, and pledged himself for the conversion to christianity of his lithuanian subjects. but queens are not free from the infirmities of human nature; and hedwiga had fixed her affections upon her cousin, william of austria, whom she had invited into poland; and when jagellon came to take possession of his wife and crown, she refused to see him. the nobles, however, sent william back to his papa, and locked her up as if she had been a boarding-school miss. and again, queens are not free from the infirmities of human nature: hedwiga was inconstant; the handsome lithuanian made her forget her first love, and poland and lithuania were united under one crown. jagellon was baptized, but the inhabitants of lithuania did not so readily embrace the christian religion; in one of the provinces they clung for a long time to their own strange and wild superstitions; and even in modern times, it is said, the peasants long obstinately refused to use ploughs or other agricultural instruments furnished with iron, for fear of wounding the bosom of mother earth. all the way from borizoff the road passes through a country but little cultivated, dreary, and covered with forests. when napoleon entered the province of lithuania his first bulletins proclaimed, "here, then, is that russia so formidable at a distance! it is a desert for which its scattered population is wholly insufficient. they will be vanquished by the very extent of territory which ought to defend them;" and, before i had travelled in it a day, i could appreciate the feeling of the soldier from la belle france, who, hearing his polish comrades boast of their country, exclaimed, "et ces gueux la appellent cette pays une patrie!" the villages are a miserable collection of straggling huts, without plan or arrangement, and separated from each other by large spaces of ground. they are about ten or twelve feet square, made of the misshapen trunks of trees heaped on each other, with the ends projecting over; the roof of large shapeless boards, and the window a small hole in the wall, answering the double purpose of admitting light and letting out smoke. the tenants of these wretched hovels exhibit the same miserable appearance both in person and manners. they are hard-boned and sallow-complexioned; the men wear coarse white woollen frocks, and a round felt cap lined with wool, and shoes made of the bark of trees, and their uncombed hair hangs low over their heads, generally of a flaxen colour. their agricultural implements are of the rudest kind. the plough and harrow are made from the branches of the fir tree, without either iron or ropes; their carts are put together without iron, consisting of four small wheels, each of a single piece of wood; the sides are made of the bark of a tree bent round, and the shafts are a couple of fir branches; their bridles and traces platted from the bark of trees, or composed merely of twisted branches. their only instrument to construct their huts and make their carts is a hatchet. they were servile and cringing in their expressions of respect, bowing down to the ground and stopping their carts as soon as we came near them, and stood with their caps in their hands till we were out of sight. the whole country, except in some open places around villages, is one immense forest of firs, perhaps sixty feet in height, compact and thick, but very slender. as we approached minsk the road was sandy, and we entered by a wooden bridge over a small stream and along an avenue of trees. minsk is one of the better class of lithuanian towns, being the chief town of the government of minsk, but very dirty and irregular. the principal street terminates in a large open square of grass and mean wooden huts. from this another street goes off at right angles, containing large houses, and joining with a second square, where some of the principal buildings are of brick. from this square several streets branch off, and enter a crowd of wooden hovels irregularly huddled together, and covering a large space of ground. the churches are heavily constructed, and in a style peculiar to lithuania, their gable ends fronting the street, and terminated at each corner by a square spire, with a low dome between them. the population is half catholic and half jewish, and the jews are of the most filthy and abject class. a few words with regard to the jews in poland. from the moment of crossing the borders of lithuania, i had remarked in every town and village swarms of people differing entirely from the other inhabitants in physical appearance and costume, and in whose sharply-drawn features, long beards, and flowing dresses, with the coal-black eyes and oriental costumes of the women, i at once recognised the dispersed and wandering children of israel. on the second destruction of jerusalem, when the roman general drove a plough over the site of the temple of solomon, the political existence of the jewish nation was annihilated, their land was portioned out among strangers, and the descendants of abraham were forbidden to pollute with their presence the holy city of their fathers. in the roman territories, their petition for the reduction of taxation received the stern answer of the roman, "ye demand exemption from tribute for your soil; i will lay it on the air you breathe;" and, in the words of the historian, "dispersed and vagabond, exiled from their native soil and air, they wander over the face of the earth without a king, either human or divine, and even as strangers they are not permitted to salute with their footsteps their native land." history furnishes no precise records of the emigration or of the first settlement of the israelites in the different countries of europe; but for centuries they have been found dispersed, as it was foretold they would be, over the whole habitable world, a strange, unsocial, and isolated people, a living and continued miracle. at this day they are found in all the civilized countries of europe and america, in the wildest regions of asia and africa, and even within the walls of china; but, after palestine, poland is regarded as their land of promise; and there they present a more extraordinary spectacle than in any country where their race is known. centuries have rolled on, revolutions have convulsed the globe, new and strange opinions have disturbed the human race, but the polish jew remains unchanged: the same as the dark superstition of the middle ages made him; the same in his outward appearance and internal dispositions, in his physical and moral condition, as when he fled thither for refuge from the swords of the crusaders. as early as the fourteenth century, great privileges were secured to the jews by casimir the great, who styled them his "faithful and able subjects," induced, according to the chronicles of the times, like ahasuerus of old, by the love of a beautiful esther. while in germany, italy, spain, portugal, and even in england and france, their whole history is that of one continued persecution, oppressed by the nobles, anathematized by the clergy, despised and abhorred by the populace, flying from city to city, arrested, and tortured, and burned alive, and sometimes destroying themselves by thousands to escape horrors worse than death; while all orders were arrayed in fierce and implacable hatred against them, in poland the race of israel found rest; and there they remain at this day, after centuries of residence, still a distinct people, strangers and sojourners in the land, mingling with their neighbours in the every-day business of life, but never mingling their blood; the direct descendants of the israelites who, three thousand years ago, went out from the land of egypt; speaking the same language, and practising the laws delivered to moses on the mountain of sinai; mourning over their fallen temple, and still looking for the messiah who shall bring together their scattered nation and restore their temporal kingdom. but notwithstanding the interest of their history and position, the polish jews are far from being an interesting people; they swarm about the villages and towns, intent on gain, and monopolizing all the petty traffic of the country. outward degradation has worked inward upon their minds; confined to base and sordid occupations, their thoughts and feelings are contracted to their stations, and the despised have become despicable. it was principally in his capacity of innkeeper that i became acquainted with the polish jew. the inn is generally a miserable hovel communicating with, or a room partitioned off in one corner of, a large shed serving as a stable and yard for vehicles; the entrance is under a low porch of timber; the floor is of dirt; the furniture consists of a long table, or two or three small ones, and in one corner a bunch of straw, or sometimes a few raised boards formed into a platform, with straw spread over it, for beds; at one end a narrow door leads into a sort of hole filled with dirty beds, old women, half-grown boys and girls, and children not overburdened with garments, and so filthy that, however fatigued, i never felt disposed to venture among them for rest. here the jew, assisted by a dirty-faced rachel, with a keen and anxious look, passes his whole day in serving out to the meanest customers beer, and hay, and corn; wrangling with and extorting money from intoxicated peasants; and, it is said, sometimes, after the day's drudgery is over, retires at night to his miserable hole to pore over the ponderous volumes filled with rabbinical lore; or sometimes his mind takes a higher flight, meditating upon the nature of the human soul; its relation to the divinity; the connexion between the spirit and the body; and indulging in the visionary hope of gaining, by means of cabalistic formula, command over the spirits of the air, the fire, the flood, and the earth. though the days of bitter persecution and hatred have gone by, the jews are still objects of contempt and loathing. once i remember pointing out to my postillion a beautiful jewish girl, and, with the fanatic spirit of the middle ages, himself one of the most degraded serfs in poland, he scorned the idea of marrying the fair daughter of israel. but this the jew does not regard; all he asks is to be secured from the active enmity of mankind. "like the haughty roman banished from the world, the israelite throws back the sentence of banishment, and still retreats to the lofty conviction that his race is not excluded as an unworthy, but kept apart as a sacred, people; humiliated, indeed, but still hallowed, and reserved for the sure though tardy fulfilment of the divine promises." the jews in poland are still excluded from all offices and honours, and from all the privileges and distinctions of social life. until the accession of nicolas, they were exempted from military service on payment of a tax; but since his time they have been subject to the regular conscription. they regard this as an alarming act of oppression, for the boys are taken from their families at twelve or thirteen, and sent to the army or the common military school, where they imbibe notions utterly at variance with the principles taught them by their fathers; and, probably, if the system continues, another generation will work a great change in the character of the jews of poland. but to return to the jews at minsk. as usual, they gathered around us before we were out of our kibitka, laid hold of our baggage, and in hebrew, lithuanian, and polish, were clamorous in offers of service. they were spare in figure, dressed in high fur caps and long black muslin gowns, shining and glossy from long use and tied around the waist with a sash; and here i remarked what has often been remarked by other travellers, when the features were at rest, a style of face and expression resembling the pictures of the saviour in the galleries in italy. while my companion was arranging for posthorses and dinner, i strolled through the town alone, that is, with a dozen israelites at my heels and on my return i found an accession of the stiff-necked and unbelieving race, one of whom arrested my attention by thrusting before me a silver coin. it was not an antique, but it had in my eyes a greater value than if it had been dug from the ruins of a buried city, and bore the image of julius cæsar. on the breaking out of the late revolution, one of the first acts of sovereignty exercised by the provincial government was to issue a national coin stamped with the arms of the old kingdom of poland, the white eagle and the armed cavalier, with an inscription around the rim, "god protect poland." when the revolution was crushed, with the view of destroying in the minds of the poles every memento of their brief but glorious moment of liberty, this coin was called in and suppressed, and another substituted in its place, with the polish eagle, by way of insult, stamped in a small character near the tip end of the wing of the double-headed eagle of russia. the coin offered me by the jew was one of the emission of the revolution, and my companion told me it was a rare thing to find one. i bought it at the jew's price, and put it in my pocket as a memorial of a brave and fallen people. i will not inflict upon the reader the particulars of our journey through this dreary and uninteresting country. we travelled constantly, except when we were detained for horses. we never stopped at night, for there seldom was any shelter on the road better than the jews' inns, and even in our kibitka we were better than there. but, unluckily, on the seventh day, our kibitka broke down; the off hind wheel snapped in pieces, and let us down rather suddenly in one of the autocrat's forests. our first impulse was to congratulate ourselves that this accident happened in daylight; and we had a narrow escape, for the sun had hardly begun to find its way into the dark forest. fortunately, too, we were but two or three versts from a posthouse. i had met with such accidents at home, and rigged a small tree (there being no such things as rails, property there not being divided by rail fences) under the hind axle, supporting it on the front. we lighted our pipes and escorted our crippled vehicle to the posthouse, where we bought a wheel off another wagon, much better than the old one, only about two inches lower. this, however, was not so bad as might be supposed, at least for me, who sat on the upper side, and had the stout figure of my companion as a leaning-post. at sloghan, about two hundred versts from brezc the frontier town of poland, we sold our kibitka for a breakfast, and took the _char de pôste_, or regular troika. this is the postboy's favourite vehicle; the body being made of twigs interlaced like a long basket, without a particle of iron, and so light that a man can lift up either end with one hand. our speed was increased wonderfully by the change; the horses fairly played with the little car at their heels; the drivers vied with each other, and several posts in succession we made nearly twenty versts in an hour. it will probably be difficult to throw the charm of romance around the troika driver; but he comes from the flower of the peasantry; his life, passed on the wild highways, is not without its vicissitudes, and he is made the hero of the russian's favourite popular ballads: "away, away, along the road the gallant troika bounds; while 'neath the douga, sadly sweet, their valdai bell resounds."[ ] we passed the house of a _very respectable_ seigneur who had married his own sister. we stopped at his village and talked of him with the postmaster, by whom he was considered a model of the domestic virtues. the same day we passed the chateau of a nobleman who wrote himself cousin to the emperors of russia and austria, confiscated for the part he took in the late polish revolution, a melancholy-looking object, deserted and falling to ruins, its owner wandering in exile with a price upon his head. it rained hard during the day, for the first time since we left petersburgh; at night the rain ceased, but the sky was still overcast. for a long distance, and, in fact, a great part of the way from petersburgh, the road was bordered with trees. at eleven o'clock we stopped at a wretched posthouse, boiled water, and refreshed ourselves with deep potations of hot tea. we mounted our troika, the postillion shouted, and set off on a run. heavy clouds were hanging in the sky; it was so dark that we could not see the horses, and there was some little danger of a breakdown; but there was a high and wild excitement in hurrying swiftly through the darkness on a run, hearing the quick tinkling of the bell and the regular fall of the horses' hoofs, and seeing only the dark outline of the trees. we continued this way all night, and toward morning we were rattling on a full gallop through the streets of brezc. we drove into a large stable-yard filled with kibitkas, troikas, and all kinds of russian vehicles, at one end of which was a long low building kept by a jew. we dismounted, and so ended nearly three thousand miles of posting in russia. the jew, roused by our noise, was already at the door with a lighted taper in his hand, and gave us a room with a leather-covered sofa and a leather cushion for a pillow, where we slept till eleven o'clock the next day. we breakfasted, and in the midst of a violent rain crossed the bug, and entered the territory of poland proper. for many centuries the banks of the bug have been the battle-ground of the russians and poles. in the time of boleslaus the terrible, the russians were defeated there with great slaughter, and the river was so stained with blood that it has retained ever since the name of the _horrid_. before crossing we were obliged to exchange our russian money for polish, rubles for florins, losing, of course, heavily by the operation, besides being subjected to the bore of studying a new currency; and the moment we planted our feet on the conquered territory, though now nominally under the same government, we were obliged to submit to a most vexatious process. the custom-house stood at the end of the bridge, and, as matter of course, our postillion stopped there. our luggage was taken off the wagon, carried inside, every article taken out and laid on the floor, and a russian soldier stood over, comparing them with a list of prohibited articles as long as my arm. fortunately for me, the russian government had not prohibited travellers from wearing pantaloons and shirts in poland, though it came near faring hard with a morning-gown. my companion, however, suffered terribly; his wearing apparel was all laid out on one side, while a large collection of curious and pretty nothings, which he had got together with great affection at the capital, as memorials for his friends at home, were laid out separately, boxes opened, papers unrolled, and, with provoking deliberation, examined according to the list of prohibited things. it was a new and despotic regulation unknown to him, and he looked on in agony, every condemned article being just the one above all others which he would have saved; and when they had finished, a large pile was retained for the examination of another officer, to be sent on to warsaw in case of their being allowed to pass at all. i had frequently regretted having allowed the trouble and inconvenience to prevent my picking up curiosities; but when i saw the treasures of my friend taken from him, or, at least, detained for an uncertain time, i congratulated myself upon my good fortune. my friend was a man not easily disheartened; he had even got over the loss of his love at st. petersburgh; but he would rather have been turned adrift in poland without his pantaloons than be stripped of his precious bawbles. i had seen him roused several times on the road, quarrelling with postmasters and thumping postillions, but i had never before seen the full development of that extraordinary head of hair. he ground his teeth and cursed the whole russian nation, from the emperor nicolas down to the soldier at the custom-house. he was ripe for revolution, and, if a new standard of rebellion had been set up in poland, he would have hurried to range himself under its folds. i soothed him by striking the key-note of his heart. all the way from petersburgh he had sat mechanically, with his pocket-glass and brush, dressing his mustaches; but his heart was not in the work, until, as we approached the borders of poland, he began to recover from his petersburgh affair, and to talk of the beauty of the polish women. i turned him to this now. it is a fact that, while for ages a deadly hatred has existed between the russians and the poles, and while the russians are at this day lording it over the poles with the most arbitrary insolence and tyranny, beauty still asserts its lawful supremacy, and the polish women bring to their feet the conquerors of their fathers, and husbands, and brothers. the first posthouse at which we stopped confirmed all that my companion had said; for the postmaster's daughter was brilliantly beautiful, particularly in the melting wildness of a dark eye, indicating an asiatic or tartar origin; and her gentle influence was exerted in soothing the savage humour of my friend, for she sympathized in his misfortunes, and the more sincerely when she heard of the combs, and rings, and slippers, and other pretty little ornaments for sisters and female friends at home; and my pole could not resist the sympathy of a pretty woman. we had scarcely left the postmaster's daughter, on the threshold of poland, almost throwing a romance about the polish women, before i saw the most degrading spectacle i ever beheld in europe, or even in the barbarous countries of the east. forty or fifty women were at work in the fields, and a large, well-dressed man, with a pipe in his mouth and a long stick in his hand, was walking among them as overseer. in our country the most common labouring man would revolt at the idea of his wife or daughter working in the open fields. i had seen it, however, in gallant france and beautiful italy; but i never saw, even in the barbarous countries of the east, so degrading a spectacle as this; and i could have borne it almost anywhere better than in chivalric poland. we were now in the territory called poland proper, that is, in that part which, after the other provinces had been wrested away and attached to the dominions of the colossal powers around, until the revolution and conquest of had retained the cherished name of the kingdom of poland. the whole road is macadamized, smooth and level as a floor, from the banks of the bug to warsaw; the posthouses and postmasters are much better, and posting is better regulated, though more expensive. the road lay through that rich agricultural district which had for ages made poland celebrated as the granary of europe; and though the face of the country was perfectly flat, and the scenery tame and uninteresting, the soil was rich, and, at that time, in many places teeming with heavy crops. as yet, it had not recovered from the desolating effects of the war of the revolution. the whole road has been a battle-ground, over which the poles had chased the russians to the frontier, and been driven back to warsaw; time after time it had been drenched with russian and polish blood, the houses and villages sacked and burned, and their blackened ruins still cumbered the ground, nursing in the conquered but unsubdued pole his deep, undying hatred of the russians. on this road diebitsch, the crosser of the balkan, at the head of eighty thousand men, advanced to warsaw. his right and left wings manoeuvred to join him at siedler, the principal town, through which we passed. we changed horses three times, and rolled on all night without stopping. in the morning my companion pointed out an old oak, where a distinguished colonel of the revolution, drawing up the fourth polish regiment against the imperial guards, with a feeling of mortal hate commanded them to throw away their primings, and charge with the bayonet, "coeur à coeur." in another place five hundred gentlemen, dressed in black, with pumps, silk stockings, and small swords, in a perfect wantonness of pleasure at fighting with the russians, and, as they said, in the same spirit with which they would go to a ball, threw themselves upon a body of the guards, and, after the most desperate fighting, were cut to pieces to a man. farther on, a little off from the road, on the borders of the field of grokow, was a large mound covered with black crosses, thrown up over the graves of the poles who had fallen there. about eleven o'clock we approached the banks of the vistula. we passed the suburbs of praga, the last battle-ground of kosciusko, where the bloodstained suwarrow butchered in cold blood thirty thousand poles. warsaw lay spread out on the opposite bank of the river, the heroic but fallen capital of poland, the city of brave men and beautiful women; of stanislaus, and sobieski, and poniatowsky, and kosciusko, and, i will not withhold it, possessing in my eyes, a romantic interest from its associations with the hero of my schoolboy days, thaddeus of warsaw. on the right is the chateau of the old kings of poland, now occupied by a russian viceroy, with the banner of russia waving over its walls. we rode over the bridge and entered the city. martial music was sounding, and russian soldiers, cossacks, and circassians were filing through its streets. we held up to let them pass, and they moved like the keepers of a conquered city, with bent brows and stern faces, while the citizens looked at them in gloomy silence. we drove up to the hotel de leipsic (which, however, i do not recommend), where i took a bath and a doctor. footnote: [ ] the douga is the bow over the neck of the middle horse, to which the bell is attached; and valdai the place on the moscow road where the best bells are made. chapter xi. warsaw.--a polish doctor.--battle of grokow.--the outbreak.--the fatal issue.--present condition of poland.--polish exiles.--aspect of warsaw.--traits of the poles. a letter dated at warsaw to my friends at home begins thus: "i have reached this place to be put on my back by a polish doctor. how long he will keep me here i do not know. he promises to set me going again in a week; and, as he has plenty of patients without keeping me down, i have great confidence in him. besides, having weathered a greek, an armenian, and a russian, i think i shall be too much for a pole." there was not a servant in the house who understood any language i spoke, and my friend kindly proposed my taking a room with him; and, as he had many acquaintances in warsaw, who thronged to see him, he had to tell them all the history of the american in the bed in one corner. all the next day i lay in the room alone on a low bedstead, looking up at the ceiling and counting the cracks in the wall. i was saved from a fit of the blues by falling into a passion, and throwing my boots at the servant because he could not understand me. late in the evening my friend returned from the theatre with three or four companions, and we made a night of it, i taking medicine and they smoking pipes. they were all excellent fellows, and, as soon as they heard me moving, came over to me, and, when i fell back on my pillow, covered me up, and went back, and talked till i wanted them again. toward daylight i fell asleep, and, when the doctor came in the morning, felt myself a new man. my doctor, by-the-way, was not a pole, but a german, physician to the court, and the first in warsaw; he occupied a little country-seat a few miles from warsaw, belonging to count niemcewicz, the poet and patriot, who accompanied kosciusko to this country, and married a lady of new-jersey; returned with him to poland, was with him on his last battle-field, and almost cut to pieces by his side. in the afternoon one of my companions of the night before came to see me. he had been in warsaw during the revolution, and talked with enthusiasm of their brief but gallant struggle; and, as it was a beautiful afternoon, proposed strolling to a little eminence near at hand, commanding a view of the first battle-ground. i went with him and he pointed out on the other side of the vistula the field of grokow. below it was the bridge over which general romarino carried his little army during the night, having covered the bridge, the horses' hoofs, and the wheels of the carriages with straw. this general is now in france under sentence of death, with a price set upon his head. the battle of grokow, the greatest in europe since that of waterloo, was fought on the twenty-fifth of february, , and the place where i stood commanded a view of the whole ground. the russian army was under the command of diebitsch, and consisted of one hundred and forty-two thousand infantry, forty thousand cavalry, and three hundred and twelve pieces of cannon. this enormous force was arranged in two lines of combatants, and a third of reserve. its left wing, between wavre and the marshes of the vistula, consisted of four divisions of infantry of forty-seven thousand men, three of cavalry of ten thousand five hundred, and one hundred and eight pieces of cannon; the right consisted of three and a half divisions of infantry of thirty-one thousand men, four divisions of cavalry of fifteen thousand seven hundred and fifty men, and fifty-two pieces of cannon. upon the borders of the great forest opposite the forest of elders, conspicuous from where i stood, was placed the reserve, commanded by the grand-duke constantine. against this immense army the poles opposed less than fifty thousand men and a hundred pieces of cannon, under the command of general skrzynecki. at break of day the whole force of the russian right wing, with a terrible fire of fifty pieces of artillery and columns of infantry, charged the polish left with the determination of carrying it by a single and overpowering effort. the poles, with six thousand five hundred men and twelve pieces of artillery, not yielding a foot of ground, and knowing they could hope for no succour, resisted this attack for several hours, until the russians slackened their fire. about ten o'clock the plain was suddenly covered with the russian forces issuing from the cover of the forest, seeming one undivided mass of troops. two hundred pieces of cannon, posted on a single line, commenced a fire which made the earth tremble, and was more terrible than the oldest officers, many of whom had fought at marengo and austerlitz, had ever beheld. the russians now made an attack upon the right wing; but foiled in this as upon the left, diebitsch directed the strength of his army against the forest of elders, hoping to divide the poles into two parts. one hundred and twenty pieces of cannon were brought to bear on this one point, and fifty battalions, incessantly pushed to the attack, kept up a scene of massacre unheard of in the annals of war. a polish officer who was in the battle told me that the small streams which intersected the forest were so choked with dead that the infantry marched directly over their bodies. the heroic poles, with twelve battalions, for four hours defended the forest against the tremendous attack. nine times they were driven out, and nine times, by a series of admirably-executed manoeuvres, they repulsed the russians with immense loss. batteries, now concentrated in one point, were in a moment hurried to another, and the artillery advanced to the charge like cavalry, sometimes within a hundred feet of the enemy's columns, and there opened a murderous fire of grape. at three o'clock the generals, many of whom were wounded, and most of whom had their horses shot under them, and fought on foot at the head of their divisions, resolved upon a retrograde movement, so as to draw the russians on the open plain. diebitsch, supposing it to be a flight, looked over to the city and exclaimed, "well, then, it appears that, after this bloody day, i shall take tea in the belvidere palace." the russian troops debouched from the forest. a cloud of russian cavalry, with several regiments of heavy cuirassiers at their head, advanced to the attack. colonel pientka, who had kept up an unremitting fire from his battery for five hours, seated with perfect sang-froid upon a disabled piece of cannon, remained to give another effective fire, then left at full gallop a post which he had so long occupied under the terrible fire of the enemy's artillery. this rapid movement of his battery animated the russian forces. the cavalry advanced on a trot upon the line of a battery of rockets. a terrible discharge was poured into their ranks, and the horses, galled to madness by the flakes of fire, became wholly ungovernable, and broke away, spreading disorder in every direction; the whole body swept helplessly along the fire of the polish infantry, and in a few minutes was so completely annihilated that, of a regiment of cuirassiers who bore inscribed on their helmets the "invincibles," not a man escaped. the wreck of the routed cavalry, pursued by the lancers, carried along in its flight the columns of infantry; a general retreat commenced, and the cry of "poland for ever" reached the walls of warsaw to cheer the hearts of its anxious inhabitants. so terrible was the fire of that day, that in the polish army there was not a single general or staff officer who had not his horse killed or wounded under him; two thirds of the officers, and, perhaps, of the soldiers, had their clothes pierced with balls, and more than a tenth part of the army were wounded. thirty thousand russians and ten thousand poles were left on the field of battle; rank upon rank lay prostrate on the earth, and the forest of elders was so strewed with bodies that it received from that day the name of the "forest of the dead." the czar heard with dismay, and all europe with astonishment, that the crosser of the balkan had been foiled under the walls of warsaw. all day, my companion said, the cannonading was terrible. crowds of citizens, of both sexes and all ages, were assembled on the spot where we stood, earnestly watching the progress of the battle, sharing in all its vicissitudes, in the highest state of excitement as the clearing up of the columns of smoke showed when the russians or the poles had fled; and he described the entry of the remnant of the polish army into warsaw as sublime and terrible; their hair and faces were begrimed with powder and blood; their armour shattered and broken, and all, even dying men, were singing patriotic songs; and when the fourth regiment, among whom was a brother of my companion, and who had particularly distinguished themselves in the battle, crossed the bridge and filed slowly through the streets, their lances shivered against the cuirasses of the guards, their helmets broken, their faces black and spotted with blood, some erect, some tottering, and some barely able to sustain themselves in the saddle, above the stern chorus of patriotic songs rose the distracted cries of mothers, wives, daughters, and lovers, seeking among this broken band for forms dearer than life, many of whom were then sleeping on the battle-field. my companion told me that he was then a lad of seventeen, and had begged with tears to be allowed to accompany his brother; but his widowed mother extorted from him a promise that he would not attempt it. all day he had stood with his mother on the very spot where we did, his hand in hers, which she grasped convulsively, as every peal of cannon seemed the knell of her son; and when the lancers passed, she sprang from his side as she recognised in the drooping figure of an officer, with his spear broken in his hand, the figure of her gallant boy. he was then reeling in his saddle, his eye was glazed and vacant, and he died that night in their arms. the tyranny of the grand-duke constantine, the imperial viceroy, added to the hatred of the russians, which is the birthright of every pole, induced the unhappy revolution of eighteen hundred and thirty. although, on the death of alexander, constantine waived in favour of his brother nicolas his claim to the throne of russia, his rule in poland shows that it was not from any aversion to the exercise of power. when constantine was appointed its commander-in-chief, the polish army ranked with the bravest in europe. the polish legions under dombrowski and poniatowski had kept alive the recollections of the military glory of their fallen nation. almost annihilated by the bloody battles in italy, where they met their old enemies under suwarrow, the butcher of praga, the proud remnants reorganized and formed the fifth corps of the "grande armée," distinguished themselves at smolensk, borodino, kalouga, and the passage of the berezina, took the field with the wreck of the army in saxony, fought at dresden and leipsic, and, when napoleon told them, brave as they were, that they were free to go home if they pleased, they scorned to desert him in his waning fortunes, and accompanied him to paris. alexander promised an amnesty, and they marched with him to warsaw. within the first six months many officers of this army had been grossly insulted; an eyewitness told me that he had seen, on the great square of warsaw, the high sheriff tear off the epaulettes from the shoulders of an officer, and, in the presence of the whole troops, strike him on the cheek with his hand. it would, perhaps, be unjust to enumerate, as i heard them, the many causes of oppression that roused to revolt the slumbering spirit of the poles; in the midst of which the french revolution threw all poland into commotion. the three days of july were hailed with rapture by every patriotic heart; the new revolutionary movements in belgium cheered them on; and eighty young men, torn from the altars while praying for the souls of their murdered countrymen on the anniversary of the butchery at praga, thrilled every heart and hurried the hour of retribution. the enthusiasm of youth struck the first blow. a band of ardent young men of the first families attended the meetings of secret patriotic associations; and six of them, belonging to the military school, suspecting they were betrayed, early in the evening went to their barracks, and proposed to their comrades a plan for liberating their country. the whole corps, not excepting one sick in bed, amounting in all to about a hundred and fifty, took up arms, and, under a lieutenant of nineteen, attacked the palace of constantine, and almost secured his person. the grand-duke was then asleep on a couch in a room opening upon a corridor of the belvidere palace, and, roused by a faithful valet, had barely time to throw a robe over him and fly. the insurgents, with cries of vengeance, rushed into the interior of the palace, driving before them the chief of the city police and the aiddecamp of the grand-duke. the latter had the presence of mind to close the door of the grand-duke's apartment before he was pierced through with a dozen bayonets. the wife of the grand-duke, the beautiful and interesting princess for whom he had sacrificed a crown, hearing the struggle, was found on her knees offering up prayers to heaven for the safety of her husband. constantine escaped by a window; and the young soldiers, foiled in their attempt, marched into the city, and, passing the barracks of the russian guards, daringly fired a volley to give notice of their coming. entering the city, they broke open the prisons and liberated the state prisoners, burst into the theatres, crying out, "women, home; men, to arms," forced the arsenal, and in two hours forty thousand men were under arms. very soon the fourth polish regiment joined them; and before midnight the remainder of the polish troops in warsaw, declaring that their children were too deeply implicated to be abandoned, espoused the popular cause. some excesses were committed; and general stanislaus potocki, distinguished in the revolution of kosciusko, for hesitating was killed, exclaiming with his last breath that it was dreadful to die by the hands of his countrymen. chlopicki, the comrade of kosciusko, was proclaimed dictator by an immense multitude in the champ de mars. for some time the inhabitants of warsaw were in a delirium; the members of the patriotic association, and citizens of all classes, assembled every day, carrying arms, and with glasses in their hands, in the saloon of the theatre and at a celebrated coffee-house, discussing politics and singing patriotic songs. in the theatres the least allusion brought down thunders of applause, and at the end of the piece heralds appeared on the stage waving the banners of the dismembered provinces. in the pit they sang in chorus national hymns; the boxes answered them; and sometimes the spectators finished by scaling the stage and dancing the mazurka and the cracoviak. the fatal issue of this revolution is well known. the polish nation exerted and exhausted its utmost strength, and the whole force of the colossal empire was brought against it, and, in spite of prodigies of valour, crushed it. the moment, the only moment when gallant, chivalric, and heroic poland could have been saved and restored to its rank among nations, was suffered to pass by, and no one came to her aid. the minister of france threw out the bold boast that a hundred thousand men stood ready to march to her assistance; but france and all europe looked on and saw her fall. her expiring diet ordered a levy in mass, and made a last appeal, "in the name of god; in the name of liberty; of a nation placed between life and death; in the name of kings and heroes who have fought for religion and humanity; in the name of future generations; in the name of justice and the deliverance of europe;" but her dying appeal was unheard. her last battle was under the walls of warsaw; and then she would not have fallen, but even in poland there were traitors. the governor of warsaw blasted the laurels won in the early battles of the revolution by the blackest treason. he ordered general romarino to withdraw eight thousand soldiers and chase the russians beyond the frontier at brezc. while he was gone the russians pressed warsaw; he could have returned in time to save it, but was stopped with directions not to advance until farther orders. in the mean time warsaw fell, with the curse of every pole upon the head of its governor. the traitor now lives ingloriously in russia, disgraced and despised, while the young lieutenant is in unhappy but not unhonoured exile in siberia. so ended the last heroic struggle of poland. it is dreadful to think so, but it is greatly to be feared that poland is blotted for ever from the list of nations. indeed, by a late imperial ukase, poland is expunged from the map of europe; her old and noble families are murdered, imprisoned, or in exile; her own language is excluded from the offices of government, and even from the public schools; her national character destroyed; her national dress proscribed; her national colours trampled under foot; her national banner, the white eagle of poland, is in the dust. warsaw is abandoned, and become a russian city; her best citizens are wandering in exile in foreign lands, while cossack and circassian soldiers are filing through her streets, and the banner of russia is waving over her walls. perhaps it is not relevant, but i cannot help saying that there is no exaggeration in the stories which reach us at our own doors of the misfortunes and sufferings of polish exiles. i have met them wandering in many different countries, and particularly i remember one at cairo. he had fought during the whole polish revolution, and made his escape when warsaw fell. he was a man of about thirty-five years of age, dressed in a worn military frockcoat, and carrying himself with a manly and martial air. he had left a wife and two children at warsaw. at constantinople he had written to the emperor requesting permission to return, and even promising never again to take up arms against russia, but had received for answer that the amnesty was over and the day of grace was past; and the unfortunate pole was then wandering about the world like a cavalier of fortune or a knight of romance, with nothing to depend upon but his sword. he had offered his services to the sultan and to the pacha of egypt; he was then poor, and, with the bearing of a gentleman and the pride of a soldier, was literally begging his bread. i could sympathize in the misfortunes of an exiled pole, and felt that his distress must indeed be great, that he who had perilled life and ties dearer than life in the cause of an oppressed country, should offer his untarnished sword to the greatest despot that ever lived. the general appearance of warsaw is imposing. it stands on a hill of considerable elevation on the left bank of the vistula; the zamech or chateau of the kings of poland spreads its wings midway between the river and the summit of the hill, and churches and towering spires checker at different heights the distant horizon. most of the houses are built of stone, or brick stuccoed; they are numbered in one continued series throughout the city, beginning from the royal palace (occupied by paskiewitch), which is numbered _one_, and rising above number five thousand. the churches are numerous and magnificent; the palaces, public buildings, and many of the mansions of noblemen, are on a large scale, very showy, and, in general, striking for their architectural designs. one great street runs irregularly through the whole city, of which miodowa, or honey-street, and the novoy swiat, or new world, are the principal and most modern portions. as in all aristocratic cities, the streets are badly paved, and have no trottoirs for the foot passengers. the russian drosky is in common use; the public carriages are like those in western europe, though of a low form; the linings generally painted red; the horses large and handsome, with large collars of red or green, covered with small brass rings, which sound like tinkling bells; and the carts are like those in our own city, only longer and lower, and more like our brewer's dray. the hotels are numerous, generally kept in some of the old palaces, and at the entrance of each stands a large porter, with a cocked hat and silver-headed cane, to show travellers to their apartments and receive the names of visiters. there are two principal kukiernia, something like the french cafés, where many of the varsovians breakfast and lounge in the mornings. [illustration: royal palace at warsaw.] the poles, in their features, looks, customs, and manners, resemble asiatics rather than europeans; and they are, no doubt, descended from tartar ancestors. though belonging to the sclavonic race, which occupies nearly the whole extent of the vast plains of western europe, they have advanced more than the others from the rude and barbarous state which characterizes this race; and this is particularly manifest at warsaw. an eyewitness, describing the appearance of the polish deputies at paris sent to announce the election of henry of anjou as successor of sigismund, says, "it is impossible to describe the general astonishment when we saw these ambassadors in long robes, fur caps, sabres, arrows, and quivers; but our admiration was excessive when we saw the sumptuousness of their equipages; the scabbards of their swords adorned with jewels; their bridles, saddles, and horse-cloths decked in the same way," &c. but none of this barbaric display is now seen in the streets of warsaw. indeed, immediately on entering it i was struck with the european aspect of things. it seemed almost, though not quite, like a city of western europe, which may, perhaps, be ascribed, in a great measure, to the entire absence of the semi-asiatic costumes so prevalent in all the cities of russia, and even at st. petersburgh; and the only thing i remarked peculiar in the dress of the inhabitants was the remnant of a barbarous taste for show, exhibiting itself in large breastpins, shirt-buttons, and gold chains over the vest; the mustache is universally worn. during the war of the revolution immediately succeeding our own, warsaw stood the heaviest brunt; and when kosciusko fell fighting before it, its population was reduced to seventy five thousand. since that time it has increased, and is supposed now to be one hundred and forty thousand, thirty thousand of whom are jews. calamity after calamity has befallen warsaw; still its appearance is that of a gay city. society consists altogether of two distinct and distant orders, the nobles and the peasantry, without any intermediate degrees. i except, of course, the jews, who form a large item in her population, and whose long beards, thin and anxious faces, and piercing eyes met me at every corner of warsaw. the peasants are in the lowest stage of mental degradation. the nobles, who are more numerous than in any other country in europe, have always, in the eyes of the public, formed the people of poland. they are brave, prompt, frank, hospitable, and gay, and have long been called the french of the north, being french in their habits, fond of amusements, and living in the open air, like the lounger in the palais royal, the tuileries, the boulevards, and luxembourgh, and particularly french in their political feelings, the surges of a revolution in paris being always felt at warsaw. they regard the germans with mingled contempt and aversion, calling them "dumb" in contrast with their own fluency and loquacity; and before their fall were called by their neighbours the "proud poles." they consider it the deepest disgrace to practise any profession, even law or medicine, and, in case of utmost necessity, prefer the plough. a sicilian, a fellow-passenger from palermo to naples, who one moment was groaning in the agony of seasickness and the next playing on his violin, said to me, "canta il, signore?" "do you sing?" i answered "no;" and he continued, "suonate?" "do you play?" i again answered "no;" and he asked me, with great simplicity, "cosa fatte? niente?" "what do you do? nothing?" and i might have addressed the same question to every pole in warsaw. the whole business of the country is in the hands of the jews, and all the useful and mechanical arts are practised by strangers. i did not find a pole in a single shop in warsaw; the proprietors of the hotels and coffee-houses are strangers, principally germans; my tailor was a german; my shoemaker a frenchman, and the man who put a new crystal in my watch an italian from milan. but though this entire absence of all useful employment is, on grounds of public policy, a blot on their national character, as a matter of feeling it rather added to the interest with which i regarded the "proud poles;" and perhaps it was imaginary, but i felt all the time i was in warsaw that, though the shops and coffee-houses were open, and crowds thronged the streets, a sombre air hung over the whole city; and if for a moment this impression left me, a company of cossacks, with their wild music, moving to another station, or a single russian officer riding by in a drosky, wrapped in his military cloak, reminded me that the foot of a conqueror was upon the necks of the inhabitants of warsaw. this was my feeling after a long summer day's stroll through the streets; and in the evening i went to the theatre, which was a neat building, well filled, and brilliantly lighted; but the idea of a pervading and gloomy spirit so haunted me that in a few moments i left what seemed a heartless mockery of pleasure. i ought to add that i did not understand a word of the piece; the _triste_ air which touched me may have been induced by the misfortunes of the stage hero; and, in all probability, i should have astonished a melancholy-looking neighbour if, acting under my interpretation of his visage, i had expressed to him my sympathy in the sufferings of his country. chapter xii. religion of poland.--sunday in warsaw.--baptized jews.--palaces of the polish kings.--sobieski.--field of vola.--wreck of a warrior.--the poles in america.--a polish lady.--troubles of a passport.--departure from warsaw.--an official rachel.--a mysterious visiter. sunday at warshaw. poland is distinguished above the other nations of europe as a land of religious toleration. so late as the latter part of the tenth century, the religion of poland was a gross idolatry; and, mingled with the rites of their own country, they worshipped, under other names, jupiter, pluto, mars, venus, diana, and others of the pagan deities. during the reign of mieczylaus i. of the piast dynasty, the monks introduced christianity. the prince himself was proof against the monks, but received from woman's lips the principles of the christian religion. enamoured of dombrowska, the daughter of the duke of bohemia, a country which had then lately embraced christianity, who refused to accept his suit unless he was baptized, mieczylaus sacrificed the superstitions and prejudices of his fathers on the altar of love. but the religion which he embraced for the sake of dombrowska he afterward propagated for its own; became an ardent champion of the cross; broke down with his own hands the idols of his country; built christian churches on the ruins of pagan temples; and, in the ardour of his new faith, issued an edict that, when any portion of the gospel was read, the hearers should half draw their swords to testify their readiness to defend its truth. in the reign of the "famous" john sobieski, the annals of poland, till that time free from this disgrace, were stained by one of the most atrocious acts of barbarity recorded in the history of religious persecution. a lithuanian nobleman, a religious and benevolent man, but sufficiently intelligent to ridicule some of the current superstitions, and very rich, on account of a note made in the margin of a book, written by a stupid german, was tried for atheism by a council of bigoted catholic bishops, and found guilty, not only of "having denied the existence of a god, but the doctrine of the trinity and the divine maternity of the virgin mary." zaluski, one of the villains concerned in the torment, writes, "the convict was led to the scaffold, where the executioner, with a red-hot iron, tore his tongue and his mouth, _with which he had been cruel toward god_; then they burned his hands, instruments of the abominable production, at a slow fire. the sacrilegious paper was thrown into the flame; himself last; that monster of the age, that deicide, was cast into the flames of expiation, if such a crime could be atoned." in seventeen hundred and twenty-six the jesuits, making a public procession with the host in the streets of thorn, the young scholars of the order insisted that some lutheran children should kneel; and on their refusal a scuffle ensued between the jesuits and townspeople, most of whom were lutherans, in which the enraged townspeople broke open the jesuits' college, profaned all the objects of worship, and, among others an image of the virgin. the catholics of poland, assembled in the diet, almost infuriated with fanatic zeal, condemned to death the magistrates of thorn for not exercising their authority. seven of the principal citizens were also condemned to death; many were imprisoned or banished; three persons, accused of throwing the virgin's image into the fire, lost their right arms, and the whole city was deprived of the freedom of public worship. this was the last act of religious persecution in poland; but even yet the spirit of the reformation has made but little progress, and the great bulk of the people are still groping in the darkness of catholicism. on every public road and in all the streets of warsaw stand crosses, sometimes thirty feet high, with a figure of the saviour large as life, sometimes adorned with flowers and sometimes covered with rags. as in all catholic cities, a sunday in warsaw is a fête day. i passed the morning in strolling through the churches, which are very numerous, and some of them, particularly the cathedral church of st. john and that of the holy cross, of colossal dimensions. the scene was the same as in the catholic churches in italy; at every door crowds were entering and passing out, nobles, peasants, shopmen, drosky boys, and beggars; the highborn lady descended from her carriage, dipped her fingers in the same consecrated water, and kneeled on the same pavement side by side with the beggar; alike equal in god's house, and outside the door again an immeasurable distance between them. at twelve o'clock, by appointment, i met my travelling companion and another of his friends in the jardin de saxe, the principal public garden in warsaw. it stands in the very heart of the city, in the rear of the palais de saxe, built by the elector of saxony when called to the throne of poland. it is enclosed all around by high brick walls, screened by shrubs, and vines, and trees rising above, so as to exclude the view of the houses facing it. it is handsomely laid out with lawns and gravel-walks, and adorned with trees; and as the grounds are exceedingly rural and picturesque, and the high walls and trees completely shut out the view of all surrounding objects, i could hardly realize that i was in the centre of a populous city. it was then the fashionable hour for promenade, and all the élite of warsaw society was there. i had heard of this sunday promenade, and, after making one or two turns on the principal walk, i remarked to my companions that i was disappointed in not seeing, as i had expected, a collection of the highborn and aristocratic poles; but they told me that, changed as warsaw was in every particular, in nothing was this change more manifest than in the character of this favourite resort. from boyhood, one of them had been in the habit of walking there regularly on the same day and at the same hour; and he told me that, before the revolution, it had always been thronged by a gay and brilliant collection of the nobility of warsaw; and he enumerated several families whose names were identified with the history of poland, who were in the habit of being there at a certain time, as regularly as the trees which then shaded our walk; but since the revolution these families were broken up and dispersed, and their principal members dead or in exile, or else lived retired, too proud in their fallen state to exhibit themselves in public places, where they were liable to be insulted by the presence of their russian conquerors; and i could well appreciate the feeling which kept them away, for russian officers, with their rattling swords and nodding plumes, and carrying themselves with a proud and lordly air, were the most conspicuous persons present. i had noticed one party, a dark, pale, and interesting-looking man, with an elegant lady and several children and servants, as possessing, altogether, a singularly melancholy and aristocratic appearance; but the interest i was disposed to take in them was speedily dispelled by hearing that he was a baptized jew, a money broker, who had accumulated a fortune by taking advantage of the necessities of the distressed nobles. indeed, next to the russian officers, the baptized jews were the most prominent persons on the promenade. these persons form a peculiar class in warsaw, occupying a position between the israelites and christians, and amalgamating with neither. many of them are rich, well educated, and accomplished, and possess great elegance of appearance and manner. they hate most cordially their unregenerated brethren, and it is unnecessary to say that this hate is abundantly reciprocated. it was with a feeling of painful interest that i strolled through this once favourite resort of the nobility of warsaw; and my companions added to this melancholy feeling by talking in a low tone, almost in whispers, and telling me that now the promenade was always _triste_ and dull; and in going out they led me through a private walk, where an old noble, unable to tear himself from a place consecrated by the recollections of his whole life, still continued to take his daily walk apart from the crowd, wearing out the evening of his days in bitter reflections on the fallen condition of his kindred and country. we dined, as usual, at a restaurant, where at one table was a party of swiss, here, as at moscow, exercising that talent, skill, and industry which they exhibit all over the world, and consoling themselves for the privations of exile with the hope of one day being able to return to their native mountains, never to leave them again. after dinner we took an open carriage, and at the barrier entered one of the numerous avenues of the ujazdow, leading to belvidere, the country residence of the late grand-duke constantine. the avenue is divided by rows of old and stately trees, terminating in a large circular octagon, from which branch off eight other avenues, each at a short distance crossed by others, and forming a sort of labyrinth, said to be one of the finest drives and promenades in europe, and on sundays the rendezvous of nearly the entire population of warsaw. it was a beautiful afternoon, and the throng of carriages, and horsemen, and thousands of pedestrians, and the sun, occasionally obscured and then breaking through the thick foliage, darkening and again lighting up the vista through the trees, gave a beauty to the landscape, and a variety and animation to the scene, that i had not yet found in warsaw. passing the belvidere palace, my companions described the manner in which the students had made their attack upon it, and pointed out the window by which constantine escaped. turning from one of the splendid avenues of the ujazdow, we crossed a stone bridge, on which stands the equestrian statue of john sobieski, his horse rearing over the body of a prostrate turk; it was erected to him as the saviour of christendom after he had driven the turks from the walls of vienna. beyond this we entered the grounds and park of lazienki, formerly the country residence of stanislaus augustus, situated in a most delightful spot on the banks of the vistula. the royal villa stands in the midst of an extensive park of stately old trees, and the walks lead to a succession of delightful and romantic spots, adorned with appropriate and tasteful buildings. among them, on an island reached by crossing a rustic bridge, are a winter and a summer theatre, the latter constructed so as to resemble, in a great measure, an ancient amphitheatre in ruins; in it performances used formerly to take place in the open air. i am not given to dreaming, and there was enough in the scenes passing under my eyes to employ my thoughts; but, as i wandered through the beautiful walks, and crossed romantic bridges, composed of the trunks and bended branches of trees, i could not help recurring to the hand that had planned these beauties, the good king stanislaus. "dread pultowa's day, when fortune left the royal swede," hurled stanislaus from his throne; and as i stood under the portico of his palace, i could but remember that its royal builder had fled from it in disguise, become a prisoner to the turks, and died an exile in a foreign land. from here we rode to the chateau of villanow, another and one of the most interesting of the residences of the kings of poland, constructed by john sobieski and perhaps the only royal structure in europe which, like some of the great edifices of egypt and rome, was erected by prisoners taken in war, being constructed entirely by the hands of turkish captives. it was the favourite residence of sobieski, where he passed most of his time when not in arms, and where he closed his days. until lately, the chamber and bed on which he died might still be seen. the grounds extend for a great distance along the banks of the vistula, and many of the noble trees which now shade the walks were planted by sobieski's own hands. the reign of sobieski is the most splendid era in the history of poland. the great statue i had just passed presented him as the conqueror of the turks, the deliverer of christendom, the redoubtable warrior, riding over the body of a prostrate mussulman; and every stone in the palace is a memorial of his warlike triumphs; but if its inner chambers could tell the scenes of which they had been the witness, loud and far as the trumpet of glory has sounded his name, no man would envy john sobieski. the last time he unsheathed his sword, in bitterness of heart he said, "it will be easier to get the better of the enemies i am in quest of than my own sons." he returned broken with vexation and shattered with wounds, more than sixty years old, and two thirds of his life spent in the tented field; his queen drove his friends from his side, destroyed that domestic peace which he valued above all things, and filled the palace with her plots and intrigues. he had promised to zaluski an office which the queen wished to give to another. "my friend," said the dying monarch, "you know the rights of marriage, and you know if i can resist the prayers of the queen; it depends, then, on you that i live tranquil or that i be constantly miserable. she has already promised to another this vacant office, and if i do not consent to it i am obliged to fly my house. i know not where i shall go to die in peace. you pity me; you will not expose me to public ridicule." old and infirm, with gray hairs and withered laurels, a prey to lingering disease, the deathbed of the dying warrior was disturbed by a noise worse than the din of battle; and before the breath had left him, an intriguing wife and unnatural children were wrangling over his body for the possession of his crown. a disgraceful struggle was continued a short time after his death. one by one his children died, and there is not now any living of the name of sobieski. the next day i visited the field of vola, celebrated as the place of election of the kings of poland. it is about five miles from warsaw, and was formerly surrounded by a ditch with three gates, one for great poland, one for little poland, and one for lithuania. in the middle were two enclosures, one of an oblong shape, surrounded by a kind of rampart or ditch, in the centre of which was erected, at the time of election, a vast temporary building of wood, covered at the top and open at the sides, which was called the zopa, and occupied by the senate; and the other of a circular shape, called the kola, in which the nuncios assembled in the open air. the nobles, from a hundred and fifty thousand to two hundred thousand in number, encamped on the plain in separate bodies under the banners of their respective palatinates, with their principal officers in front on horseback. the primate, having declared the names of the candidates, kneeled down and chanted a hymn; and then, mounting on horseback, went round the plain and collected the votes, the nobles not voting individually, but each palatinate in a body. it was necessary that the election should be unanimous, and a single nobleman peremptorily stopped the election of ladislaus vii. being asked what objection he had to him, he answered, "none at all; but i will not suffer him to be king." after being by some means brought over, he gave the king as the reason for his opposition, "i had a mind to see whether our liberty was still in being or not. i am satisfied that it is, and your majesty shall not have a better subject than myself." if the palatinates agreed, the primate asked again, and yet a third time if all were satisfied; and, after a general approbation, three times proclaimed the king; and the grand marshal of the crown repeated the proclamation three times at the gates of the camp. it was the exercise of this high privilege of electing their own king which created and sustained the lofty bearing of the polish nobles, inducing the proud boast which, in a moment of extremity, an intrepid band made to their king, "what hast thou to fear with twenty thousand lances? if the sky should fall, we would keep it up with their points." but, unhappily, although the exercise of this privilege was confined only to the nobles, the election of a king often exhibited a worse picture than all the evils of universal suffrage with us. the throne was open to the whole world; the nobles were split into contending factions; foreign gold found its way among them, and sometimes they deliberated under the bayonets of foreign troops. warsaw and its environs were a scene of violence and confusion, and sometimes the field of vola was stained with blood. still no man can ride over that plain without recurring to the glorious hour when sobieski, covered with laurels won in fighting the battles of his country, amid the roar of cannon and the loud acclamations of the senate, the nobles, and the army, was hailed the chosen king of a free people. i had enough of travelling post, and was looking out for some quiet conveyance to cracow. a jew applied to me, and i went with him to look at his carriage, which i found at a sort of "bull's-head" stopping-place, an enormous vehicle without either bottom or top, being a species of framework like our hay-wagons, filled with straw to prevent goods and passengers from spilling out. he showed me a couple of rough-looking fellows, who would be my _compagnons de voyage_, and who said that we could all three lie very comfortably in the bottom of the vehicle. their appearance did not add to the recommendation of the wagon; nevertheless, if i had understood the language and been strong enough for the rough work, i should perhaps have taken that conveyance, as, besides the probable incidents of the journey, it would give me more insight into the character of the people than a year's residence in the capital. returning to my hotel, i found that a polish officer had left his address, with a request for me to call upon him. i went, and found a man of about forty, middle sized, pale and emaciated, wounded and an invalid, wearing the polish revolutionary uniform. it was the only instance in which i had seen this dress. after the revolution it had been absolutely proscribed; but the country being completely subdued, and the government in this particular case not caring to exercise any unnecessary harshness, he was permitted to wear it unmolested. it was, however, almost in mockery that he still wore the garb of a soldier; for if poland had again burst her chains, and the unsheathed sword were put in his hands, he could not have struck a blow to help her. unfortunately, he could not speak french, or, rather, i may say fortunately, for in consequence of this i saw his lady, a pensive, melancholy, and deeply-interesting woman, dressed in black, in mourning for two gallant brothers who died in battle under the walls of warsaw. their business with me was of a most commonplace nature. they had lately returned from a visit to some friends at cracow, in a calêche hired at the frontier; and hearing from the peasant who drove them that a stranger was looking for a conveyance to that place, out of good-will to him desired to recommend him to me. the lady had hardly finished a sort of apologizing commencement before i had resolved to assent to almost anything she proposed; and when she stated the whole case, it was so exactly what i wanted, that i expressed myself under great obligations for the favour done me. i suggested, however, my doubts as to the propriety of undertaking the journey alone, without any interpreter; but, after a few words with the major, she replied that she would give full directions to the peasant as to the route. as the carriage could not go beyond the frontier, her husband would give me a letter to the commissaire at michoof, who spoke french, and also to the postmaster; and, finally, she would herself make out for me a vocabulary of the words likely to be most necessary, so as to enable me to ask for bread, milk, eggs, &c.; and with this, and the polish for "how much," i would get along without any difficulty. while she was writing, another officer came in, old and infirm, and also dressed in the polish uniform. she rose from the table, met him almost at the door, kissed him affectionately, led him to a seat, and barely mentioning him to me as "_mon beau père_," resumed her work. while she was writing i watched attentively the whole three, and the expression of face with which the two officers regarded her was unspeakably interesting. they were probably unconscious of it, and perhaps it was only my fancy, but if the transient lighting of their sunken eyes meant anything, it meant that they who sat there in the garb and equipment of soldiers, who had stood in all the pride and vigour of manhood on bloody battle-fields, now looked to a feeble and lovely woman as their only staff and support in life. i would have told them how deeply i sympathized in the misfortunes of their suffering country, but their sadness seemed too deep and sacred. i knew that i could strike a responsive chord by telling them that i was an american, but i would not open their still bleeding wounds; at parting, however, i told them that i should remember in my own country and to their countrymen the kindness shown me here; and as soon as i mentioned that i was an american, the lady asked me the fate of her unhappy countrymen who had been landed as exiles on our shores, and i felt proud in telling them that they had found among our citizens that sympathy which brave men in misfortune deserve, and that our government had made a provision in land for the exiled compatriots of kosciusko. she inquired particularly about the details of their occupation, and expressed the fear that their habits of life, most of them having been brought up as soldiers, unfitted them for usefulness among us. i did not then know how prophetic were her forebodings, and was saved the necessity of telling her, what i afterward read in a newspaper, that an unhappy portion of that band of exiles, discontented with their mode of life, in attempting to cross the rocky mountains were cut to pieces by a party of indians. under the pressure of their immediate misfortunes they had not heard the fate of the exiles, and a ray of satisfaction played for a moment over their melancholy features in hearing that they had met with friends in america; and they told me to say to the poles wherever i found them, that they need never again turn their eyes toward home. she added that the time had been when she and her friends would have extended the hand of welcome to a stranger in poland; that, when a child, she had heard her father and brothers talk of liberty and the pressure of a foreign yoke, but, living in affluence, surrounded by friends and connexions, she could not sympathize with them, and thought it a feeling existing only in men, which women could not know; but actual occurrences had opened her eyes; her family had been crushed to the earth, her friends imprisoned, killed, or driven into exile, and yet, she added, turning to her husband and father, she ought not to mourn, for those dearest to her on earth were spared. but i could read in her face, as she bent her eyes upon their pallid features, that she felt they were spared only for a season. reluctantly i bade them farewell. a servant waited to go with me and show me the calêche, but i told him it was not worth while. i was in no humour for examining the spokes of carriage-wheels; and, if i had been obliged to ride on the tongue, i believe i should have taken it. i went to my hotel, and told my friend of my interview with the major and his lady. he knew them by reputation, and confirmed and strengthened all the interest i took in them, adding that both father and son had been among the first to take up arms during the revolution, and at its unhappy termination were so beloved by the people of warsaw that, in their wounded and crippled state, the russian government had not proceeded to extremities with them. i spent my last evening in warsaw with my pole and several of his friends at a herbata, that is, a sort of confectioner's shop, like a _café_ in the south of europe, where, as in russia, tea is the popular drink. the next morning, as usual, my passport was not ready. my valet had been for it several times, and could not get it. i had been myself to the police-office, and waited until dark, when i was directed to call the next morning. i went at a little after eight, but i will not obtrude upon the reader the details of my vexation, nor the amiable feelings that passed my mind in waiting till twelve o'clock in a large anteroom. in my after wanderings i sometimes sat down upon a stump or on the sands of the desert, and meditated upon my folly in undergoing all manner of hardships when i might be sitting quietly at home; but when i thought of passports in russia and poland, i shook myself with the freedom of a son of the desert, and with the thought that i could turn my dromedary's head which way i pleased, other difficulties seemed light. ancient philosophers extolled uniformity as a great virtue in a young man's character; and, if so, i was entitled to the highest praise, for in the matter of arranging my passport i was always in a passion. i do not know a single exception to the contrary. and if there was one thing more vexatious than another, it was in the case at warsaw, where, after having been bandied from office to office, i received my passport, still requiring the signature of the governor, and walked up to the palace, nursing my indignation, and expecting an accumulation, i was ushered in by guards and soldiers, and at once disarmed of all animosity by the politeness and civility of the principal officers of government. i was almost sorry to be obliged to withhold my intended malediction. i hurried back to my hotel. my friend, with three or four of his warsaw acquaintances, was waiting to see the last of me; my calêche was at the door, and i was already late for a start. i took my seat and bade them farewell. i promised to write to him on my arrival in paris, and to continue a correspondence on my return home. most unfortunately, i lost his address. he lived in some town in poland, near the frontiers of prussia, and probably at this moment thinks of me unkindly for my apparent neglect. possibly we may meet again, though probably never; but if we do, though it do not happen till our heads are gray, we will have a rich fund of satisfaction in the recollections of our long journey to warsaw. i was again setting out alone. my guide or _conducteur_ was a polish peasant. without having seen him, i had calculated upon making ordinary human intelligence, to some extent, a medium of communication; but i found that i had been too soaring in my ideas of the divinity of human nature. when i returned to the hotel i found him lying on the sidewalk asleep; a servant kicked him up and pointed me out as his master for the journey. he ran up and kissed my hand, and, before i was aware of his intention, stooped down and repeated the same salutation on my boot. an american, perhaps, more than any other, scorns the idea of man's debasing himself to his fellow-man; and so powerful was this feeling in me, that before i went abroad i almost despised a white man whom i saw engaged in a menial office. i had outlived this feeling; but when i saw a tall, strong, athletic white man kneel down and kiss my foot, i could almost have spurned him from me. his whole dress was a long shirt coming down to his feet, supported by a broad leathern belt eight inches wide, which he used as a pocket, and a low, broad-brimmed hat, turned up all round, particularly at the sides, and not unlike the headgear of the lebanon shakers. before putting myself out of the reach of aid, i held a conversation with him through an interpreter. the lady of the major had made out a chart for me, specifying each day's journey, which he promised to observe, and added that he would be my slave if i would give him plenty to drink. with such a companion, then, i may say most emphatically that i was again setting out alone; but my calêche was even better than the polish officer represented it, abundantly provided with pockets for provisions, books, &c., and altogether so much more comfortable than anything i was used to, that i threw myself back in it with a feeling of great satisfaction. i rolled for the last time through the streets of warsaw; looked out upon the busy throng; and though, in the perfectly indifferent air with which they turned to me, i felt how small a space i occupied in the world, i lighted my pipe and smoked in their faces, and, with a perfect feeling of independence toward all the world, at one o'clock i arrived at the barrier. here i found, to my great vexation, that i was an object of special consideration to the emperor of russia. a soldier came out for my passport, with which he went inside the guardhouse, and in a few minutes returned with the paper in his hands to ask me some question. i could not answer him. he talked at me a little while, and again went within doors. after sitting for a few moments, vexed at the detention, but congratulating myself that if there was any irregularity it had been discovered before i had advanced far on my journey, i dismounted and went inside, where, after detaining me long enough to make me feel very uncomfortable, they endorsed the visé and let me go. i again lighted my pipe, and in the mildness and beauty of the day, the comfort of my calêche, and the docility and accommodating spirit of my peasant, forgot my past, and even the chance of future difficulties. there was nothing particularly attractive in the road; the country was generally fertile, though tame and uninteresting. late in the afternoon we stopped at a little town, of which i cannot make out the name. like all the other towns on this side of warsaw, in the centre was a square, with a range of wooden houses built all around fronting on the square, and the inhabitants were principally jews. my peasant took off his horses and fed them in the square, and i went into a little kukernia, much cleaner and better than the town promised, where i had a cup of coffee and a roll of bread, and then strolled around the town, which, at this moment, presented a singular spectacle. the women and children were driving into the square herds of cows from the pasture-grounds in the unenclosed plains around; and, when all were brought in, each proprietor picked out his own cow and drove her home, and in a few moments opposite almost every house stood the family cow, with a woman or child milking her. after this the cows strolled back into the square to sleep till morning. a little before dark we started, and, after a fine moonlight ride, at about ten o'clock drove into a sort of caravanserai, being simply a large shed or covered place for wagons and horses, with a room partitioned off in one corner for eating and sleeping. there were, perhaps, fifteen or twenty wagons under the shed, and their wagoners were all assembled in this room, some standing up and eating off a board stretched along the wall, some drinking, some smoking, and some already asleep on the floor. in one corner was a party of jews, with the contents of a purse emptied before them, which they were dividing into separate parcels. the place was kept by a jew, who, with his wife, or some woman belonging to the establishment, old and weatherbeaten, was running about serving and apparently quarrelling with all the wagoners. she seemed particularly disposed to quarrel with me, i believe because i could not talk to her, this being, in her eyes, an unpardonable sin. i could understand, however, that she wanted to prepare me a supper; but my appetite was not tempted by what i saw around me, and i lighted my pipe and smoked. i believe she afterward saw something in me which made her like me better; for while the wagoners were strewing themselves about the floor for sleep, she went out, and returning with a tolerably clean sheaf of straw under each arm, called me to her, and shaking them out in the middle of the floor, pointed me to my bed. my pipe was ended, and putting my carpet-bag under my head, i lay down upon the straw; and the old woman climbed up to a sort of platform in one corner, where, a moment after, i saw her sitting up with her arms above her head, with the utmost nonchalance changing her innermost garment. i was almost asleep, when i noticed a strapping big man, muffled up to the eyes, standing at my feet and looking in my face. i raised my head, and he walked round, keeping his eyes fixed upon me, and went away. shortly after he returned, and again walking round, stopped and addressed me, "spreechen sie deutsch?" i answered by asking him if he could speak french; and not being able, he went away. he returned again, and again walked round as before, looking steadily in my face. i rose on my elbow, and followed him with my eyes till i had turned completely round with him, when he stopped as if satisfied with his observations, and in his broadest vernacular opened bluntly, "hadn't we better speak english?" i need not say that i entirely agreed with him. i sprang up, and catching his hand, asked him what possessed him to begin upon me in dutch; he replied by asking why i had answered in french, adding that his stout english figure ought to have made me know better; and after mutual good-natured recriminations, we kicked my straw bed about the floor, and agreed to make a night of it. he was the proprietor of a large iron manufactory, distant about three days' journey, and was then on his way to warsaw. he went out to his carriage, and one of his servants produced a stock of provisions like the larder of a well-furnished hotel; and as i had gone to bed supperless, he seemed a good, stout, broad-shouldered guardian angel sent to comfort me. we sat on the back seat of the carriage, making a table of the front; and when we had finished, and the fragments were cleared away, we stretched our legs on the table, lighted our pipes, and talked till we fell asleep on each other's shoulder. notwithstanding our intimacy so far, we should not have known each other by daylight, and at break of day we went outside to examine each other. it was, however, perhaps hardly worth while to retain a recollection of features; for, unless by some such accident as that which brought us together, we never shall meet again. we wrote our names in each other's pocketbook as a memorial of our meeting, and at the same moment started on our opposite roads. chapter xiii. friendly solicitude.--raddom.--symptoms of a difficulty.--a court of inquisition.--showing a proper spirit.--troubles thickening.--approaching the climax.--woman's influence.--the finale.--utility of the classics.--another latinist.--a lucky accident.--arrival at cracow. at about eight o'clock we stopped to feed, and at the feeding-place met a german wagoner, who had lived in hamburgh, and spoke english. he seemed much distressed at my not understanding the language of the country. he was a stout, burly fellow, eating and drinking all the time, and his great anxiety was lest i should starve on the road. he insisted upon my providing against such a fatality, and had a couple of fowls roasted for me, and wrapped in a piece of coarse brown paper; and, at parting, backed by a group of friends, to whom he had told my story, he drank schnaps (at my expense) to my safe arrival at cracow. at eleven o'clock we reached raddom. there was a large swinging gate at the barrier of the town, and the soldier opening it demanded my passport to be _viséd_ by the police; he got into the calêche with me, and we drove into the town, stopped in the public square, and went to the bureau together. he left me in an antechamber, and went within, promising, by his manner, to expedite the business, and intimating an expectation of schnaps on his return. in a few minutes he returned, and barely opening the door for me to enter, hurried off, apparently with some misgivings about his schnaps. i entered, and found three or four men, who took no notice of me. i waited a few moments, and seeing my passport on a table before one of them, went up, and, certainly without intending anything offensive, took up the passport with a view of calling his attention to it; he jerked it out of my hand, and looking at me with an imperious and impertinent air, at the same time saying something i have no doubt in character with the expression of his face, he slapped it down on the table. two or three officers coming in, looked at it, and laid it down again, until at length one man, the head of that department, i suppose, took it up, wrote a note, and giving the note and the passport to a soldier, directed me to follow him. the soldier conducted me to the bureau of the government, the largest building, and occupying a central position in the town, and left me in an antechamber with the usual retinue of soldiers and officers. in about a quarter of an hour he came out without the passport, and pulled me by the sleeve to follow him. i shook my head, asked for the passport, and, in fact, moved toward the door he had left. he seemed a good-hearted fellow, and, anxious to save me from any imprudence, pulled me back, held up his fingers, and pointing to the clock, told me to return at one; and touching his hat respectfully, with probably the only french words he knew, "adieu, seigneur," and a look of real interest, hurried away. i strolled about the town, dropped in at a kukiernia, went to the square, and saw my peasant friend feeding his horses, apparently in some trouble and perplexity. i went back at one, and was ordered to come again at four. i would have remonstrated, but, besides that i could not make myself understood, when i attempted to speak they turned rudely away from me. i was vexed by the loss of the day, as i had agreed to pay a high price for the sake of going through a day sooner, and this might spoil my plan; and i was particularly vexed by the rough manner in which i was treated. i returned at four, and was conducted into a large chamber, in which were perhaps twenty or thirty clerks and inferior officers in the uniform of the government. as soon as i entered there was a general commotion. they had sent for a young man who spoke a little french to act as interpreter. the passport was put into his hands, and the first question he asked me was how i, an american, happened to be travelling under a russian passport. i answered that it was not from any wish of mine, but in obedience to their own laws, and added the fact that this passport had been made out by the russian ambassador at constantinople; that under it i had been admitted into russia, and travelled from the black sea to st. petersburgh, and from there down to warsaw, as he might see from the paper itself, the _visés_ of the proper authorities, down to that of the governor of warsaw, being regularly endorsed. he then asked what my business was in poland, and what had induced me to come there. i answered, the same that had carried me into russia, merely the curiosity of a traveller; and he then inquired what in particular i wanted to see in poland. if i had consulted merely my feelings, i should have told him that, besides being attracted by the interest of her heroic history, i wished to see with my own eyes the pressure of a colossal foot upon the necks of a conquered people; that this very system of inquisition and _espionage_ was one of the things i expected to see; but i, of course, forbore this, and answered only in general terms, and my answer was not satisfactory. he then began a more particular examination; asked my age, my height, the colour of my eyes, &c. at first i did not see the absurdity of this examination, and answered honestly according to the fact, as i believed it; but, all at once, it struck me that, as i did not remember the particulars of the description of my person in the passport, my own impromptu might very easily differ from it, and, catching an insulting expression on his face, i told him that he had the passport in his hands, and might himself compare my person with the description there given of me. he then read aloud the entire description; height, so many feet; eyes, such a colour, &c., &c.; scanned me from head to foot; peered into my eyes, stopping after each article to look at me and compare me with the description. by this time every man in the room had left his business and gathered round looking at me, and, after the reading of each article and the subsequent examination, there was a general shaking of heads and a contemptuous smile. at the time i remembered, what had before suggested itself to me rather as a good thing, that, before embarking for europe, i had written on to the department of state for a passport, with a description of my person made out at the moment by a friend, not very flattering, and, perhaps, not very true, but good enough for the continent, which i expected to be the extent of my tour; and i felt conscious that, on a severe examination, my nose might be longer, or my eyes grayer, or in some other point different from the description. this, added to their close and critical examination, at first embarrassed me considerably, but the supercilious and insulting manner in which the examination was conducted roused my indignation and restored my self-possession. i saw, from the informal way in which the thing was done, that this was a mere preliminary inquisition, and not the court to sit in judgment; and i had noticed from the beginning that most of these men were poles, who had sold themselves to russia for petty place and pay in her offices, traitors in their hearts and lives, apostates from every honourable feeling, and breathing a more infernal spirit against their enslaved country than the russians themselves; and i told the interpreter, as coolly as the nature of the case would admit, to accept for himself, and to convey to his associates, the assurance that i should remember their little town as long as i lived; that i had then travelled from england through france, italy, greece, turkey, and russia, and had nowhere met such wanton rudeness and insult as from them; that i did not think it possible that in any european government twenty of its officers would laugh and sneer at the embarrassment of a stranger without a single one stepping forward to assist him; that i deeply regretted the occurrence of such a circumstance in poland; that i felt convinced that there was not a truehearted pole among them, or my character as an american would have saved me from insult. the interpreter seemed a little abashed, but i could see in the vindictive faces of the rest that they were greatly irritated. the examination was cut short, and i was directed to come again at half past five, when the commandant, who had been sent for, would be there. by this time there was some excitement in the streets, and, as i afterward learned, it was noised through the little town that an american was detained on suspicion of travelling under a false passport. my calêche had been standing in the public square all day. i had been noticed going to and from the offices with a soldier at my heels, and my poor pole had been wandering up and down the streets, telling everybody his fears and interest in me, and particularly his anxiety about ten rubles i had promised him. as i passed along, people turned round and looked at me. i went to a kukiernia, where the dame had been very smiling and attentive, and could not get even a look from her. i went to another; several men were earnestly talking, who became silent the moment i entered. a small matter created an excitement in that little place. it was a rare thing for a traveller to pass through it; the russian government threw every impediment in the way, and had made the road so vexatious that it was almost broken up. the french or the citizens of a free country like america were always suspected of being political emissaries to stir up the poles to revolution, and it seemed as if, under that despotic government, to be suspected was to be guilty. the poles were in the habit of seeing slight offences visited with terrible punishments, and probably half the little town looked on me as a doomed man. i went back to the square and took a seat on my calêche; my poor pole sat on the box looking at me; he had followed me all over, and, like the rest, seemed to regard me as lost. i had probably treated him with more kindness than he was accustomed to receive, though, for every new kindness, he vexed me anew by stooping down and kissing my foot. at half past five o'clock i was again at the door of the palace. on the staircase i met the young man who had acted as interpreter; he would have avoided me, but i stopped him and asked him to return with me. i held on to him, asking him if the commandant spoke french; begged him, as he would hope himself to find kindness in a strange country, to go back and act as a medium of explanation; but he tore rudely away, and hurried down stairs. a soldier opened the door and led me into the same apartment as before. the clerks were all at their desks writing; all looked up as i entered, but not one offered me a seat, nor any the slightest act of civility. i waited a moment, and they seemed studiously to take no notice of me. i felt outrageous at their rudeness. i had no apprehensions of any serious consequences beyond, perhaps, that of a detention until i could write to mr. wilkins, our ambassador at st. petersburgh, and resolved not to be trampled upon by the understrappers. i walked up to the door of the commandant's chamber, when one man, who had been particularly insulting during the reading of the passport, rudely intercepted me, and leaning his back against the door, flourished his hands before him to keep me from entering. fortunately, i fell back in time to prevent even the tip end of his fingers touching me. my blood flashed through me like lightning, and even now i consider myself a miracle of forbearance that i did not strike him. in a few moments the door opened, and a soldier beckoned me to enter. directly in front, at the other end of the room, behind a table, sat the commandant, a grim, gaunt-looking figure about fifty, his military coat buttoned tight up in his throat, his cap and sword on the table by his side, and in his hands my unlucky passport. as i walked toward him he looked from the passport to me, and from me to the passport; and when i stopped at the table he read over again the whole description, at every clause looking at me; shook his head with a grim smile of incredulity, and laid it down, as if perfectly satisfied. i felt that my face was flushed with indignation, and, perhaps, to a certain extent, so distorted with passion that it would have been difficult to recognise me as the person described. i suggested to him that the rude treatment i had met with in the other room had no doubt altered the whole character of my face, but he waved his hand for me to be silent; and, taking up a sheet of paper, wrote a letter or order, or something which i did not understand, and gave it to a soldier, who took it off to one corner and stamped it. the commandant then folded up the passport, enclosed it in the letter, and handed it again to the soldier, who carried it off and affixed to it an enormous wax seal, which looked very ominous and siberian-like. i was determined not to suffer from the want of any effort on my part, and pulled out my old american passport, under which i had travelled in france and italy, and also a new one which commodore porter had given me in constantinople. he looked at them without any comment and without understanding them; and, when the soldier returned with the paper and the big seal, he rose, and, without moving a muscle, waved with his hand for me to follow the soldier. i would have resisted if i had dared. i was indignant enough to do some rash thing, but at every step was a soldier; i saw the folly of it, and, grinding my teeth with vexation and rage, i did as i was ordered. at the door of the palace we found a large crowd, who, knowing my appointment for this hour, were waiting to hear the result. a line of people was formed along the walk, who, seeing me under the charge of a soldier, turned round and looked at me with ominous silence. we passed under the walls of the prison, and the prisoners thrust their arms through the bars and hailed me, and seemed to claim me as a companion, and to promise me a welcome among them. for a moment i was infected with some apprehensions. in my utter ignorance as to what it all meant, i ran over in my mind the stories i had heard of the exercise of despotic authority, and for one moment thought of my german host at moscow and a journey to siberia by mistake. i did not know where the soldier was taking me, but felt relieved when we had got out of the reach of the voices of the prisoners, and more so when we stopped before a large house, which i remarked at once as a private dwelling, though a guard of honour before the door indicated it as the residence of an officer of high rank. we entered, and were ushered into the presence of the governor and commander-in-chief. he was, of course, a russian, a man about sixty, in the uniform of a general officer, and attended by an aiddecamp about thirty. i waited till the soldier had delivered his message; and, before the governor had broken the seal, i carried the war into the enemy's country by complaining of the rude treatment i had received, interrupted in my journey under a passport which had carried me all over russia, and laughed at and insulted by the officers of the government, at the same time congratulating myself that i had at last met those who could at least tell me why i was detained, and would give me an opportunity of explaining anything apparently wrong. i found the governor, as everywhere else in russia where i could get access to the principal man, a gentleman in his bearing and feelings. he requested me to be seated, while he retired into another apartment to examine the passport. the aiddecamp remained, and i entertained him with my chapter of grievances; he put the whole burden of the incivility upon the poles, who, as he said, filled all the inferior offices of government, but told me, too, that the country was in such an unsettled state that it was necessary to be very particular in examining all strangers; and particularly as at that time several french emissaries were suspected to be secretly wandering in poland, trying to stir up revolution. the governor stayed so long that i began to fear there was some technical irregularity which might subject me to detention, and i was in no small degree relieved when he sent for me, and telling me that he regretted the necessity for giving such annoyance and vexation to travellers, handed me back the passport, with a direction to the proper officer to make the necessary _visé_ and let me go. i was so pleased with the result that i did not stop to ask any questions, and to this day i do not know particularly why i was detained. by this time it was nine o'clock, and when we returned the bureau was closed. the soldier stated the case to the loungers about the door, and now all, including some of the scoundrels who had been so rude to me in the morning, were anxious to serve me. one of them conducted me to an apartment near, where i was ushered into the presence of an elderly lady and her two daughters, both of whom spoke french. i apologized for my intrusion; told them my extreme anxiety to go on that night, and begged them to procure some one to take the governor's order to the commandant; in fact, i had become nervous, and did not consider myself safe till out of the place. they called in a younger brother, who started with alacrity on the errand, and i sat down to wait his return. there must be a witchery about polish ladies. i was almost savage against all mankind; i had been kept up to the extremest point of indignation without any opportunity of exploding all day, and it would have been a great favour for some one to knock me down; but in a few minutes all my bitterness and malevolence melted away, and before tea was over i forgot that i had been bandied all day from pillar to post, and even forgave the boors who had mocked me, in consideration of their being the countrymen of the ladies who were showing me such kindness. even with them i began with the chafed spirit that had been goading me on all day; but when i listened to the calm and sad manner in which they replied; that it was annoying, but it was light, very light, compared with the scenes through which they and all their friends had passed, i was ashamed of my petulance. a few words convinced me that they were the poles of my imagination and heart. a widowed mother and orphan children, their staff and protector had died in battle, and a gallant brother was then wandering an exile in france. i believe it is my recollection of polish ladies that gives me a leaning toward rebels. i never met a polish lady who was not a rebel, and i could but think, as long as the startling notes of revolution continue to fall like music from their pretty lips, so long the russian will sleep on an unquiet pillow in poland. it was more than an hour before the brother returned, and i was sorry when he came; for, after my professions of haste, i had no excuse for remaining longer. i was the first american they had ever seen; and if they do not remember me for anything else, i am happy to have disabused them of one prejudice against my country, for they believed the americans were all black. at parting, and at my request, the eldest daughter wrote her name in my memorandum-book, and i bade them farewell. it was eleven o'clock when i left the house, and at the first transition from their presence the night seemed of pitchy darkness. i groped my way into the square, and found my calêche gone. i stood for a moment on the spot where i had left it, ruminating what i should do. perhaps my poor pole had given me up as lost, and taken out letters of administration upon my carpet-bag. directly before me, intersecting the range of houses on the opposite side of the square, was a street leading out of the town. i knew that he was a man to go straight ahead, turning neither to the right hand nor the left. i walked on to the opening, followed it a little way, and saw on the right a gate opening to a shed for stabling. i went in, and found him with his horses unharnessed, feeding them, whipping them, and talking at them in furious polish. as soon as he saw me he left them and came at me in the same tone, throwing up both his hands, and almost flourishing them in my face; then went back to his horses, began pitching on the harness, and, snatching up the meal-bag, came back again toward me, all the time talking and gesticulating like a bedlamite. i was almost in despair. what have i done now? even my poor peasant turns against me; this morning he kissed my foot, now he is ready to brain me with a meal-bag. roused by the uproar, the old woman, proprietor of the shed, came out, accompanied by her daughter, a pretty little girl about twelve years old, carrying a lantern. i looked at them without expecting any help. my peasant moved between them and me and the horses, flourishing his meal-bag, and seeming every moment to become more and more enraged with me. i looked on in dismay, when the little girl came up, and dropping a courtesy before me, in the prettiest french i ever heard, asked me, "que voulez vous, monsieur?" i could have taken her up in my arms and kissed her. i have had a fair share of the perplexity which befalls every man from the sex, but i hold many old accounts cancelled by the relief twice afforded me this day. before coming to a parley with my pole, i took her by the hand, and, sitting down on the tongue of a wagon, learned from her that she had been taken into the house of a rich seigneur to be educated as a companion for his daughter, and was then at home on a visit to her mother; after which she explained the meaning of my postillion's outcry. besides his apprehensions for me personally, he had been tormented with the no less powerful one of losing the promised ten rubles upon his arrival at a fixed time at michoof, and all his earnestness was to hurry me off at once, in order to give him a chance of still arriving within the time. this was exactly the humour in which i wanted to find him, for i had expected great difficulty in making him go on that night; so i told him to hitch on his horses, and at parting did give the little girl a kiss, and the only other thing i could give her without impoverishing myself was a silk purse as a memento. i lighted my pipe, and, worn out with the perplexities of the day, in a short time forgot police and passports, rude russians and dastardly poles, and even the polish ladies and the little girl. i woke the next morning under a shed, horses harnessed, postillion on the box whipping, and a jew at their head holding them, and the two bipeds quarrelling furiously about the stabling. i threw the jew a florin, and he let go his hold, though my peasant shook his whip, and roared back at him long after we were out of sight and hearing. at a few miles' distance we came to a stopping-place, where we found a large calêche with four handsome horses, and the postillion in the costume of a peasant of cracow, a little square red cap with a red feather, a long white frock somewhat like a shooting-jacket, bordered with red, a belt covered with pieces of brass like scales lapping over each other, and a horn slung over his right shoulder. it belonged to a polish seigneur, who, though disaffected toward government, had succeeded in retaining his property, and was the proprietor of many villages. he was accompanied by a young man about thirty, who spoke a very little french; less than any man whom i ever heard attempt to speak it at all. they had with them their own servants and cooking apparatus, and abundance of provisions. the seigneur superintended the cooking, and i did them the honour to breakfast with them. while we were breakfasting a troop of wagoners or vagabonds were under the shed dancing the mazurka. the better class of poles are noble, high-spirited men, warm and social in their feelings, and to them, living on their estates in the interior of their almost untrodden country, a stranger is a curiosity and a treasure. the old seigneur was exceedingly kind and hospitable, and the young man and i soon became on excellent terms. i was anxious to have a friend in case of a new passport difficulty, and at starting gladly embraced his offer to ride with me. as soon as we took our seats in the calêche we lighted our pipes and shook hands as a bargain of good fellowship. our perfect flow of confidence, however, was much broken by the up-hill work of making ourselves understood. i was no great scholar myself, but his french was execrable; he had studied it when a boy, but for more than ten years had not spoken a word. at one time, finding it impossible to express himself, he said, "parlatis latinum?" "can you speak latin?" i at first thought it was some dialect of the country, and could not believe that he meant the veritable stuff that had been whipped into me at school, and which, to me, was most emphatically a dead language; but necessity develops all that a man has, and for three hours we kept up an uninterrupted stream of talk in bad latin and worse french. like every pole whom i met, except the employés in the public offices, from the bottom of his heart he detested a russian. he had been a soldier during the revolution, and lay on his back crippled with wounds when it was crushed by the capture of warsaw. i showed him the coin which had accidentally come into my hands, and when we came to the point where our roads separated, he said that he was ashamed to do so, but could not help begging from me that coin; to me it was merely a curiosity, to him it was a trophy of the brilliant but shortlived independence of his country. i was loath to part with it, and would rather have given him every button on my coat; but i appreciated his patriotic feeling, and could not refuse. i got out, and he threw his arms around me, kissed me on both cheeks, called me his friend and brother, and mounted the kibitka with the old seigneur. the latter invited me to go with him to his château, about a day's journey distant, and if i had expected to write a book i should certainly have done so. i went on again alone. at about twelve o'clock we arrived at the town of kielse. i felt nervous as we approached the barrier. i threw myself back in the calêche, and drew my cap over my eyes in grand seigneur style, the soldier touched his hat as he opened the gate, and we drove into the public square unmolested. i breathed more freely, but almost hesitated to leave the calêche while the horses fed. i smiled, however, at thinking that any effort to avoid observation was the very way to attract it, and went to a kukernia, where i drank coffee, ate bread encrusted with sugar, and smoked a pipe until my pole came in and kissed my foot as an intimation that the horses were ready. no questions were asked at the barrier; and we rode on quietly till nine o'clock, when we drove under the shed of a caravanserai. fifteen or twenty wagoners were eating off a bench, and, as they finished, stretched themselves on the floor for sleep. it was a beautiful moonlight night, and i strolled out for a walk. the whole country was an immense plain. i could see for a great distance, and the old shed was the only roof in sight. it was the last night of a long journey through wild and unsettled countries. i went back to the time when, on a night like that, i had embarked on the adriatic for greece; thought of the many scenes i had passed through since, and bidding farewell to the plains of poland, returned to my calêche, drew my cloak around me, and was soon asleep. at nine o'clock we stopped at a feeding-place, where a horde of dirty jews were at a long table eating. i brushed off one corner, and sat down to some bread and milk. opposite me was a beggar woman dividing with a child about ten years old a small piece of dry black bread. i gave them some bread and a jar of milk, and i thought, from the lighting up of the boy's face, that it was long since he had had such a meal. at twelve o'clock we reached michoof, the end of my journey with the calêche. i considered my difficulties all ended, and showed at the posthouse my letter from the polish captain to the commissario. to my great annoyance, he was not in the place. i had to procure a conveyance to cracow; and having parted with my poor pole overwhelmed with gratitude for my treatment on the road and my trifling gratuity at parting, i stood at the door of the posthouse with my carpet-bag in my hand, utterly at a loss what to do. a crowd of people gathered round, all willing to assist me, but i could not tell them what i wanted. one young man in particular seemed bent upon serving me; he accosted me in russian, polish, and german. i answered him in english, french, and italian, and then both stopped. as a desperate resource, and almost trembling at my own temerity, i asked him the question i had learned from my yesterday's companion "parlates latinum?" and he answered me with a fluency and volubility that again threw me into another perplexity, caught my hand, congratulated me upon having found a language both understood, praised the good old classic tongues, offered his services to procure anything i wanted, &c., and all with such rapidity of utterance that i was obliged to cry out with something like the sailor's "vast heaving," and tell him that, if he went on at that rate, it was all russian to me. he stopped, and went on more moderately, and with great help from him i gave him to understand that i wanted to hire a wagon to take me to cracow. "venite cum me," said my friend, and conducted me round the town until we found one. i then told him i wanted my passport _viséd_ for passing the frontier. "venite cum me," again said my friend, and took me with him and procured the _visé_; then that i wanted a dinner; still he answered "venite cum me," and took me to a trattoria, and dined with me. at dinner my classical friend did a rather unclassical thing. an enormous cucumber was swimming in a tureen of vinegar. he asked me whether i did not want it; and, taking it up in his fingers, ate it as a dessert, and drinking the vinegar out of the tureen, smacked his lips, wiped his mustaches with the tablecloth, and pronounced it "optimum." for three hours we talked constantly, and talked nothing but latin. it was easy enough for him, for, as he told me, at school it had been the language of conversation. to me it was like breaking myself into the treadmill; but, once fairly started, my early preceptors would have been proud of my talk. at parting he kissed me on both cheeks, rubbed me affectionately with his mustaches and, after i had taken my seat, his last words were, "semper me servate in vestra memoria." we had four and a half german, or about eighteen english, miles to cracow. we had a pair of miserable, ragged little horses, but i promised my postillion two florins extra if he took me there in three hours, and he started off so furiously that in less than an hour the horses broke down, and we had to get out and walk. after breathing them a little they began to recover, and we arrived on a gentle trot at the frontier town, about half way to cracow. my passport was all right, but here i had a new difficulty in that i had no passport for my postillion. i had not thought of this, and my classical friend had not suggested it. it was exceedingly provoking, as to return would prevent my reaching cracow that night. after a parley with the commanding officer, a gentlemanly man, who spoke french very well, he finally said that my postillion might go on under charge of a soldier to the next posthouse, about a mile beyond, where i could get another conveyance and send him back. just as i had thanked him for his courtesy, a young gentleman from cracow, in a barouche with four horses, drove up, and, hearing my difficulty, politely offered to take me in with him. i gladly accepted his offer, and arrived at cracow at about dark, where, upon his recommendation, i went to the hotel de la rose blanche, and cannot well describe the satisfaction with which i once more found myself on the borders of civilized europe, within reach of the ordinary public conveyances, and among people whose language i could understand. "shall i not take mine ease in mine own inn?" often, after a hard day's journey, i have asked myself this question, but seldom with the same self-complacency and the same determination to have mine ease as at cracow. i inquired about the means of getting to vienna, which, at that moment, i thought no more of than a journey to boston. though there was no particular need of it, i had a fire built in my room for the associations connected with a cheerful blaze. i put on my morning-gown and slippers, and hauling up before the fire an old chintz-covered sofa, sent for my landlord to come up and talk with me. my host was an italian, and an excellent fellow. attached to his hotel was a large restaurant, frequented by the first people at cracow. during the evening an old countess came there to sup; he mentioned to her the arrival of an american, and i supped with her and her niece; neither of them, however, so interesting as to have any effect upon my slumber. chapter xiv. cracow.--casimir the great.--kosciusko.--tombs of the polish kings.--a polish heroine.--last words of a king.--a hero in decay.--the salt-mines of cracow.--the descent.--the mines.--underground meditations.--the farewell. cracow is an old, curious, and interesting city, situated in a valley on the banks of the vistula; and approaching it as i did, toward the sunset of a summer's day, the old churches and towers, the lofty castles and the large houses spread out on the immense plains, gave it an appearance of actual splendour. this faded away as i entered, but still the city inspired a feeling of respect, for it bore the impress of better days. it contains numerous churches, some of them very large, and remarkable for their style and architecture, and more than a hundred monasteries and convents. in the centre is a large square, on which stands the church of notre dame, an immense gothic structure, and also the old palace of sobieski, now cut down into shops, and many large private residences, uninhabited and falling to ruins. the principal streets terminate in this square. almost every building bears striking marks of ruined grandeur. on the last partition of poland in eighteen hundred and fifteen by the holy alliance, cracow, with a territory of five hundred square miles and a population of a hundred and eight thousand, including about thirty thousand jews, was erected into a republic; and at this day it exists nominally as a _free city_, under the protection of the three great powers; emphatically, such protection as vultures give to lambs; three masters instead of one, russia, prussia, and austria, all claiming the right to interfere in its government. but even in its fallen state cracow is dear to the pole's heart, for it was the capital of his country when poland ranked high among nations, and down to him who last sat upon her throne, was the place of coronation and of burial for her kings. it is the residence of many of the old polish nobility, who, with reduced fortunes, prefer this little foothold in their country, where liberty nominally lingers, to exile in foreign lands. it now contains a population of about thirty thousand, including jews. occasionally the seigneur is still seen, in his short cassock of blue cloth, with a red sash and a white square-topped cap; a costume admirably adapted to the tall and noble figure of the proud pole, and the costume of the peasant of cracow is still a striking feature in her streets. after a stroll through the churches, i walked on the old ramparts of cracow. the city was formerly surrounded with regular fortifications, but, as in almost all the cities of europe, her ancient walls have been transformed into boulevards; and now handsome avenues of trees encircle it, destroying altogether its gothic military aspect, and on sundays and fête days the whole population gathers in gay dresses, seeking pleasure where their fathers stood clad in armour and arrayed for battle. the boulevards command an extensive view of all the surrounding country. "all the sites of my country," says a national poet, "are dear to me; but, above all, i love the environs of cracow; there at every step i meet the recollections of our ancient glory and our once imposing grandeur." on the opposite bank of the river is a large tumulus of earth, marking the grave of cracus, the founder of the city. a little higher up is another mound, reverenced as the sepulchre of his daughter wenda, who was so enamoured of war that she promised to give her hand only to the lover who should conquer her in battle. beyond this is the field of zechino, where the brave kosciusko, after his return from america, with a band of peasants, again struck the first blow of revolution, and, by a victory over the russians, roused all poland to arms. about a mile from cracow are the ruins of the palace of lobzow, built by casimir the great, for a long time the favourite royal residence, and identified with a crowd of national recollections; and, until lately, a large mound of earth in the garden was reverenced as the grave of esther, the beautiful jewess, the idol of casimir the great. poetry has embellished the tradition, and the national muse has hallowed the palace of lobzow and the grave of esther. "passer-by, if you are a stranger, tremble in thinking of human destruction; but if you are a pole, shed bitter tears; heroes have inhabited this palace.... who can equal them?... * * * * * "casimir erected this palace: centuries have hailed him with the name of the great.... * * * * * "near his esther, in the delightful groves of lobzow, he thought himself happy in ceasing to be a king to become a lover. * * * * * "but fate is unpitiable for kings as for us, and even beauty is subject to the common law. esther died, and casimir erected a tomb in the place she had loved. "oh! if you are sensible to the grief caused by love, drop a tear at this tomb and adorn it with a crown. if casimir was tied to humanity by some weaknesses, they are the appendage of heroes! in presence of this chateau, in finding again noble remains, sing the glory of casimir the great." i was not a sentimental traveller, nor sensible to the grief that is caused by love, and i could neither drop a tear at the tomb of esther nor sing the glory of casimir the great; but my heart beat high as i turned to another monument in the environs of cracow; an immense mound of earth, standing on an eminence visible from every quarter, towering almost into a mountain, and sacred to the memory of kosciusko! i saw it from the palace of the kings and from the ramparts of the fallen city, and, with my eyes constantly fixed upon it, descended to the vistula, followed its bank to a large convent, and then turned to the right, direct for the mound. i walked to the foot of the hill, and ascended to a broad table of land. from this table the mound rises in a conical form, from a base three hundred feet in diameter, to the height of one hundred and seventy-five feet. at the four corners formerly stood small houses, which were occupied by revolutionary soldiers who had served under kosciusko. on the farther side, enclosed by a railing, was a small chapel, and within it a marble tomb covering kosciusko's heart! a circular path winds round the mound; i ascended by this path to the top. it is built of earth sodded, and was then covered with a thick carpet of grass, and reminded me of the tumuli of the grecian heroes on the plains of troy; and perhaps, when thousands of years shall have rolled by, and all connected with our age be forgotten, and time and exposure to the elements shall have changed its form, another stranger will stand where i did, and wonder why and for what it was raised. it was erected in by the voluntary labour of the polish people; and so great was the enthusiasm, that, as an eyewitness told me, wounded soldiers brought earth in their helmets, and women in their slippers; and i remembered, with a swelling heart, that on this consecrated spot a nation of brave men had turned to my country as the star of liberty, and that here a banner had been unfurled and hailed with acclamations by assembled thousands, bearing aloft the sacred inscription, "kosciusko, the friend of washington!" the morning was cold and dreary, the sky was overcast with clouds, and the sun, occasionally breaking through lighted up for a moment with dazzling brilliancy the domes and steeples of cracow, and the palace and burial-place of her kings, emblematic of the fitful gleams of her liberty flashing and dazzling, and then dying away. i drew my cloak around me, and remained there till i was almost drenched with rain. the wind blew violently, and i descended and sheltered myself at the foot of the mound, by the grave of kosciusko's heart! i returned to the city and entered the cathedral church. it stands by the side of the old palace, on the summit of the rock of wauvel, in the centre of and commanding the city, enclosed with walls and towers, and allied in its history with the most memorable annals of poland; the witness of the ancient glory of her kings, and their sepulchre. the rain was pattering against the windows of the old church as i strolled through the silent cloisters and among the tombs of the kings. a verger in a large cocked hat, and a group of peasants, moved, like myself, with noiseless steps, as if afraid to disturb the repose of the royal dead. many of the kings of poland fill but a corner of the page of history. some of their names i had forgotten, or, perhaps, never knew until i saw them inscribed on their tombs; but every monument covered a head that had worn a crown, and some whose bones were mouldering under my feet will live till the last records of heroism perish. the oldest monument is that of wladislaus le bref, built of stone, without any inscription, but adorned with figures in bas-relief, which are very much injured. he died in thirteen hundred and thirty-three, and chose himself the place of his eternal rest. charles the twelfth of sweden, on his invasion of poland, visited the cathedral church, and stopped before this tomb. a distinguished canon who attended him, in allusion to the position of john casimir, who was then at war with the king of sweden, remarked, "and that king was also driven from his throne, but he returned and reigned until his death." the swede answered with bitterness, "but your john casimir will never return." the canon replied respectfully, "god is great and fortune is fickle;" and the canon was right, for john casimir regained his throne. i approached with a feeling of veneration the tomb of casimir the great. it is of red marble; four columns support a canopy, and the figure of the king, with a crown on his head, rests on a coffin of stone. an iron railing encloses the monument. it is nearly five hundred years since the palatins and nobles of poland, with all the insignia of barbaric magnificence, laid him in the place where his ashes now repose. the historian writes, "poland is indebted to casimir for the greatest part of her churches, palaces, fortresses, and towns," adding that "he found poland of wood and left her of marble." he patronized letters, and founded the university of cracow; promoted industry and encouraged trade; digested the unwritten laws and usages into a regular code; established courts of justice; repressed the tyranny of the nobles, and died with the honourable title of king of the peasants; and i did not forget, while standing over his grave, that beneath me slept the spirit that loved the groves of lobzow and the heart that beat for esther the jewess. the tomb of sigismund i. is of red marble, with a figure as large as life reclining upon it. it is adorned with bas-reliefs and the arms of the republic, the white eagle and the armed cavalier of lithuania. he died in fifteen hundred and forty-one, and his monument bears the following inscription in latin: "sigismund jagellon, king of poland, grand-duke of lithuania, conqueror of the tartars, of the wallachians, of the russians and prussians, reposes under this stone, which he prepared for himself." forty years ago thaddeus czacki, the polish historian, opened the tombs of the kings, and found the head of sigismund resting upon a plate of silver bearing a long latin inscription; the body measured six feet and two inches in height, and was covered with three rich ermines; on the feet were golden spurs, a chain of gold around the neck, and a gold ring on one finger of the left hand. at his feet was a small pewter coffin enclosing the body of his son by bone sforza. by his side lies the body of his son sigismund ii., the last of the jagellons, at whose death began the cabals and convulsions of an elective monarchy, by which poland lost her influence among foreign powers. his memory is rendered interesting by his romantic love for barbe radzewill. she appeared at his father's court, the daughter of a private citizen, celebrated in polish history and romance as uniting to all a woman's beauty a mingled force and tenderness, energy and goodness. the prince had outlived all the ardour of youth; disappointed and listless amid pleasures, his energy of mind destroyed by his excesses, inconstant in his love, and at the summit of human prosperity, living without a wish or a hope; but he saw barbe, and his heart beat anew with the pulsations of life. in the language of his biographer he proved, in all its fulness, that sentiment which draws to earth by its sorrows and raises to heaven by its delights. he married her privately, and on his father's death proclaimed her queen. the whole body of nobles refused to acknowledge the marriage, and one of the nuncios, in the name of the representatives of the nation, supplicated him for himself, his country, his blood, and his children, to extinguish his passion; but the king swore on his sword that neither the diet, nor the nation, nor the whole universe should make him break his vows to barbe; that he would a thousand times rather live with her out of the kingdom than keep a throne which she could not share; and was on the point of abdicating, when his opponents offered to do homage to the queen. when czacki opened the coffin of this prince, he found the body perfectly preserved, and the head, as before, resting on a silver plate containing a long latin inscription. at the foot of his coffin is that of his sister and successor, anne; and in a separate chapel is the tomb of stephen battory, one of the greatest of the kings of poland, raised to the throne by his marriage with anne. i became more and more interested in this asylum of royal dead. i read there almost the entire history of the polish republic, and again i felt that it was but a step from the throne to the grave, for near me was the great chair in which the kings of poland were crowned. i paused before the tomb of john casimir; and there was something strangely interesting in the juxtaposition of these royal dead. john casimir lies by the side of the brother whom he endeavoured to supplant in his election to the throne. his reign was a continued succession of troubles and misfortunes. once he was obliged to fly from poland. he predicted what has since been so fearfully verified, that his country, enfeebled by the anarchy of its government and the licentiousness of the nobles, would be dismembered among the neighbouring powers; and, worn out with the cares of royalty, abdicated the throne, and died in a convent in france. i read at his tomb his pathetic farewell to his people. "people of poland, "it is now two hundred and eighty years that you have been governed by my family. the reign of my ancestors is past, and mine is going to expire. fatigued by the labours of war, the cares of the cabinet, and the weight of age; oppressed with the burdens and vicissitudes of a reign of more than twenty-one years, i, your king and father, return into your hands what the world esteems above all things, a crown, and choose for my throne six feet of earth, where i shall sleep with my fathers. when you show my tomb to your children, tell them that i was the foremost in battle and the last in retreat; that i renounced regal grandeur for the good of my country, and restored my sceptre to those who gave it me." by his side, and under a monument of black marble, lies the body of his successor, michel wisniowecki, an obscure and unambitious citizen, who was literally dragged to the throne, and wept when the crown was placed upon his head, and of whom casimir remarked, when informed of his late subjects' choice, "what, have they put the crown on the head of that poor fellow?" and again i was almost startled by the strange and unnatural mingling of human ashes. by the side of that "poor fellow" lies the "famous" john sobieski, the greatest of the long line of kings of a noble and valorous nation; "one of the few, the immortal names, that were not born to die." on the lower floor of the church, by the side of poniatowski, the polish bayard, is the tomb of one nobler in my eyes than all the kings of poland or of the world. it is of red marble, ornamented with the cap and plume of the peasant of cracow, and bears the simple inscription "t. kosciusko." all over the church i had read elaborate panegyrics upon the tenants of the royal sepulchres, and i was struck with this simple inscription, and remembered that the white marble column reared amid the magnificent scenery of the hudson, which i had often gazed at from the deck of a steamboat, and at whose base i had often stood, bore also in majestic simplicity the name of "kosciusko." it was late in the afternoon, and the group of peasants, two poles from the interior, and a party of the citizens of cracow, among whom were several ladies, joined me at the tomb. we could not speak each other's language; we were born and lived thousands of miles apart, and we were strangers in our thoughts and feelings, in all our hopes and prospects, but we had a bond of sympathy at the grave of kosciusko. one of the ladies spoke french, and i told them that, in my far distant country, the name of their nation's idol was hallowed; that schoolboys had erected a monument to his memory. they knew that he had fought by the side of washington, but they did not know that the recollection of his services was still so dearly cherished in america; and we all agreed that it was the proudest tribute that could be paid to his memory, to write merely his name on his monument. it meant that it was needless to add an epitaph, for no man would ask, who was kosciusko? it was nearly dark when i returned to my hotel. in the restaurant, at a small table directly opposite me, sat the celebrated chlopicki, to whom, on the breaking out of the last revolution, poland turned as to another kosciusko, and who, until he faltered during the trying scenes of that revolution, would have been deemed worthy to lie by kosciusko's side. born of a noble family, a soldier from his birth, he served in the memorable campaigns of the great patriot, distinguished himself in the polish legions in italy under dombrowski, and, as colonel of a regiment of the army of the vistula, behaved gloriously in prussia. in spain he fought at saragossa and sagunta, and was called by suchet _le brave des braves_; as general of brigade in the army of russia, he was wounded at valentina, near smolensk, and was general of a division in eighteen hundred and fourteen, when poland fell under the dominion of the autocrat. the grand-duke constantine censured him on parade, saying that his division was not in order; and chlopicki, with the proud boast, "i did not gain my rank on the parade-ground, nor did i win my decorations there," asked his discharge the next day, and could never after be induced to return to the service. the day after the revolutionary blow was struck, all poland turned to chlopicki as the only man capable of standing at the head of the nation. the command of the army, with absolute powers, was conferred upon him by acclamation, and one of the patriot leaders concluded his address to him with these words: "brother, take the sword of your ancestors and predecessors, czarnecki, dombrowski, and kosciusko. guide the nation that has placed its trust in you in the path of honour. save this unhappy country." chlopicki, with his silver head grown white in the service of poland, was hailed by a hundred thousand people on the champ de mars with shouts of "our country and its brave defender, chlopicki, for ever." he promised never to abuse their confidence, and swore that he would defend the liberty of poland to the last moment. the whole nation was enthusiastic in his favour; but in less than three months, at a stormy session of the diet, he threw up his high office of dictator, and refused peremptorily to accept command of the army. this brave army, enthusiastically attached to him, was struck with profound grief at his estrangement; but, with all the faults imputed to him, it never was charged that he attempted to take advantage of his great popularity for any ambitious purposes of his own. at the battle of grokow he fought nominally as a private soldier, though skryznecki and radziwill being both deficient in military experience, the whole army looked to him for guidance. once, when the battle was setting strong against the poles, in a moment of desperation he put himself at the head of some disposable battalions, and turning away from an aiddecamp who came to him for orders, said, "go and ask radziwill; for me, i seek only death." grievously wounded, his wounds were dressed in presence of the enemy; but at two o'clock he was borne off the field, the hopes of the soldiers died, and the army remained without any actual head. throughout the revolution his conduct was cold, indifferent, and inexplicable; private letters from the emperor of russia were talked of, and even _treason_ was whispered in connexion with his name. the poles speak of him more in sorrow than in anger; they say that it was not enough that he exposed his person on the field of battle; that he should have given them the whole weight of his great military talents, and the influence of his powerful name; that, standing alone, without children or relations to be compromised by his acts, he should have consummated the glory of his life by giving its few remaining years for the liberty of his country. he appeared about sixty-five, with hair perfectly white, a high florid complexion, a firm and determined expression, and in still unbroken health, carrying himself with the proud bearing of a distinguished veteran soldier. i could not believe that he had bartered the precious satisfaction of a long and glorious career for a few years of ignoble existence; and, though a stranger, could but regret that, in the wane of life, circumstances, whether justly or not, had sullied an honoured name. it spoke loudly against him that i saw him sitting in a public restaurant at cracow, unmolested by the russian government. the next day i visited the celebrated salt-mines at wielitska. they lie about, twelve miles from cracow, in the province of galicia, a part of the kingdom of poland, which, on the unrighteous partition of that country, fell to the share of austria. although at so short a distance, it was necessary to go through all the passport formalities requisite on a departure for a foreign country. i took a fiacre and rode to the different bureaux of the city police, and, having procured the permission of the municipal authorities to leave the little territory of cracow, rode next to the austrian consul, who thereupon, and in consideration of one dollar to him in hand paid, was graciously pleased to permit me to enter the dominions of his master the emperor of austria. it was also necessary to have an order from the director of the mines to the superintendent; and furnished with this i again mounted my fiacre, rattled through the principal street, and in a few minutes crossed the vistula. at the end of the bridge an austrian soldier stopped me for my passport, a _douanier_ examined my carriage for articles subject to duty, and, these functionaries being satisfied, in about two hours from the time at which i began my preparations i was fairly on my way. leaving the vistula, i entered a pretty, undulating, and well-cultivated country, and saw at a distance a high dark line, marking the range of the carpathian mountains. it was a long time since i had seen anything that looked like a mountain. from the black sea the whole of my journey had been over an immense plain, and i hailed the wild range of the carpathian as i would the spire of a church, as an evidence of the approach to regions of civilization. in an hour and a half i arrived at the town of wielitska, containing about three thousand inhabitants, and standing, as it were, on the roof of the immense subterraneous excavations. the houses are built of wood, and the first thing that struck me was the almost entire absence of men in the streets, the whole male population being employed in the mines, and then at work below. i rode to the office of the superintendent, and presented my letter, and was received with great civility of manner but his _polish_ was perfectly unintelligible. a smutty-faced operative, just out of the mines, accosted me in latin, and i exchanged a few shots with him, but hauled off on the appearance of a man whom the superintendent had sent for to act as my guide; an old soldier who had served in the campaigns of napoleon, and, as he said, become an amateur and proficient in fighting and french. he was dressed in miner's costume, fanciful, and embroidered with gold, holding in his hand a steel axe; and, having arrayed me in a long white frock, conducted me to a wooden building covering the shaft which forms the principal entrance to the mine. this shaft is ten feet square, and descends perpendicularly more than two hundred feet into the bowels of the earth. we arranged ourselves in canvass seats, and several of the miners, who were waiting to descend, attached themselves to seats at the end of the ropes, with lamps in their hands, about eight or ten feet below us. when my feet left the brink of the shaft i felt, for a moment, as if suspended over the portal of a bottomless pit; and as my head descended below the surface, the rope, winding and tapering to a thread, seemed letting me down to the realms of pluto. but in a few moments we touched bottom. from within a short distance of the surface, the shaft is cut through a solid rock of salt, and from the bottom passages almost innumerable are cut in every direction through the same bed. we were furnished with guides, who went before us bearing torches, and i followed through the whole labyrinth of passages, forming the largest excavations in europe, peopled with upward of two thousand souls, and giving a complete idea of a subterraneous world. these mines are known to have been worked upward of six hundred years, being mentioned in the polish annals as early as twelve hundred and thirty-seven, under boleslaus the chaste, and then not as a new discovery, but how much earlier they had existed cannot now be ascertained. the tradition is, that a sister of st. casimir, having lost a gold ring, prayed to st. anthony, the patron saint of cracow, and was advised in a dream that, by digging in such a place, she would find a treasure far greater than that she had lost, and within the place indicated these mines were discovered. [illustration: salt-mines of wielitska.] there are four different stories or ranges of apartments; the whole length of the excavations is more than six thousand feet, or three quarters of an hour's walk, and the greatest breadth more than two thousand feet; and there are so many turnings and windings that my guide told me, though i hardly think it possible, that the whole length of all the passages cut through this bed of salt amounts to more than three hundred miles. many of the chambers are of immense size. some are supported by timber, others by vast pillars of salt; several are without any support in the middle, and of vast dimensions, perhaps eighty feet high, and so long and broad as almost to appear a boundless subterraneous cavern. in one of the largest is a lake covering nearly the whole area. when the king of saxony visited this place in eighteen hundred and ten, after taking possession of his moiety of the mines as duke of warsaw, this portion of them was brilliantly illuminated; and a band of music, floating on the lake, made the roof echo with patriotic airs. we crossed the lake in a flatboat by a rope, the dim light of torches, and the hollow sound of our voices, giving a lively idea of a passage across the styx; and we had a scene which might have entitled us to a welcome from the prince of the infernals, for our torch-bearers quarrelled, and in a scuffle that came near carrying us all with them, one was tumbled into the lake. our charon caught him, and, without stopping to take him in, hurried across, and as soon as we landed beat them both unmercifully. from this we entered an immense cavern, in which several hundred men were working with pickaxes and hatchets, cutting out large blocks of salt, and trimming them to suit the size of barrels. with their black faces begrimed with dust and smoke, they looked by the light of the scattered torches like the journeymen of beelzebub, the prince of darkness, preparing for some great blow-up, or like the spirits of the damned condemned to toil without end. my guide called up a party, who disengaged with their pickaxes a large block of salt from its native bed, and in a few minutes cut and trimmed it to fit the barrels in which they are packed. all doubts as to their being creatures of our upper world were removed by the eagerness with which they accepted the money i gave them; and it will be satisfactory to the advocates of that currency to know that paper money passes readily in these lower regions. there are more than a thousand chambers or halls, most of which have been abandoned and shut up. in one is a collection of fanciful things, such as rings, books, crosses, &c., cut in the rock-salt. most of the principal chambers had some name printed over them, as the "archduke," "carolina," &c. whenever it was necessary, my guides went ahead and stationed themselves in some conspicuous place, lighting up the dark caverns with the blaze of their torches, and, after allowing me a sufficient time, struck their flambeaux against the wall, and millions of sparks flashed and floated around and filled the chamber. in one place, at the end of a long, dark passage, a door was thrown open, and i was ushered suddenly into a spacious ballroom lighted with torches; and directly in front, at the head of the room, was a transparency with coloured lights, in the centre of which were the words "excelso hospiti," "to the illustrious guest," which i took to myself, though i believe the greeting was intended for the same royal person for whom the lake chamber was illuminated. lights were ingeniously arranged around the room, and at the foot, about twenty feet above my head, was a large orchestra. on the occasion referred to a splendid ball was given in this room; the roof echoed with the sound of music; and nobles and princely ladies flirted and coquetted the same as above ground; and it is said that the splendid dresses of a numerous company, and the blaze of light from the chandeliers reflected upon the surface of the rock-salt, produced an effect of inconceivable brilliancy. my chandeliers were worse than allan m'aulay's strapping highlanders with their pine torches, being dirty, ragged, smutty-faced rascals, who threw the light in streaks across the hall. i am always willing to believe fanciful stories; and if my guide had thrown in a handsome young princess as part of the welcome to the "excelso hospiti," i would have subscribed to anything he said; but, in the absence of a consideration, i refused to tax my imagination up to the point he wished. perhaps the most interesting chamber of all is the chapel dedicated to that saint anthony who brought about the discovery of these mines. it is supposed to be more than four hundred years old. the columns, with their ornamented capitals, the arches, the images of the saviour, the virgin and saints, the altar and the pulpit, with all their decorations, and the figures of two priests represented at prayers before the shrine of the patron saint, are all carved out of the rock-salt, and to this day grand mass is regularly celebrated in the chapel once every year. following my guide through all the different passages and chambers, and constantly meeting miners and seeing squads of men at work, i descended by regular stairs cut in the salt, but in some places worn away and replaced by wood or stone, to the lowest gallery, which is nearly a thousand feet below the surface of the earth. i was then a rather veteran traveller, but up to this time it had been my business to move quietly on the surface of the earth, or, when infected with the soaring spirit of other travellers, to climb to the top of some lofty tower or loftier cathedral; and i had fulfilled one of the duties of a visiter to the eternal city by perching myself within the great ball of st. peter's; but here i was far deeper under the earth than i had ever been above it; and at the greatest depth from which the human voice ever rose, i sat down on a lump of salt and soliloquized, "through what varieties of untried being, through what new scenes and changes must we pass!" i have since stood upon the top of the pyramids, and admired the daring genius and the industry of man, and at the same time smiled at his feebleness when, from the mighty pile, i saw in the dark ranges of mountains, the sandy desert, the rich valley of the nile and the river of egypt, the hand of the world's great architect; but i never felt man's feebleness more than here; for all these immense excavations, the work of more than six hundred years, were but as the work of ants by the roadside. the whole of the immense mass above me, and around and below, to an unknown extent, was of salt; a wonderful phenomenon in the natural history of the globe. all the different strata have been carefully examined by scientific men. the uppermost bed at the surface is sand; the second clay occasionally mixed with sand and gravel, and containing petrifactions of marine bodies; the third is calcareous stone; and from these circumstances it has been conjectured that this spot was formerly covered by the sea, and that the salt is a gradual deposite formed by the evaporation of its waters. i was disappointed in some of the particulars which had fastened themselves upon my imagination. i had heard and read glowing accounts of the brilliancy and luminous splendour of the passages and chambers, compared by some to the lustre of precious stones; but the salt is of a dark gray colour, almost black, and although sometimes glittering when the light was thrown upon it, i do not believe it could ever be lighted up to shine with any extraordinary or dazzling brightness. early travellers, too, had reported that these mines contained several villages inhabited by colonies of miners, who lived constantly below, and that many were born and died there, who never saw the light of day; but all this is entirely untrue. the miners descend every morning and return every night, and live in the village above. none of them ever sleep below. there are, however, two horses which were foaled in the mines, and have never been on the surface of the earth. i looked at these horses with great interest. they were growing old before their time; other horses had perhaps gone down and told them stories of a world above which they would never know. it was late in the afternoon when i was hoisted up the shaft. these mines do not need the embellishment of fiction. they are, indeed, a wonderful spectacle, and i am satisfied that no traveller ever visited them without recurring to it as a day of extraordinary interest. i wrote my name in the book of visiters, where i saw those of two american friends who had preceded me about a month, mounted my barouche, and about an hour after dark reached the bank of the vistula. my passport was again examined by a soldier and my carriage searched by a custom-house officer; i crossed the bridge, dined with my worthy host of the hotel de la rose blanche, and, while listening to a touching story of the polish revolution, fell asleep in my chair. and here, on the banks of the vistula, i take my leave of the reader. i have carried him over seas and rivers, mountains and plains, through royal palaces and peasants' huts, and in return for his kindness in accompanying me to the end, i promise that i will not again burden him with my incidents of travel. the end. a new classified and descriptive catalogue of harper & brothers' publications has just been issued, comprising a very extensive range of literature, in its several departments of history, biography, philosophy, travel, science and art, the classics, fiction, &c.; also, many splendidly embellished productions. the selection of works includes not only a large proportion of the most esteemed literary productions of our times, but also, in the majority of instances, the best existing authorities on given subjects. this new catalogue has been constructed with a view to the especial use of persons forming or enriching their literary collections, as well as to aid principals of district schools and seminaries of learning, who may not possess any reliable means of forming a true estimate of any production; to all such it commends itself by its explanatory and critical notices. the valuable collection described in this catalogue, consisting of about _two thousand volumes_, combines the two-fold advantages of great economy in price with neatness--often elegance of typographical execution, in many instances the rates of publication being scarcely one fifth of those of similar issues in europe. *** copies of this catalogue may be obtained, free of expense, by application to the publishers personally, or by letter, post-paid. to prevent disappointment, it is requested that, whenever books ordered through any bookseller or local agent can not be obtained, applications with remittance be addressed direct to the publishers, which will be promptly attended to. _new york, january, ._ list of corrections: p. : "voznezeuski" was changed to "vosnezeuski." p. : "the last time in the _calèche_" was changed to "the last time in the _calêche_." p. : "merchandize" was changed to "merchandise" as elsewhere in the book. p. : "the men where nowhere" was changed to "the men were nowhere." p. : "sailed down the dneiper from kief" was changed to "sailed down the dnieper from kief." p. : "of a lilach colour" was changed to "of a lilac colour." p. : "diebisch directed the strength" was changed to "diebitsch directed the strength." errata: the summary in the table of contents is not always consistent with the summary at the beginning of each chapter. the original has been retained. transcriber's notes: punctuation and hyphenation have been normalised. variable, archaic or unusual spelling has been retained. a list of the few corrections made can found at the end of the book. italics indicated by _underscores_. [illustration: greece, turkey, _part of_ russia & poland.] incidents of travel in greece, turkey, russia, and poland. by the author of "incidents of travel in egypt, arabia petrÆa, and the holy land." with a map and engravings. in two volumes. vol. i. seventh edition. new york: harper & brothers, publishers. & pearl street, franklin square. . entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by harper & brothers, in the clerk's office of the southern district of new york. preface to the fifth edition. the fourth edition of this work was published during the author's absence from the city. his publishers, in a preface in his behalf, returned his acknowledgments to the public, and he can but respond to the acknowledgments there made. he has made some alterations in the page relating to the american phil-hellenists; and for the rest, he concludes as in the preface to his first edition. the author has been induced by his publishers to put forth his "incidents of travel in greece, turkey, russia, and poland." in point of time they precede his tour in egypt, arabia petræa, and the holy land. the countries which form the subject of the following pages perhaps do not, in themselves, possess the same interest with those in his first work; but the author has reason to believe that part of his route, particularly from the black sea to the baltic, through the interior of russia, and from st. petersburgh through the interior of poland to warsaw and cracow, is comparatively new to most of his countrymen. as in his first work, his object has been to present a picture of the every-day scenes which occur to the traveller in the countries referred to, rather than any detailed description of the countries themselves. _new york, november, ._ contents of the first volume chapter i. page a hurricane.--an adventure.--missilonghi.--siege of missilonghi.--byron.--marco bozzaris.--visit to the widow, daughters, and brother of bozzaris.--halleck's "marco bozzaris." chapter ii. choice of a servant.--a turnout.--an evening chat.--scenery of the road.--lepanto.--a projected visit.--change of purpose.--padras.--vostitza.--variety and magnificence of scenery. chapter iii. quarrel with the landlord.--Ægina.--sicyon.--corinth.--a distinguished reception.--desolation of corinth.--the acropolis.--view from the acropolis.--lechæum and cenchreæ.--kaka scala.--arrival at athens. chapter iv. american missionary school.--visit to the school.--mr. hill and the male department.--mrs. hill and the female department.--maid of athens.--letter from mr. hill.--revival of athena.--citizens of the world. chapter v. ruins of athens.--hill of mars.--temple of the winds.--lantern of demosthenes.--arch of adrian.--temple of jupiter olympus.--temple of theseus.--the acropolis.--the parthenon.--pentelican mountain.--mount hymettus.--the piræus.--greek fleas.--napoli. chapter vi. argos.--parting and farewell.--tomb of agamemnon.--mycenæ.--gate of the lions.--a misfortune.--meeting in the mountains.--a landlord's troubles.--a midnight quarrel.--one good turn deserves another.--gratitude of a greek family.--megara.--the soldiers' revel. chapter vii. a dreary funeral.--marathon.--mount pentelicus.--a mystery.--woes of a lover.--reveries of glory.--scio's rocky isle.--a blood-stained page of history.--a greek prelate.--desolation.--the exile's return. chapter viii. a noble grecian lady.--beauty of scio.--an original.--foggi.--a turkish coffee-house.--mussulman at prayers.--easter sunday.--a greek priest.--a tartar guide.--turkish ladies.--camel scenes.--sight of a harem.--disappointed hopes.--a rare concert.--arrival at smyrna. chapter ix. first sight of smyrna.--unveiled women.--ruins of ephesus.--ruin, all ruin.--temple of diana.--encounter with a wolf.--love at first sight.--gatherings on the road. chapter x. position of smyrna.--consular privileges.--the case of the lover.--end of the love affair.--the missionary's wife.--the casino.--only a greek row.--rambles in smyrna.--the armenians.--domestic enjoyments. chapter xi. an american original.--moral changes in turkey.--wonders of steam navigation.--the march of mind.--classic localities.--sestos and abydos.--seeds of pestilence. chapter xii. mr. churchill.--commodore porter.--castle of the seven towers.--the sultan's naval architect.--launch of the great ship.--sultan mahmoud.--jubilate.--a national grievance.--visit to a mosque.--the burial-grounds. chapter xiii. visit to the slave-market.--horrors of slavery.--departure from stamboul.--the stormy euxine.--odessa.--the lazaretto.--russian civility.--returning good for evil. chapter xiv. the guardiano.--one too many.--an excess of kindness.--the last day of quarantine.--mr. baguet.--rise of odessa.--city-making.--count woronzow.--a gentleman farmer.--an american russian. incidents of travel in greece, turkey, russia, and poland. chapter i. a hurricane.--an adventure.--missilonghi.--siege of missilonghi.--byron.--marco bozzaris.--visit to the widow, daughters, and brother of bozzaris. on the evening of the ---- february, , by a bright starlight, after a short ramble among the ionian islands, i sailed from zante in a beautiful cutter of about forty tons for padras. my companions were doctor w., an old and valued friend from new-york, who was going to greece merely to visit the episcopal missionary school at athens, and a young scotchman, who had travelled with me through italy, and was going farther, like myself, he knew not exactly why. there was hardly a breath of air when we left the harbour, but a breath was enough to fill our little sail. the wind, though of the gentlest, was fair; and as we crawled from under the lee of the island, in a short time it became a fine sailing breeze. we sat on the deck till a late hour, and turned in with every prospect of being at padras in the morning. before daylight, however, the wind chopped about, and set in dead ahead, and when i went on deck in the morning it was blowing a hurricane. we had passed the point of padras; the wind was driving down the gulf of corinth as if old Æolus had determined on thwarting our purpose; and our little cutter, dancing like a gull upon the angry waters, was driven into the harbour of missilonghi. the town was full in sight, but at such a distance, and the waves were running so high, that we could not reach it with our small boat. a long flat extends several miles into the sea, making the harbour completely inaccessible except to small greek caiques built expressly for such navigation. we remained on board all day; and the next morning, the gale still continuing, made signals to a fishing boat to come off and take us ashore. in a short time she came alongside; we bade farewell to our captain--an italian and a noble fellow, cradled, and, as he said, born to die on the adriatic--and in a few minutes struck the soil of fallen but immortal greece. our manner of striking it, however, was not such as to call forth any of the warm emotions struggling in the breast of the scholar, for we were literally stuck in the mud. we were yet four or five miles from the shore, and the water was so low that the fishing-boat, with the additional weight of four men and luggage, could not swim clear. our boatmen were two long, sinewy greeks, with the red tarbouch, embroidered jacket, sash, and large trousers, and with their long poles set us through the water with prodigious force; but, as soon as the boat struck, they jumped out, and, putting their brawny shoulders under her sides, heaved her through into better water, and then resumed their poles. in this way they propelled her two or three miles, working alternately with their poles and shoulders, until they got her into a channel, when they hoisted the sail, laid directly for the harbour, and drove upon the beach with canvass all flying. during the late greek revolution, missilonghi was the great debarking-place of european adventurers; and, probably, among all the desperadoes who ever landed there, none were more destitute and in better condition to "go ahead" than i; for i had all that i was worth on my back. at one of the ionian islands i had lost my carpet-bag, containing my notebook and every article of wearing apparel except the suit in which i stood. every condition, however, has its advantages; mine put me above porters and custom-house officers; and while my companions were busy with these plagues of travellers, i paced with great satisfaction the shore of greece, though i am obliged to confess that this satisfaction was for reasons utterly disconnected with any recollections of her ancient glories. business before pleasure: one of our first inquiries was for a breakfast. perhaps, if we had seen a monument, or solitary column, or ruin of any kind, it would have inspired us to better things; but there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that could recall an image of the past. besides, we did not expect to land at missilonghi, and were not bound to be inspired at a place into which we were thrown by accident; and, more than all, a drizzling rain was penetrating to our very bones; we were wet and cold, and what can men do in the way of sentiment when their teeth are chattering? the town stands upon a flat, marshy plain, which extends several miles along the shore. the whole was a mass of new-made ruins--of houses demolished and black with smoke--the tokens of savage and desolating war. in front, and running directly along the shore, was a long street of miserable one-story shantees, run up since the destruction of the old town, and so near the shore that sometimes it is washed by the sea, and at the time of our landing it was wet and muddy from the rain. it was a cheerless place, and reminded me of communipaw in bad weather. it had no connexion with the ancient glory of greece, no name or place on her historic page, and no hotel where we could get a breakfast; but one of the officers of the customs conducted us to a shantee filled with bavarian soldiers drinking. there was a sort of second story, accessible only by a ladder; and one end of this was partitioned off with boards, but had neither bench, table, nor any other article of housekeeping. we had been on and almost _in_ the water since daylight, exposed to a keen wind and drizzling rain, and now, at eleven o'clock, could probably have eaten several chickens apiece; but nothing came amiss, and, as we could not get chickens, we took eggs, which, for lack of any vessel to boil them in, were roasted. we placed a huge loaf of bread on the middle of the floor, and seated ourselves around it, spreading out so as to keep the eggs from rolling away, and each hewing off bread for himself. fortunately, the greeks have learned from their quondam turkish masters the art of making coffee, and a cup of this eastern cordial kept our dry bread from choking us. when we came out again the aspect of matters was more cheerful; the long street was swarming with greeks, many of them armed with pistols and yataghan, but miserably poor in appearance, and in such numbers that not half of them could find the shelter of a roof at night. we were accosted by one dressed in a hat and frockcoat, and who, in occasional visits to corfu and trieste, had picked up some italian and french, and a suit of european clothes, and was rather looked up to by his untravelled countrymen. as a man of the world, who had received civilities abroad, he seemed to consider it incumbent upon him to reciprocate at home, and, with the tacit consent of all around, he undertook to do the honours of missilonghi. if, as a greek, he had any national pride about him, he was imposing upon himself a severe task; for all that he could do was to conduct us among ruins, and, as he went along, tell us the story of the bloody siege which had reduced the place to its present woful state. for more than a year, under unparalleled hardships, its brave garrison resisted the combined strength of the turkish and egyptian armies, and, when all hope was gone, resolved to cut their way through the enemy or die in the attempt. many of the aged and sick, the wounded and the women, refused to join in the sortie, and preferred to shut themselves up in an old mill, with the desperate purpose of resisting until they should bring around them a large crowd of turks, when they would blow all up together. an old invalid soldier seated himself in a mine under the bastion bozzaris (the ruins of which we saw), the mine being charged with thirty kegs of gunpowder; the last sacrament was administered by the bishop and priests to the whole population and, at a signal, the besieged made their desperate sortie. one body dashed through the turkish ranks, and, with many women and children, gained the mountains; but the rest were driven back. many of the women ran to the sea and plunged in with their children; husbands stabbed their wives with their own hands to save them from the turks, and the old soldier under the bastion set fire to the train, and the remnant of the heroic garrison buried themselves under the ruins of missilonghi. among them were thirteen foreigners, of whom only one escaped. one of the most distinguished was meyer, a young swiss, who entered as a volunteer at the beginning of the revolution, became attached to a beautiful missilonghiote girl, married her, and, when the final sortie was made, his wife being sick, he remained with her, and was blown up with the others. a letter written a few days before his death, and brought away by one who escaped in the sortie, records the condition of the garrison. "a wound which i have received in my shoulder, while i am in daily expectation of one which will be my passport to eternity, has prevented me till now from bidding you a last adieu. we are reduced to feed upon the most disgusting animals. we are suffering horribly with hunger and thirst. sickness adds much to the calamities which overwhelm us. seventeen hundred and forty of our brothers are dead; more than a hundred thousand bombs and balls thrown by the enemy have destroyed our bastions and our homes. we have been terribly distressed by the cold, for we have suffered great want of food. notwithstanding so many privations, it is a great and noble spectacle to behold the ardour and devotedness of the garrison. a few days more, and these brave men will be angelic spirits, who will accuse before god the indifference of christendom. in the name of all our brave men, among whom are notho bozzaris, *** i announce to you the resolution sworn to before heaven, to defend, foot by foot, the land of missilonghi, and to bury ourselves, without listening to any capitulation, under the ruins of this city. we are drawing near our final hour. history will render us justice. i am proud to think that the blood of a swiss, of a child of william tell, is about to mingle with that of the heroes of greece." but missilonghi is a subject of still greater interest than this, for the reader will remember it as the place where byron died. almost the first questions i asked were about the poet, and it added to the dreary interest which the place inspired, to listen to the manner in which the greeks spoke of him. it might be thought that here, on the spot where he breathed his last, malignity would have held her accursed tongue; but it was not so. he had committed the fault, unpardonable in the eyes of political opponents, of attaching himself to one of the great parties that then divided greece; and though he had given her all that man could give, in his own dying words, "his time, his means, his health, and, lastly, his life," the greeks spoke of him with all the rancour and bitterness of party spirit. even death had not won oblivion for his political offences; and i heard those who saw him die in her cause affirm that byron was no friend to greece. his body, the reader will remember, was transported to england and interred in the family sepulchre. the church where it lay in state is a heap of ruins, and there is no stone or monument recording his death, but, wishing to see some memorial connected with his residence here, we followed our guide to the house in which he died. it was a large square building of stone, one of the walls still standing, black with smoke, the rest a confused and shapeless mass of ruins. after his death it was converted into a hospital and magazine; and, when the turks entered the city, they set fire to the powder; the sick and dying were blown into the air, and we saw the ruins lying as they fell after the explosion. it was a melancholy spectacle, but it seemed to have a sort of moral fitness with the life and fortunes of the poet. it was as if the same wild destiny, the same wreck of hopes and fortunes that attended him through life, were hovering over his grave. living and dead, his actions and his character have been the subject of obloquy and reproach, perhaps justly; but it would have softened the heart of his bitterest enemy to see the place in which he died. it was in this house that, on his last birthday, he came from his bedroom and produced to his friends the last notes of his dying muse, breathing a spirit of sad foreboding and melancholy recollections; of devotion to the noble cause in which he had embarked, and a prophetic consciousness of his approaching end. "my days are in the yellow leaf, the flowers and fruits of love are gone; the worm, the canker, and the grief are mine alone. * * * * * "if thou regret'st thy youth, _why live?_ the land of honourable death is here: up to the field, and give away thy breath! "seek out--less often sought than found-- a soldier's grave, for thee the best; then look around, and choose thy ground, and take thy rest." moving on beyond the range of ruined houses, though still within the line of crumbling walls, we came to a spot perhaps as interesting as any that greece in her best days could show. it was the tomb of marco bozzaris! no monumental marble emblazoned his deeds and fame; a few round stones piled over his head, which, but for our guide, we should have passed without noticing, were all that marked his grave. i would not disturb a proper reverence for the past; time covers with its dim and twilight glories both distant scenes and the men who acted in them, but, to my mind, miltiades was not more of a hero at marathon or leonidas at thermopylæ than marco bozzaris at missilonghi. when they went out against the hosts of persia, athens and sparta were great and free, and they had the prospect of _glory_ and the praise of men, to the greeks always dearer than life. but when the suliote chief drew his sword, his country lay bleeding at the feet of a giant, and all europe condemned the greek revolution as foolhardy and desperate. for two months, with but a few hundred men, protected only by a ditch and slight parapet of earth, he defended the town where his body now rests against the whole egyptian army. in stormy weather, living upon bad and unwholesome bread, with no covering but his cloak, he passed his days and nights in constant vigil; in every assault his sword cut down the foremost assailant, and his voice, rising above the din of battle, struck terror into the hearts of the enemy. in the struggle which ended with his life, with two thousand men he proposed to attack the whole army of mustapha pacha, and called upon all who were willing to die for their country to stand forward. the whole band advanced to a man. unwilling to sacrifice so many brave men in a death-struggle, he chose three hundred, the sacred number of the spartan band, his tried and trusty suliotes. at midnight he placed himself at their head, directing that not a shot should be fired till he sounded his bugle; and his last command was, "if you lose sight of me, seek me in the pacha's tent." in the moment of victory he ordered the pacha to be seized, and received a ball in the loins; his voice still rose above the din of battle, cheering his men until he was struck by another ball in the head, and borne dead from the field of his glory. not far from the grave of bozzaris was a pyramid of sculls, of men who had fallen in the last attack upon the city, piled up near the blackened and battered wall which they had died in defending. in my after wanderings i learned to look more carelessly upon these things; and, perhaps, noticing everywhere the light estimation put upon human life in the east, learned to think more lightly of it myself; but, then, it was melancholy to see bleaching in the sun, under the eyes of their countrymen, the unburied bones of men who, but a little while ago, stood with swords in their hands, and animated by the noble resolution to free their country or die in the attempt. our guide told us that they had all been collected in that place with a view to sepulture; and that king otho, as soon as he became of age and took the government in his own hands, intended to erect a monument over them. in the mean time, they are at the mercy of every passing traveller; and the only remark that our guide made was a comment upon the force and unerring precision of the blow of the turkish sabre, almost every scull being laid open on the side nearly down to the ear. but the most interesting part of our day at missilonghi was to come. returning from a ramble round the walls, we noticed a large square house, which, our guide told us, was the residence of constantine, the brother of marco bozzaris. we were all interested in this intelligence, and our interest was in no small degree increased when he added that the widow and two of the children of the suliote chief were living with his brother. the house was surrounded by a high stone wall, a large gate stood most invitingly wide open, and we turned toward it in the hope of catching a glimpse of the inhabitants; but, before we reached the gate, our interest had increased to such a point that, after consulting with our guide, we requested him to say that, if it would not be considered an intrusion, three travellers, two of them americans, would feel honoured in being permitted to pay their respects to the widow and children of marco bozzaris. we were invited in, and shown into a large room on the right, where three greeks were sitting cross-legged on a divan, smoking the long turkish chibouk. soon after the brother entered, a man about fifty, of middling height, spare built, and wearing a bavarian uniform, as holding a colonel's commission in the service of king otho. in the dress of the dashing suliote he would have better looked the brother of marco bozzaris, and i might then more easily have recognised the daring warrior who, on the field of battle, in a moment of extremity, was deemed, by universal acclamation, worthy of succeeding the fallen hero. now the straight military frockcoat, buttoned tight across the breast, the stock, tight pantaloons, boots, and straps, seemed to repress the free energies of the mountain warrior; and i could not but think how awkward it must be for one who had spent all his life in a dress which hardly touched him, at fifty to put on a stock, and straps to his boots. our guide introduced us, with an apology for our intrusion. the colonel received us with great kindness, thanked us for the honour done his brother's widow, and, requesting us to be seated, ordered coffee and pipes. and here, on the very first day of our arrival in greece, and from a source which made us proud, we had the first evidence of what afterward met me at every step, the warm feeling existing in greece toward america; for almost the first thing that the brother of marco bozzaris said was to express his gratitude as a greek for the services rendered his country by our own; and, after referring to the provisions sent out for his famishing countrymen, his eyes sparkled and his cheek flushed as he told us that, when the greek revolutionary flag first sailed into the port of napoli di romania, among hundreds of vessels of all nations, an american captain was the first to recognise and salute it. in a few moments the widow of marco bozzaris entered. i have often been disappointed in my preconceived notions of personal appearance, but it was not so with the lady who now stood before me; she looked the widow of a hero; as one worthy of her grecian mothers, who gave their hair for bowstrings, their girdle for a sword-belt, and, while their heartstrings were cracking, sent their young lovers from their arms to fight and perish for their country. perhaps it was she that led marco bozzaris into the path of immortality; that roused him from the wild guerilla warfare in which he had passed his early life, and fired him with the high and holy ambition of freeing his country. of one thing i am certain, no man could look in her face without finding his wavering purposes fixed, without treading more firmly in the path of high and honourable enterprise. she was under forty, tall and stately in person and habited in deep black, fit emblem of her widowed condition, with a white handkerchief laid flat over her head, giving the madonna cast to her dark eyes and marble complexion. we all rose as she entered the room; and though living secluded, and seldom seeing the face of a stranger, she received our compliments and returned them with far less embarrassment than we both felt and exhibited. but our embarrassment, at least i speak for myself, was induced by an unexpected circumstance. much as i was interested in her appearance, i was not insensible to the fact that she was accompanied by two young and beautiful girls, who were introduced to us as her daughters. this somewhat bewildered me. while waiting for their appearance, and talking with constantine bozzaris, i had in some way conceived the idea that the daughters were mere children, and had fully made up my mind to take them both on my knee and kiss them; but the appearance of the stately mother recalled me to the grave of bozzaris; and the daughters would probably have thought that i was taking liberties upon so short an acquaintance if i had followed up my benevolent purpose in regard to them; so that, with the long pipe in my hand, which, at that time, i did not know how to manage well, i cannot flatter myself that i exhibited any of the benefit of continental travel. the elder was about sixteen, and even in the opinion of my friend doctor w., a cool judge in these matters, a beautiful girl, possessing in its fullest extent all the elements of grecian beauty: a dark, clear complexion, dark hair, set off by a little red cap embroidered with gold thread, and a long blue tassel hanging down behind, and large black eyes, expressing a melancholy quiet, but which might be excited to shoot forth glances of fire more terrible than her father's sword. happily, too, for us, she talked french, having learned it from a french marquis who had served in greece and been domesticated with them; but young and modest, and unused to the company of strangers, she felt the embarrassment common to young ladies when attempting to speak a foreign language. and we could not talk to her on common themes. our lips were sealed, of course, upon the subject which had brought us to her house. we could not sound for her the praises of her gallant father. at parting, however, i told them that the name of marco bozzaris was as familiar in america as that of a hero of our own revolution, and that it had been hallowed by the inspiration of an american poet; and i added that, if it would not be unacceptable, on my return to my native country i would send the tribute referred to, as an evidence of the feeling existing in america toward the memory of marco bozzaris. my offer was gratefully accepted; and afterward, while in the act of mounting my horse to leave missilonghi, our guide, who had remained behind, came to me with a message from the widow and daughters reminding me of my promise. i do not see that there is any objection to my mentioning that i wrote to a friend, requesting him to procure halleck's "marco bozzaris," and send it to my banker at paris. my friend, thinking to enhance its value, applied to mr. halleck for a copy in his own handwriting. mr. halleck, with his characteristic modesty, evaded the application; and on my return home i told him the story of my visit, and reiterated the same request. he evaded me as he had done my friend, but promised me a copy of the new edition of his poems, which he afterward gave me, and which, i hope, is now in the hands of the widow and daughters of the grecian hero. i make no apology for introducing in a book the widow and daughters of marco bozzaris. true, i was received by them in private, without any expectation, either on their part or mine, that all the particulars of the interview would be noted and laid before the eyes of all who choose to read. i hope it will not be considered invading the sanctity of private life; but, at all events, i make no apology; the widow and children of marco bozzaris are the property of the world. chapter ii. choice of a servant.--a turnout.--an evening chat.--scenery of the road.--lepanto.--a projected visit.--change of purpose.--padras.--vostitza.--variety and magnificence of scenery. barren as our prospect was on landing, our first day in greece had already been full of interest. supposing that we should not find anything to engage us long, before setting out on our ramble we had directed our servant to procure horses, and when we returned we found all ready for our departure. one word with regard to this same servant. we had taken him at corfu, much against my inclination. we had a choice between two, one a full-blooded greek in fustinellas, who in five minutes established himself in my good graces, so that nothing but the democratic principle of submitting to the will of the majority could make me give him up. he held at that time a very good office in the police at corfu, but the eagerness which he showed to get out of regular business and go roving warmed me to him irresistibly. he seemed to be distracted between two opposing feelings; one the strong bent of his natural vagabond disposition to be rambling, and the other a sort of tugging at his heartstrings by wife and children, to keep him in a place where he had a regular assured living, instead of trusting to the precarious business of guiding travellers. he had a boldness and confidence that won me; and when he drew on the sand with his yataghan a map of greece, and told us the route he would take us, zigzag across the gulf of corinth to delphi and the top of parnassus, i wondered that my companions could resist him. our alternative was an italian from somewhere on the coast of the adriatic, whom i looked upon with an unfavourable eye, because he came between me and my greek; and on the morning of our departure i was earnestly hoping that he had overslept himself, or got into some scrape and been picked up by the guard; but, most provokingly, he came in time, and with more baggage than all of us had together. indeed, he had so much of his own, that, in obedience to nature's first law, he could not attend to ours, and in putting ashore some british soldiers at cephalonia he contrived to let my carpet-bag go with their luggage. this did not increase my amiable feeling toward him, and, perhaps, assisted in making me look upon him throughout with a jaundiced eye; in fact, before we had done with him, i regarded him as a slouch, a knave, and a fool, and had the questionable satisfaction of finding that my companions, though they sustained him as long as they could, had formed very much the same opinion. it was to him, then, that, on our return from our visit to the widow and daughters of marco bozzaris, we were indebted for a turnout that seemed to astonish even the people of missilonghi. the horses were miserable little animals, hidden under enormous saddles made of great clumps of wood over an old carpet or towcloth, and covering the whole back from the shoulders to the tail; the luggage was perched on the tops of these saddles, and with desperate exertions and the help of the citizens of missilonghi we were perched on the top of the luggage. the little animals had a knowing look as they peered from under the superincumbent mass, and, supported on either side by the by-standers till we got a little steady in our seats, we put forth from missilonghi. the only gentleman of our party was our servant, who followed on a european saddle which he had brought for his own use, smoking his pipe with great complacency, perfectly satisfied with our appearance and with himself. it was four o'clock when we crossed the broken walls of missilonghi. for three hours our road lay over a plain extending to the sea. i have no doubt, if my greek had been there, he would have given an interest to the road by referring to scenes and incidents connected with the siege of missilonghi; but demetrius--as he now chose to call himself--knew nothing of greece, ancient or modern; he had no sympathy of feeling with the greeks; had never travelled on this side of the gulf of corinth before; and so he lagged behind and smoked his pipe. it was nearly dark when we reached the miserable little village of bokara. we had barely light enough to look around for the best khan in which to pass the night. any of the wretched tenants would have been glad to receive us for the little remuneration we might leave with them in the morning. the khans were all alike, one room, mud floor and walls, and we selected one where the chickens had already gone to roost, and prepared to measure off the dirt floor according to our dimensions. before we were arranged a greek of a better class, followed by half a dozen villagers, came over, and, with many regrets for the wretched state of the country, invited us to his house. though dressed in the greek costume, it was evident that he had acquired his manners in a school beyond the bounds of his miserable little village, in which his house now rose like the leaning tower of pisa, higher than everything else, but rather rickety. in a few minutes we heard the death notes of some chickens, and at about nine o'clock sat down to a not unwelcome meal. several greeks dropped in during the evening, and one, a particular friend of our host's, supped with us. both talked french, and had that perfect ease of manner and savoir faire which i always remarked with admiration in all greeks who had travelled. they talked much of their travels; of time spent in italy and germany, and particularly of a long residence at bucharest. they talked, too, of greece; of her long and bitter servitude, her revolution, and her independence; and from their enthusiasm i could not but think that they had fought and bled in her cause. i certainly was not lying in wait to entrap them, but i afterward gathered from their conversation that they had taken occasion to be on their travels at the time when the bravest of their countrymen were pouring out their blood like water to emancipate their native land. a few years before i might have felt indignation and contempt for men who had left their country in her hour of utmost need, and returned to enjoy the privileges purchased with other men's blood; but i had already learned to take the world as i found it, and listened quietly while our host told us that, confiding in the permanency of the government secured by the three great powers, england, france, and russia, he had returned to greece, and taken a lease of a large tract of land for fifty years, paying a thousand drachms, a drachm being one sixth of a dollar, and one tenth of the annual fruits, at the end of which time one half of the land under cultivation was to belong to his heirs in fee. as our host could not conveniently accommodate us all, m. and demetrius returned to the khan at which we had first stopped and where, to judge from the early hour at which they came over to us the next morning, they had not spent the night as well as we did. at daylight we took our coffee, and again perched our luggage on the backs of the horses, and ourselves on top of the luggage. our host wished us to remain with him, and promised the next day to accompany us to padras; but this was not a sufficient inducement; and taking leave of him, probably for ever, we started for lepanto. we rode about an hour on the plain; the mountains towered on our left, and the rich soil was broken into rough sandy gullies running down to the sea. our guides had some apprehensions that we should not be able to cross the torrents that were running down from the mountain; and when we came to the first, and had to walk up along the bank, looking out for a place to ford, we fully participated in their apprehensions. bridges were a species of architecture entirely unknown in that part of modern greece; indeed, no bridges could have stood against the mountain torrents. there would have been some excitement in encountering these rapid streams if we had been well mounted; but, from the manner in which we were hitched on our horses, we did not feel any great confidence in our seats. still nothing could be wilder or more picturesque than our process in crossing them, except that it might have added somewhat to the effect to see one of us floating down stream, clinging to the tail of his horse. but we got over or through them all. a range of mountains then formed on our right, cutting us off from the sea, and we entered a valley lying between the two parallel ranges. at first the road, which was exceedingly difficult for a man or a sure-footed horse, lay along a beautiful stream, and the whole of the valley extending to the gulf of lepanto is one of the loveliest regions of country i ever saw. the ground was rich and verdant, and, even at that early season of the year, blooming with wild flowers of every hue, but wholly uncultivated, the olive-trees having all been cut down by the turks, and without a single habitation on the whole route. my scotch companion, who had a good eye for the picturesque and beautiful in natural scenery, was in raptures with this valley. i have since travelled in switzerland, not, however, in all the districts frequented by tourists; but in what i saw, beautiful as it is, i do not know a place where the wildness of mountain scenery is so delightfully contrasted with the softness of a rich valley. at the end of the valley, directly opposite padras, and on the borders of the gulf, is a wild road called scala cativa, running along the sides of a rocky, mountainous precipice overlooking the sea. it is a wild and almost fearful road; in some places i thought it like the perpendicular sides of the palisades; and when the wind blows in a particular direction it is impossible to make headway against it. our host told us that we should find difficulty that day; and there was just rudeness enough to make us look well to our movements. directly at our feet was the gulf of corinth; opposite a range of mountains; and in the distance the island of zante. on the other side of the valley is an extraordinary mountain, very high, and wanting a large piece in the middle, as if cut out with a chisel, leaving two straight parallel sides, and called by the unpoetical name of the armchair. in the wildest pan of the scala, where a very slight struggle would have precipitated us several hundred feet into the sea, an enormous shepherd's dog came bounding and barking toward us; and we were much relieved when his master, who was hanging with his flock of goats on an almost inaccessible height, called him away. at the foot of the mountain we entered a rich plain, where the shepherds were pasturing their flocks down to the shore of the sea, and in about two hours arrived at lepanto. after diligent search by demetrius (the name by which we had taken him, whose true name, however, we found to be jerolamon), and by all the idlers whom the arrival of strangers attracted, we procured a room near the farthest wall; it was reached by ascending a flight of steps outside, and boasted a floor, walls, and an apology for a roof. we piled up our baggage in one corner, or, rather, my companions did theirs, and went prowling about in search of something to eat. our servant had not fully apprized us of the extreme poverty of the country, the entire absence of all accommodations for travellers, and the absolute necessity of carrying with us everything requisite for comfort. he was a man of few words, and probably thought that, as between servant and master, example was better than precept, and that the abundant provision he had made for himself might serve as a lesson for us; but, in our case, the objection to this mode of teaching was, that it came too late to be profitable. at the foot of the hill fronting the sea was an open place, in one side of which was a little cafteria, where all the good-for-nothing loungers of lepanto were assembled. we bought a loaf of bread and some eggs, and, with a cup of turkish coffee, made our evening meal. we had an hour before dark, and strolled along the shore. though in a ruinous condition, lepanto is in itself interesting, as giving an exact idea of an ancient greek city, being situated in a commanding position on the side of a mountain running down to the sea, with its citadel on the top, and enclosed by walls and turrets. the port is shut within the walls, which run into the sea, and are erected on the foundations of the ancient naupactus. at a distance was the promontory of actium, where cleopatra, with her fifty ships, abandoned antony, and left to augustus the empire of the world; and directly before us, its surface dotted with a few straggling greek caiques, was the scene of a battle which has rung throughout the world, the great battle of the cross against the crescent, where the allied forces of spain, venice, and the pope, amounting to nearly three hundred sail, under the command of don john of austria, humbled for ever the naval pride of the turks. one hundred and thirty turkish galleys were taken and fifty-five sunk; thirty thousand turks were killed, ten thousand taken prisoners, fifteen thousand christian slaves delivered; and pope pius vi., with holy fervour, exclaimed, "there was a man sent from god, and his name was john." cervantes lost his left hand in this battle; and it is to wounds he received here that he makes a touching allusion when reproached by a rival: "what i cannot help feeling deeply is, that i am stigmatized with being old and maimed, as though it belonged to me to stay the course of time; or as though my wounds had been received in some tavern broil, instead of the most lofty occasion which past ages have yet seen, or which shall ever be seen by those to come. the scars which the soldier wears on his person, instead of badges of infamy, are stars to guide the daring in the path of glory. as for mine, though they may not shine in the eyes of the envious, they are at least esteemed by those who know where they were received; and, even was it not yet too late to choose, i would rather remain as i am, maimed and mutilated, than be now whole of my wounds, without having taken part in so glorious an achievement." i shall, perhaps, be reproached for mingling with the immortal names of don john of austria and cervantes those of george wilson, of providence, rhode island, and james williams, a black of baltimore, cook on board lord cochrane's flagship in the great battle between the greek and turkish fleets. george wilson was a gunner on board one of the greek ships, and conducted himself with so much gallantry, that lord cochrane, at a dinner in commemoration of the event, publicly drank his health. in the same battle james williams, who had lost a finger in the united states service under decatur at algiers, and had conducted himself with great coolness and intrepidity in several engagements, when no greek could be found to take the helm, volunteered his services, and was struck down by a splinter, which broke his legs and arms. the historian will probably never mention these gallant fellows in his quarto volumes; but i hope the american traveller, as he stands at sunset by the shore of the gulf of lepanto, and recalls to mind the great achievements of don john and cervantes, will not forget _george wilson_ and _james williams_. at evening we returned to our room, built a fire in the middle, and, with as much dignity as we could muster, sitting on the floor, received a number of greek visiters. when they left us we wrapped ourselves in our cloaks and lay down to sleep. sleep, however, is not always won when wooed. sometimes it takes the perverse humour of the wild irish boy: "the more you call me, the more i won't come." our room had no chimney; and though, as i lay all night looking up at the roof, there appeared to be apertures enough to let out the smoke, it seemed to have a loving feeling toward us in our lowly position, and clung to us so closely that we were obliged to let the fire go out, and lie shivering till morning. every schoolboy knows how hard it is to write poetry, but few know the physical difficulties of climbing the poetical mountain itself. we had made arrangements to sleep the next night at castri, by the side of the sacred oracle of delphi, a mile up parnassus. our servant wanted to cross over and go up on the other side of the gulf, and entertained us with several stories of robberies committed on this road, to which we paid no attention. the greeks who visited us in the evening related, with much detail, a story of a celebrated captain of brigands having lately returned to his haunt on parnassus, and attacked nine greek merchants, of whom he killed three; the recital of which interesting incident we ascribed to demetrius, and disregarded. early in the morning we mounted our horses and started for parnassus. at the gate of the town we were informed that it was necessary, before leaving, to have a passport from the eparchos, and i returned to procure it. the eparchos was a man about forty-five, tall and stout, with a clear olive complexion and a sharp black eye, dressed in a rich greek costume, and, fortunately, able to speak french. he was sitting cross-legged on a divan, smoking a pipe, and looking out upon the sea; and when i told him my business, he laid down his pipe, repeated the story of the robbery and murder that we had heard the night before, and added that we must abandon the idea of travelling that road. he said, farther, that the country was in a distracted state; that poverty was driving men to desperation; and that, though they had driven out the turks, the greeks were not masters of their own country. hearing that i was an american, and as if in want of a bosom in which to unburden himself, and as one assured of sympathy, he told me the whole story of their long and bloody struggle for independence, and the causes that now made the friends of greece tremble for her future destiny. i knew that the seat of the muses bore a rather suspicious character, and, in fact, that the rocks and caves about parnassus were celebrated as the abodes of robbers, but i was unwilling to be driven from our purpose of ascending it. i went to the military commandant, a bavarian officer, and told him what i had just heard from the eparchos. he said frankly that he did not know much of the state of the country, as he had but lately arrived in it; but, with the true bavarian spirit, advised me, as a general rule, not to believe anything a greek should tell me. i returned to the gate, and made my double report to my companions. dr. w. returned with me to the eparchos, where the latter repeated, with great earnestness, all he had told me; and when i persisted in combating his objections, shrugged his shoulders in a manner that seemed to say, "your blood be on your own heads;" that he had done his duty, and washed his hands of the consequences. as we were going out he called me back, and, recurring to our previous conversation, said that he had spoken to me as an american more freely than he would have done to a stranger, and begged that, as i was going to athens, i would not repeat his words where they could do him injury. i would not mention the circumstance now, but that the political clouds which then hung over the horizon of greece have passed away; king otho has taken his seat on the throne, and my friend has probably long since been driven or retired from public life. i was at that time a stranger to the internal politics of greece, but i afterward found that the eparchos was one of a then powerful body of greeks opposed to the bavarian influence, and interested in representing the state of the country as more unsettled than it really was. i took leave of him, however, as one who had intended me a kindness, and, returning to the gate, found our companion sitting on his horse, waiting the result of our farther inquiries. both he and my fellow envoy were comparatively indifferent upon the subject, while i was rather bent on drinking from the castalian fount, and sleeping on the top of parnassus. besides, i was in a beautiful condition to be robbed. i had nothing but what i had on my back, and i felt sure that a greek mountain robber would scorn my stiff coat and pantaloons and black hat. my companions, however were not so well situated, particularly m., who had drawn money at corfu, and had no idea of trusting it to the tender mercies of a greek bandit. in the teeth of the advice we had received, it would, perhaps, have been foolhardy to proceed; and, to my great subsequent regret, for the first and the last time in my ramblings, i was turned aside from my path by fear of perils on the road. perhaps, after all, i had a lucky escape; for, if the greek tradition be true, whoever sleeps on the mountain becomes an inspired poet or a madman, either of which, for a professional man, is a catastrophe to be avoided. our change of plan suited demetrius exactly; he had never travelled on this side of the gulf of corinth; and, besides that, he considered it a great triumph that his stories of robbers were confirmed by others, showing his superior knowledge of the state of the country; he was glad to get on a road which he had travelled before, and on which he had a chance of meeting some of his old travelling acquaintance. in half an hour he had us on board a caique. we put out from the harbour of lepanto with a strong and favourable wind; our little boat danced lightly over the waters of the gulf of corinth; and in three hours, passing between the frowning castles of romelia and morea, under the shadow of the walls of which were buried the bodies of the christians who fell in the great naval battle, we arrived at padras. the first thing we recognised was the beautiful little cutter which we had left at missilonghi, riding gracefully at anchor in the harbour, and the first man we spoke to on landing was our old friend the captain. we exchanged a cordial greeting, and he conducted us to mr. robertson, the british vice-consul, who, at the moment of our entering, was in the act of directing a letter to me at athens. the subject was my interesting carpet-bag. there being no american consul at padras, i had taken the liberty of writing to mr. robertson, requesting him, if my estate should find its way into his hands, to forward it to me at athens, and the letter was to assure me of his attention to my wishes. it may be considered treason against classical taste, but it consoled me somewhat for the loss of parnassus to find a stranger taking so warm an interest in my fugitive habiliments. there was something, too, in the appearance of padras, that addressed itself to other feelings than those connected with the indulgence of a classical humour. our bones were still aching with the last night's rest, or, rather, the want of it, at lepanto; and when we found ourselves in a neat little locanda, and a complaisant greek asked us what we would have for dinner, and showed us our beds for the night, we almost agreed that climbing parnassus and such things were fit only for boys just out of college. padras is beautifully situated at the mouth of the gulf of corinth, and the windows of our locanda commanded a fine view of the bold mountains on the opposite side of the gulf, and the parallel range forming the valley which leads to missilonghi. it stands on the site of the ancient patræ, enumerated by herodotus among the twelve cities of achaia. during the intervals of peace in the peloponnesian war, alcibiades, about four hundred and fifty years before christ, persuaded its inhabitants to build long walls down to the sea. philip of macedon frequently landed there in his expeditions to peloponnesus. augustus cæsar, after the battle of actium, made it a roman colony, and sent thither a large body of his veteran soldiers; and, in the time of cicero, roman merchants were settled there just as french and italians are now. the modern town has grown up since the revolution, or rather since the accession of otho, and bears no marks of the desolation at missilonghi and lepanto. it contains a long street of shops well supplied with european goods; the english steamers from corfu to malta touch here; and, besides the little greek caiques trading in the gulf of corinth, vessels from all parts of the adriatic are constantly in the harbour. among others, there was an austrian man-of-war from trieste, on her way to alexandria. by a singular fortune, the commandant had been in one of the austrian vessels that carried to new-york the unfortunate poles; the only austrian man-of-war which had ever been to the united states. a day or two after their arrival at new-york i had taken a boat at the battery and gone on board this vessel, and had met the officers at some parties given to them at which he had been present; and though we had no actual acquaintance with each other, these circumstances were enough to form an immediate link between us, particularly as he was enthusiastic in his praises of the hospitality of our citizens and the beauty of our women. lest, however, any of the latter should be vainglorious at hearing that their praises were sounded so far from home, i consider it my duty to say that the commandant was almost blind, very slovenly, always smoking a pipe, and generally a little tipsy. early in the morning we started for athens. our turnout was rather better than at missilonghi, but not much. the day, however, was fine; the cold wind which, for several days, had been blowing down the gulf of corinth, had ceased, and the air was warm, and balmy, and invigorating. we had already found that greece had something to attract the stranger besides the recollections of her ancient glories, and often forgot that the ground we were travelling was consecrated by historians and poets, in admiration of its own wild and picturesque beauty. our road for about three hours lay across a plain, and then close along the gulf, sometimes winding by the foot of a wild precipitous mountain, and then again over a plain, with the mountains rising at some distance on our right. sometimes we rose and crossed their rugged summits, and again descended to the seashore. on our left we had constantly the gulf, bordered on the opposite side by a range of mountains sometimes receding and then rising almost out of the water, while high above the rest rose the towering summits of parnassus covered with snow. it was after dark when we arrived at vostitza, beautifully situated on the banks of the gulf of corinth. this is the representative of the ancient Ægium, one of the most celebrated cities in greece, mentioned by homer as having supplied vessels for the trojan war, and in the second century containing sixteen sacred edifices, a theatre, a portico, and an agora. for many ages it was the seat of the achaian congress. probably the worthy delegates who met here to deliberate upon the affairs of greece had better accommodations than we obtained, or they would be likely, i should imagine, to hold but short sessions. we stopped at a vile locanda, the only one in the place, where we found a crowd of men in a small room, gathered around a dirty table, eating, one of whom sprang up and claimed me as an old acquaintance. he had on a greek capote and a large foraging cap slouched over his eyes, so that i had some difficulty in recognising him as an italian who, at padras, had tried to persuade me to go by water up to the head of the gulf. he had started that morning, about the same time we did, with a crowd of passengers, half of whom were already by the ears. fortunately, they were obliged to return to their boats, and left all the house to us; which, however, contained little besides a strapping greek, who called himself its proprietor. before daylight we were again in the saddle. during the whole day's ride the scenery was magnificent. sometimes we were hemmed in as if for ever enclosed in an amphitheatre of wild and gigantic rocks; then from some lofty summit we looked out upon lesser mountains, broken, and torn, and thrown into every wild and picturesque form, as if by an earthquake; and after riding among deep dells and craggy steeps, yawning ravines and cloud-capped precipices, we descended to a quiet valley and the seashore. at about four o'clock we came down, for the last time, to the shore, and before us, at some distance, espied a single khan, standing almost on the edge of the water. it was a beautiful resting-place for a traveller; the afternoon was mild, and we walked on the shore till the sun set. the khan was sixty or seventy feet long, and contained an upper room running the whole length of the building. this room was our bedchamber. we built a fire at one end, made tea, and roasted some eggs, the smoke ascending and curling around the rafters, and finally passing out of the openings in the roof; we stretched ourselves in our cloaks and, with the murmur of the waves in our ears, looked through the apertures in the roof upon the stars, and fell asleep. about the middle of the night the door opened with a rude noise, and a tall greek, almost filling the doorway, stood on the threshold. after pausing a moment he walked in, followed by half a dozen gigantic companions, their tall figures, full dresses, and the shining of their pistols and yataghans wearing a very ugly look to a man just roused from slumber. but they were merely greek pedlers or travelling merchants, and, without any more noise, kindled the fire anew, drew their capotes around them, stretched themselves upon the floor, and were soon asleep. chapter iii. quarrel with the landlord.--Ægina.--sicyon.--corinth.--a distinguished reception.--desolation of corinth.--the acropolis.--view from the acropolis.--lechæum and cenchreæ.--kaka scala.--arrival at athens. in the morning demetrius had a roaring quarrel with the keeper of the locanda, in which he tried to keep back part of the money we gave him to pay for us. he did this, however, on principle, for we had given twice as much as our lodging was worth, and no man ought to have more. his character was at stake in preventing any one from cheating us too much; and, in order to do this, he stopped our funds in transitu. we started early, and for some time our road lay along the shore. it was not necessary, surrounded by such magnificent scenery, to draw upon historical recollections for the sake of giving interest to the road; still it did not diminish that interest to know that, many centuries ago, great cities stood here, whose sites are now desolate or occupied as the miserable gathering-places of a starving population. directly opposite parnassus, and at the foot of a hill crowned with the ruins of an acropolis, in perfect desolation now, stood the ancient Ægira; once numbering a population of ten thousand inhabitants, and in the second century containing three hiera, a temple, and another sacred edifice. farther on, and toward the head of the gulf of corinth, the miserable village of basilico stands on the site of the ancient sicyon, boasting as high an antiquity as any city in greece, and long celebrated as the first of her schools of painting. in five hours we came in sight of the acropolis of corinth, and, shortly after, of corinth itself. the reader need not fear my plunging him deeply into antiquities. greece has been explored, and examined, and written upon, till the subject is almost threadbare; and i do not flatter myself that i discovered in it anything new. still no man from such a distant country as mine can find himself crossing the plain of corinth, and ascending to the ancient city, without a strange and indescribable feeling. we have no old monuments, no classical associations; and our history hardly goes beyond the memory of that venerable personage, "the oldest inhabitant." corinth is so old that its early records are blended with the history of the heathen gods. the corinthians say that it was called after the son of jupiter, and its early sovereigns were heroes of the grecian mythology. it was the friend of sparta and the rival of athens; the first city to build war-galleys and send forth colonies, which became great empires. it was the assembling-place of their delegates, who elected philip, and afterward alexander the great, to conduct the war against the persians. in painting, sculpture, and architecture surpassing all the achievements of greece, or which the genius of man has ever since accomplished. conquered by the then barbarous romans, her walls were razed to the ground, her men put to the sword, her women and children sold into captivity, and the historian who records her fall writes that he saw the finest pictures thrown wantonly on the ground, and roman soldiers playing on them at draughts and dice. for many years deserted, corinth was again peopled; rose rapidly from its ruins; and, when st. paul abode there "a year and six months"--to the christian the most interesting period in her history--she was again a populous city, and the corinthians a luxurious people. its situation in the early ages of the world could not fail to make it a great commercial emporium. in the inexperienced navigation of early times it was considered difficult and dangerous to go around the point of the peloponnesus, and there was a proverb, "before the mariner doubles cape malea, he should forget all he holds dearest in the world." standing on the isthmus commanding the adriatic and Ægean seas; receiving in one hand the riches of asia and in the other those of europe; distributing them to every quarter of the then known world, wealth followed commerce, and then came luxury and extravagance to such an extent that it became a proverb, "it is not for every man to go to corinth." as travellers having regard to supper and lodging, we should have been glad to see some vestige of its ancient luxury; but times are changed; the ruined city stands where stood corinth of old, but it has fallen once more; the sailor no longer hugs the well-known coasts, but launches fearlessly into the trackless ocean, and corinth can never again be what she has been. our servant had talked so much of the hotel at corinth, that perhaps the idea of bed and lodging was rather too prominent in our reveries as we approached the fallen city. he rode on before to announce our coming, and, working our way up the hill through narrow streets, stared at by all the men, followed by a large representation from the juvenile portion of the modern corinthians, and barked at by the dogs, we turned into a large enclosure, something like a barnyard, on which opened a ruined balcony forming the entrance to the hotel. demetrius was standing before it with our host, as unpromising a looking scoundrel as ever took a traveller in. he had been a notorious captain of brigands, and when his lawless band was broken up and half of its number hanged, he could not overcome his disposition to prey upon travellers, but got a couple of mattresses and bedsteads, and set up a hotel at corinth. demetrius had made a bargain for us at a price that made him hang his head when he told it, and we were so indignant at the extortion that we at first refused to dismount. our host stood aloof, being used to such scenes, and perfectly sure that, after storming a little, we should be glad to take the only beds between padras and athens. in the end, however, we got the better both of him and demetrius; for, as he had fixed separate prices for dinner, beds, and breakfast, we went to a little greek coffee-house, and raised half corinth to get us something to eat, and paid him only for our lodging. we had a fine afternoon before us, and our first movement was to the ruins of a temple, the only monument of antiquity in corinth. the city has been so often sacked and plundered, that not a column of the corinthian order exists in the place from which it derives its name. seven columns of the old temple are still standing, fluted and of the doric order, though wanting in height the usual proportion to the diameter; built probably before that order had attained its perfection, and long before the corinthian order was invented; though when it was built, by whom, or to what god it was consecrated, antiquaries cannot agree in deciding. contrasted with these solitary columns of an unknown antiquity are ruins of yesterday. houses fallen, burned, and black with smoke, as if the wretched inmates had fled before the blaze of their dwellings; and high above the ruined city, now as in the days when the persian and roman invaded it, still towers the acropolis, a sharp and naked rock, rising abruptly a thousand feet from the earth, inaccessible and impregnable under the science of ancient war; and in all times of invasion and public distress, from her earliest history down to the bloody days of the late revolution, the refuge of the inhabitants. [illustration: corinth.] it was late in the afternoon when we set out for the acropolis. about a mile from the city we came to the foot of the hill, and ascended by a steep and difficult path, with many turnings and windings, to the first gate. having been in the saddle since early in the morning, we stopped several times to rest, and each time lingered and looked out with admiration upon the wild and beautiful scenery around us; and we thought of the frequently recurring times when hostile armies had drawn up before the city at our feet, and the inhabitants, in terror and confusion, had hurried up this path and taken refuge within the gate before us. inside the gate were the ruins of a city, and here, too, we saw the tokens of ruthless war; the fire-brand was hardly yet extinguished, and the houses were in ruins. within a few years it has been the stronghold and refuge of infidels and christians, taken and retaken, destroyed, rebuilt, and destroyed again, and the ruins of turkish mosques and christian churches are mingled together in undistinguishable confusion. this enclosure is abundantly supplied with water, issuing from the rock, and is capable of containing several thousand people. the fountain of pyrene, which supplies the acropolis, called the most salubrious in greece, is celebrated as that at which pegasus was drinking when taken by bellerophon. ascending among ruined and deserted habitations, we came to a second gate flanked by towers. a wall about two miles in circumference encloses the whole summit of the rock, including two principal points which still rise above the rest. one is crowned with a tower and the other with a mosque, now in ruins; probably erected where once stood a heathen temple. some have mistaken it for a christian church, but all agree that it is a place built and consecrated to divine use, and that, for unknown ages men have gone up to this cloud-capped point to worship their creator. it was a sublime idea to erect on this lofty pinnacle an altar to the almighty. above us were only the unclouded heavens; the sun was setting with that brilliancy which attends his departing glory nowhere but in the east; and the sky was glowing with a lurid red, as of some great conflagration. the scene around and below was wondrously beautiful. mountains and rivers, seas and islands, rocks, forests, and plains, thrown together in perfect wantonness, and yet in the most perfect harmony, and every feature in the expanded landscape consecrated by the richest associations. on one side the saronic gulf, with its little islands, and Ægina and salamis, stretching off to "sunium's marble height," with the ruins of its temple looking out mournfully upon the sea; on the other, the gulf of corinth or lepanto, bounded by the dark and dreary mountains of cytheron, where acteon, gazing at the goddess, was changed into a stag, and hunted to death by his own hounds; and where bacchus, with his train of satyrs and frantic bacchantes, celebrated his orgies. beyond were helicon, sacred to apollo and the muses, and parnassus, covered with snow. behind us towered a range of mountains stretching away to argos and the ancient sparta, and in front was the dim outline of the temple of the acropolis at athens. the shades of evening gathered thick around us while we remained on the top of the acropolis, and it was dark long before we reached our locanda. the next morning we breakfasted at the coffee-house, and left corinth wonderfully pleased at having outwitted demetrius and our brigand host, who gazed after us with a surly scowl as we rode away, and probably longed for the good old days when, at the head of his hanged companions, he could have stopped us at the first mountain-pass and levied contributions at his own rate. i probably condemn myself when i say that we left this ancient city with such a trifle uppermost in our thoughts, but so it was; we bought a loaf of bread as we passed through the market-place, and descended to the plain of corinth. we had still the same horses which we rode from padras; they were miserable animals, and i did not mount mine the whole day. indeed, this is the true way to travel in greece; the country is mountainous, and the road or narrow horse-path so rough and precipitous that the traveller is often obliged to dismount and walk. the exercise of clambering up the mountains and the purity of the air brace every nerve in the body, and not a single feature of the scenery escapes the eye. but, as yet, there are other things beside scenery; on each side of the road and within site of each other are the ruins of the ancient cities of lechæum and cenchreæ, the ports of corinth on the corinthian and saronic gulfs; the former once connected with it by two long walls, and the road to the latter once lined with temples and sepulchres, the ruins of which may still be seen. the isthmus connecting the peloponnesus with the continent is about six miles wide, and corinth owed her commercial greatness to the profits of her merchants in transporting merchandise across it. entire vessels were sometimes carried from one sea and launched into the other. the project of a canal across suggested itself both to the greeks and romans, and there yet exist traces of a ditch commenced for that purpose. on the death of leonidas, and in apprehension of a persian invasion, the peloponnesians built a wall across the isthmus from lechæum to cenchreæ. this wall was at one time fortified with a hundred and fifty towers; it was often destroyed and as often rebuilt; and in one place, about three miles from corinth, vestiges of it may still be seen. here were celebrated those isthmian games so familiar to every tyro in grecian literature and history; toward mount oneus stands on an eminence an ancient mound, supposed to be the tomb of melicertes, their founder, and near it is at this day a grove of the sacred pine, with garlands of the leaves of which the victors were crowned. in about three hours from corinth we crossed the isthmus, and came to the village of kalamaki on the shore of the saronic gulf, containing a few miserable buildings, fit only for the miserable people who occupied them. directly on the shore was a large coffee-house enclosed by mud walls, and having branches of trees for a roof; and in front was a little flotilla of greek caiques. next to the greek's love for his native mountains is his passion for the waters that roll at their feet; and many of the proprietors of the rakish little boats in the harbour talked to us of the superior advantage of the sea over a mountainous road, and tried to make us abandon our horses and go by water to athens; but we clung to the land, and have reason to congratulate ourselves upon having done so, for our road was one of the most beautiful it was ever my fortune to travel over. for some distance i walked along the shore, on the edge of a plain running from the foot of mount geranion. the plain was intersected by mountain torrents, the channel-beds of which were at that time dry. we passed the little village of caridi, supposed to be the sidus of antiquity, while a ruined church and a few old blocks of marble mark the site of ancient crommyon, celebrated as the haunt of a wild boar destroyed by theseus. at the other end of the plain we came to the foot of mount geranion, stretching out boldly to the edge of the gulf, and followed the road along its southern side close to and sometimes overhanging the sea. from time immemorial this has been called the kaka scala, or bad way. it is narrow, steep, and rugged, and wild to sublimity. sometimes we were completely hemmed in by impending mountains, and then rose upon a lofty eminence commanding an almost boundless view. on the summit of the range the road runs directly along the mountain's brink, overhanging the sea, and so narrow that two horsemen can scarcely pass abreast; where a stumble would plunge the traveller several hundred yards into the waters beneath. indeed, the horse of one of my companions stumbled and fell, and put him in such peril that both dismounted and accompanied me on foot. in the olden time this wild and rugged road was famous as the haunt of the robber sciron, who plundered the luckless travellers, and then threw them from this precipice. the fabulous account is, that theseus, three thousand years before, on his first visit to athens, encountered the famous robber, and tossed him from the same precipice whence he had thrown so many better men. according to ovid, the earth and the sea refused to receive the bones of sciron, which continued for some time suspended in the open air, until they were changed into large rocks, whose points still appear at the foot of the precipice; and to this day, say the sailors, knock the bottoms out of the greek vessels. in later days this road was so infested by corsairs and pirates, that even the turks feared to travel on it; at one place, that looks as though it might be intended as a jumping-off point into another world, ino, with her son melicertes in her arms (so say the greek poets), threw herself into the sea to escape the fury of her husband; and we know that in later days st. paul travelled on this road to preach the gospel to the corinthians. but, independently of all associations, and in spite of its difficulties and dangers, if a man were by accident placed on the lofty height without knowing where he was, he would be struck with the view which it commands, as one of the most beautiful that mortal eyes ever beheld. it was my fortune to pass over it a second time on foot, and i often seated myself on some wild point, and waited the coming up of my muleteers, looking out upon the sea, calm and glistening as if plated with silver, and studded with islands in continuous clusters stretching away into the Ægean. during the greater part of the passage of the kaka scala my companions walked with me; and, as we always kept in advance, when we seated ourselves on some rude rock overhanging the sea to wait for our beasts and attendants, few things could be more picturesque than their approach. on the summit of the pass we fell into the ancient paved way that leads from attica into the peloponnesus, and walked over the same pavement which the greeks travelled, perhaps, three thousand years ago. a ruined wall and gate mark the ancient boundary; and near this an early traveller observed a large block of white marble projecting over the precipice, and almost ready to fall into the sea, which bore an inscription, now illegible. here it is supposed stood the stèle erected by theseus, bearing on one side the inscription, "here is peloponnesus, not ionia;" and on the other the equally pithy notification, "here is not peloponnesus, but ionia." it would be a pretty place of residence for a man in misfortune; for, besides the extraordinary beauty of the scenery, by a single step he might avoid the service of civil process, and set the sheriff of attica or the peloponnesus at defiance. descending, we saw before us a beautiful plain, extending from the foot of the mountain to the sea, and afar off, on an eminence commanding the plain, was the little town of megara. it is unfortunate for the reader that every ruined village on the road stands on the site of an ancient city. the ruined town before us was the birthplace of euclid, and the representative of that megara which is distinguished in history more than two thousand years ago; which sent forth its armies in the persian and peloponnesian wars; alternately the ally and enemy of corinth and athens; containing numerous temples, and the largest public houses in greece; and though exposed, with her other cities, to the violence of a fierce democracy, as is recorded by the historian, "the megareans retained their independence and lived in peace." as a high compliment, the people offered to alexander the great the freedom of their city. when we approached it its appearance was a speaking comment upon human pride. it had been demolished and burned by greeks and turks, and now presented little more than a mass of blackened ruins. a few apartments had been cleared out and patched up, and occasionally i saw a solitary figure stalking amid the desolation. i had not mounted my horse all day; had kicked out a pair of greek shoes on my walk, and was almost barefoot when i entered the city. a little below the town was a large building enclosed by a high wall, with a bavarian soldier lounging at the gate. we entered, and found a good coffee-room below, and a comfortable bed chamber above, where we found good quilts and mattresses, and slept like princes. early in the morning we set out for athens, our road for some time lying along the sea. about half way to the piræus, a ruined village, with a starving population, stands on the site of the ancient eleusis, famed throughout all greece for the celebration of the mysterious rites of ceres. the magnificent temple of the goddess has disappeared, and the colossal statue made by the immortal phidias now adorns the vestibule of the university at cambridge. we lingered a little while in the village, and soon after entered the via sacra, by which, centuries ago, the priests and people moved in solemn religious processions from athens to the great temple of ceres. at first we passed underneath the cliff along the shore, then rose by a steep ascent among the mountains, barren and stony, and wearing an aspect of desolation equal to that of the roman campagna; then we passed through a long defile, upon the side of which, deeply cut in the rock, are seen the marks of chariot-wheels; perhaps of those used in the sacred processions. we passed the ruined monastery of daphne, in a beautifully picturesque situation, and in a few minutes saw the rich plain of attica; and our muleteers and demetrius, with a burst of enthusiasm, perhaps because the journey was ended, clapped their hands and cried out, "atinæ! atinæ!" the reader, perhaps, trembles at the name of athens, but let him take courage. i promise to let him off easily. a single remark, however, before reaching it. the plain of attica lies between two parallel ranges of mountains, and extends from the sea many miles back into the interior. on the border of the sea stands the piræus, now, as in former times, the harbour of the city, and toward the east, on a little eminence, athens itself, like the other cities in greece, presenting a miserable appearance, the effects of protracted and relentless wars. but high above the ruins of the modern city towers the acropolis, holding up to the skies the ruined temples of other days, and proclaiming what athens was. we wound around the temple of theseus, the most beautiful and perfect specimen of architecture that time has spared; and in striking contrast with this monument of the magnificence of past days, here, in the entrance to the city, our horses were struggling and sinking up to their saddle-girths in the mud. we did in athens what we should have done in boston or philadelphia; rode up to the best hotel, and, not being able to obtain accommodations there, rode to another; where, being again refused admittance, we were obliged to distribute ourselves into three parcels. dr. willet went to mr. hill's (of whom more anon). m. found entrance at a new hotel in the suburbs, and i betook myself to the hotel de france. the garçon was rather bothered when i threw him a pair of old boots which i had hanging at my saddle-bow, and told him to take care of my baggage; he asked me when the rest would come up; and hardly knew what to make of me when i told him that was all i travelled with. i was still standing in the court of the hotel, almost barefoot, and thinking of the prosperous condition of the owner of a dozen shirts, and other things conforming, when mr. hill came over and introduced himself; and telling me that his house was the house of every american, asked me to waive ceremony and bring my luggage over at once. this was again hitting my sore point; everybody seemed to take a special interest in my luggage, and i was obliged to tell my story more than once. i declined mr. hill's kind invitation, but called upon him early the next day, dined with him, and, during the whole of my stay in athens, was in the habit, to a great extent, of making his house my home; and this, i believe, is the case with all the americans who go there; besides which, some borrow his money, and others his clothes. chapter iv. american missionary school.--visit to the school.--mr. hill and the male department.--mrs. hill and the female department.--maid of athens.--letter from mr. hill.--revival of athens.--citizens of the world. the first thing we did in athens was to visit the american missionary school. among the extraordinary changes of an ever-changing world, it is not the least that the young america is at this moment paying back the debt which the world owes to the mother of science, and the citizen of a country which the wisest of the greeks never dreamed of, is teaching the descendants of plato and aristotle the elements of their own tongue. i did not expect among the ruins of athens to find anything that would particularly touch my national feelings, but it was a subject of deep and interesting reflection that, in the city which surpassed all the world in learning, where socrates, and plato, and aristotle taught, and cicero went to study, the only door of instruction was that opened by the hands of american citizens, and an american missionary was the only schoolmaster; and i am ashamed to say that i was not aware of the existence of such an institution until advised of it by my friend dr. w. in eighteen hundred and thirty the rev. messrs. hill and robinson, with their families, sailed from this city (new-york) as the agents of the episcopal missionary society, to found schools in greece. they first established themselves in the island of tenos; but, finding that it was not the right field for their labours, employed themselves in acquiring a knowledge of the language, and of the character and habits of the modern greeks. their attention was directed to athens, and in the spring of eighteen hundred and thirty-one they made a visit to that city, and were so confirmed in their impressions, that they purchased a lot of ground on which to erect edifices for a permanent establishment, and, in the mean time, rented a house for the immediate commencement of a school. they returned to tenos for their families and effects, and again arrived at athens about the end of june following. from the deep interest taken in their struggle for liberty, and the timely help furnished them in their hour of need, the greeks were warmly prepossessed in favour of our countrymen; and the conduct of the missionaries themselves was so judicious, that they were received with the greatest respect and the warmest welcome by the public authorities and the whole population of athens. their furniture, printing-presses, and other effects were admitted free of duties; and it is but justice to them to say that, since that time, they have moved with such discretion among an excitable and suspicious people, that, while they have advanced in the great objects of their mission, they have grown in the esteem and good-will of the best and most influential inhabitants of greece; and so great was mr. hill's confidence in their affections, that, though there was at that time a great political agitation, and it was apprehended that athens might again become the scene of violence and bloodshed, he told me he had no fears, and felt perfectly sure that, in any outbreaking of popular fury, himself and family, and the property of the mission, would be respected.[ ] in the middle of the summer of their arrival at athens, mrs. hill opened a school for girls in the magazine or cellar of the house in which they resided; the first day she had twenty pupils, and in two months one hundred and sixty-seven. of the first ninety-six, not more than six could read at all, and that very imperfectly; and not more than ten or twelve knew a letter. at the time of our visit the school numbered nearly five hundred; and when we entered the large room, and the scholars all rose in a body to greet us as americans, i felt a deep sense of regret that, personally, i had no hand in such a work, and almost envied the feelings of my companion, one of its patrons and founders. besides teaching them gratitude to those from whose country they derived the privileges they enjoyed, mr. hill had wisely endeavoured to impress upon their minds a respect for the constituted authorities, particularly important in that agitated and unsettled community; and on one end of the wall, directly fronting the seats of the scholars, was printed, in large greek characters, the text of scripture, "fear god, honour the king." it was all important for the missionaries not to offend the strong prejudices of the greeks by any attempt to withdraw the children from the religion of their fathers; and the school purports to be, and is intended for, the diffusion of elementary education only; but it is opened in the morning with prayer, concluding with the lord's prayer as read in our churches, which is repeated by the whole school aloud; and on sundays, besides the prayers, the creed, and sometimes the ten commandments, are recited, and a chapter from the gospels is read aloud by one of the scholars, the missionaries deeming this more expedient than to conduct the exercises themselves. the lesson for the day is always the portion appointed for the gospel of the day in their own church; and they close by singing a hymn. the room is thrown open to the public, and is frequently resorted to by the parents of the children and strangers; some coming, perhaps, says mr. hill, to "hear what these babblers will say," and "other some" from a suspicion that "we are setters forth of strange gods." the boys' school is divided into three departments, the lowest under charge of a greek qualified on the lancasterian system. they were of all ages, from three to eighteen; and, as mr. hill told me, most of them had been half-clad, dirty, ragged little urchins, who, before they were put to their a, b, c, or, rather, their alpha, beta, gamma, delta, had to be thoroughly washed, rubbed, scrubbed, doctored, and dressed, and, but for the school, would now, perhaps, be prowling vagabonds in the streets of athens, or training for robbery in the mountains. they were a body of fine-looking boys, possessing, as mr. hill told me, in an extraordinary degree, all that liveliness of imagination, that curiosity and eagerness after knowledge, which distinguished the greeks of old, retaining, under centuries of dreadful oppression, the recollection of the greatness of their fathers, and, what was particularly interesting, many of them bearing the great names so familiar in grecian history; i shook hands with a little miltiades, leonidas, aristides, &c., in features and apparent intelligence worthy descendants of the immortal men whose names they bear. and there was one who startled me, he was the son of the maid of athens! to me the maid of athens was almost an imaginary being, something fanciful, a creation of the brain, and not a corporeal substance, to have a little urchin of a boy. but so it was. the maid of athens is married. she had a right to marry, no doubt; and it is said that there is poetry in married life, and, doubtless, she is a much more interesting person now than the maid of athens at thirty-six could be; but the maid of athens is married to a scotchman! the maid of athens is now mrs. black! wife of george black. comment is unnecessary. but the principal and most interesting part of this missionary school was the female department, under the direction of mrs. hill, the first, and, except at syra, the only school for females in all greece, and particularly interesting to me from the fact that it owed its existence to the active benevolence of my own country-women. at the close of the greek revolution, female education was a thing entirely unknown in greece, and the women of all classes were in a most deplorable state of ignorance. when the strong feeling that ran through our country in favour of this struggling people had subsided, and greece was freed from the yoke of the mussulman, an association of ladies in the little town of troy, perhaps instigated somewhat by an inherent love of power and extended rule, and knowing the influence of their sex in a cultivated state of society, formed the project of establishing at athens a school exclusively for the education of females; and, humble and unpretending as was its commencement, it is becoming a more powerful instrument in the civilization and moral and religious improvement of greece, than all that european diplomacy has ever done for her. the girls were distributed in different classes, according to their age and advancement; they had clean faces and hands, a rare thing with greek children, and were neatly dressed, many of them wearing frocks made by ladies at home (probably at some of our sewing societies); and some of them had attained such an age, and had such fine, dark, rolling eyes as to make even a northern temperament feel the powerful influence they would soon exercise over the rising, excitable generation of greeks and almost make him bless the hands that were directing that influence aright. mr. and mrs. hill accompanied us through the whole establishment, and, being americans, we were everywhere looked upon and received by the girls as patrons and fathers of the school, both which characters i waived in favour of my friend; the one because he was really entitled to it, and the other because some of the girls were so well grown that i did not care to be regarded as standing in that venerable relationship. the didaskalissas, or teachers, were of this description, and they spoke english. occasionally mr. hill called a little girl up to us, and told us her history, generally a melancholy one, as, being reduced to the extremity of want by the revolution; or an orphan, whose parents had been murdered by the turks; and i had a conversation with a little penelope, who, however, did not look as if she would play the faithful wife of ulysses, and, if i am a judge of physiognomy, would never endure widowhood twenty years for any man. before we went away the whole school rose at once, and gave us a glorious finale with a greek hymn. in a short time these girls will grow up into women and return to their several families; others will succeed them, and again go out, and every year hundreds will distribute themselves in the cities and among the fastnesses of the mountains, to exercise over their fathers, and brothers, and lovers, the influence of the education acquired here; instructed in all the arts of woman in civilized domestic life, firmly grounded in the principles of morality, and of religion purified from the follies, absurdities, and abominations of the greek faith. i have seen much of the missionary labours in the east, but i do not know an institution which promises so surely the happiest results. if the women are educated, the men cannot remain ignorant; if the women are enlightened in religion, the men cannot remain debased and degraded christians. the ex-secretary rigos was greatly affected at the appearance of this female school; and, after surveying it attentively for some moments, pointed to the parthenon on the summit of the acropolis, and said to mrs. hill, with deep emotion, "lady, you are erecting in athens a monument more enduring and more noble than yonder temple;" and the king was so deeply impressed with its value, that, a short time before my arrival, he proposed to mr. hill to take into his house girls from different districts and educate them as teachers, with the view of sending them back to their districts, there to organize new schools, and carry out the great work of female education. mr. hill acceded to the proposal, and the american missionary school now stands as the nucleus of a large and growing system of education in greece; and, very opportunely for my purpose, within a few days i have received a letter from mr. hill, in which, in relation to the school, he says, "our missionary establishment is much increased since you saw it; our labours are greatly increased, and i think i may say we have now reached the summit of what we had proposed to ourselves. we do not think it possible that it can be extended farther without much larger means and more personal aid. we do not wish or intend to ask for either. we have now nearly forty persons residing with us, of whom thirty-five are greeks, all of whom are brought within the influence of the gospel; the greater part of them are young girls from different parts of greece, and even from egypt and turkey (greeks, however), whom we are preparing to become instructresses of youth hereafter in their various districts. we have five hundred, besides, under daily instruction in the different schools under our care, and we employ under us in the schools twelve native teachers, who have themselves been instructed by us. we have provided for three of our dear pupils (all of whom were living with us when you were here), who are honourably and usefully settled in life. one is married to a person every way suited to her, and both husband and wife are in our missionary service. one has charge of the government female school at the piræus, and supports her father and mother and a large family by her salary; and the third has gone with our missionaries to crete, to take charge of the female schools there. we have removed into our new house" (of which the foundation was just laid at the time of my visit), "and, large as it is, it is not half large enough. we are trying to raise ways and means to enlarge it considerably, that we may take more boarders under our own roof, which we look up to as the most important means of making sure of our labour; for every one who comes to reside with us is taken away from the corrupt example exhibited at home, and brought within a wholesome influence. lady byron has just sent us one hundred pounds toward enlarging our house with this view, and we have commenced the erection of three additional dormitories with the money." athens is again the capital of a kingdom. enthusiasts see in her present condition the promise of a restoration to her ancient greatness; but reason and observation assure us that the world is too much changed for her ever to be what she has been. in one respect, her condition resembles that of her best days; for, as her fame then attracted strangers from every quarter of the world to study in her schools, so now the capital of king otho has become a great gathering-place of wandering spirits from many near and distant regions. for ages difficult and dangerous of access, the ancient capital of the arts lay shrouded in darkness, and almost cut off from the civilized world. at long intervals, a few solitary travellers only found their way to it; but, since the revolution, it has again become a place of frequent resort and intercourse. it is true that the ancient halls of learning are still solitary and deserted, but strangers from every nation now turn hither; the scholar to roam over her classic soil, the artist to study her ancient monuments, and the adventurer to carve his way to fortune. the first day i dined at the hotel i had an opportunity of seeing the variety of material congregated in the reviving city. we had a long table, capable of accommodating about twenty persons. the manner of living was à la carte, each guest dining when he pleased; but, by tacit consent, at about six o'clock all assembled at the table. we presented a curious medley. no two were from the same country. our discourse was in english, french, italian, german, greek, russian, polish, and i know not what else, as if we were the very people stricken with confusion of tongues at the tower of babel. dinner over, all fell into french, and the conversation became general. every man present was, in the fullest sense of the term, a citizen of the world. it had been the fortune of each, whether good or bad, to break the little circle in which so many are born, revolve, and die; and the habitual mingling with people of various nations had broken down all narrow prejudices, and given to every one freedom of mind and force of character. all had seen much, had much to communicate, and felt that they had much yet to learn. by some accident, moreover, all seemed to have become particularly interested in the east. they travelled over the whole range of eastern politics, and, to a certain extent, considered themselves identified with eastern interests. most of the company were or had been soldiers, and several wore uniforms and stars, or decorations of some description. they spoke of the different campaigns in greece in which some of them had served; of the science of war; of marlborough, eugene, and more modern captains; and i remember that they startled my feelings of classical reverence by talking of leonidas at thermopylæ and miltiades at marathon in the same tone as of napoleon at leipsic and wellington at waterloo. one of them constructed on the table, with the knives and forks and spoons, a map of marathon, and with a sheathed yataghan pointed out the position of the greeks and persians, and showed where miltiades, as a general, was wrong. they were not blinded by the dust of antiquity. they had been knocked about till all enthusiasm and all reverence for the past were shaken out of them, and they had learned to give things their right names. a french engineer showed us the skeleton of a map of greece, which was then preparing under the direction of the french geographical society, exhibiting an excess of mountains and deficiency of plain which surprised even those who had travelled over every part of the kingdom. one had just come from constantinople, where he had seen the sultan going to mosque; another had escaped from an attack of the plague in egypt; a third gave the dimensions of the temple of the sun at baalbeck; and a fourth had been at babylon, and seen the ruins of the tower of babel. in short, every man had seen something which the others had not seen, and all their knowledge was thrown into a common stock. i found myself at once among a new class of men; and i turned from him who sneered at miltiades to him who had seen the sultan, or to him who had been at bagdad, and listened with interest, somewhat qualified by consciousness of my own inferiority. i was lying in wait, however, and took advantage of an opportunity to throw in something about america; and, at the sound, all turned to me with an eagerness of curiosity that i had not anticipated. in europe, and even in england, i had often found extreme ignorance of my own country; but here i was astonished to find, among men so familiar with all parts of the old world, such total lack of information about the new. a gentleman opposite me, wearing the uniform of the king of bavaria, asked me if i had ever been in america. i told him that i was born, and, as they say in kentucky, raised there. he begged my pardon, but doubtfully _suggested_, "you are not black?" and i was obliged to explain to him that in our section of america the indian had almost entirely disappeared, and that his place was occupied by the descendants of the gaul and the briton. i was forthwith received into the fraternity, for my home was farther away than any of them had ever been; my friend opposite considered me a bijou, asked me innumerable questions, and seemed to be constantly watching for the breaking out of the cannibal spirit, as if expecting to see me bite my neighbour. at first i had felt myself rather a small affair but, before separating, _l'americain_, or _le sauvage_, or finally, _le cannibal_ found himself something of a lion. footnote: [ ] since my return home i have seen in a newspaper an account of a popular commotion at syra, in which the printing-presses and books at the missionaries were destroyed, and mr. robinson was threatened with personal violence. chapter v. ruins of athens.--hill of mars.--temple of the winds.--lantern of demosthenes.--arch of adrian.--temple of jupiter olympus.--temple of theseus.--the acropolis.--the parthenon.--pentelican mountain.--mount hymettus.--the piræus.--greek fleas.--napoli. the next morning i began my survey of the ruins of athens. it was my intention to avoid any description of these localities and monuments, because so many have preceded me, stored with all necessary knowledge, ripe in taste and sound in judgment, who have devoted to them all the time and research they so richly merit; but as, in our community, through the hurry and multiplicity of business occupations, few are able to bestow upon these things much time or attention, and, farthermore, as the books which treat of them are not accessible to all, i should be doing injustice to my readers if i were to omit them altogether. besides, i should be doing violence to my own feelings, and cannot get fairly started in athens, without recurring to scenes which i regarded at the time with extraordinary interest. i have since visited most of the principal cities in europe, existing as well as ruined and i hardly know any to which i recur with more satisfaction than athens. if the reader tire in the brief reference i shall make, he must not impute it to any want of interest in the subject; and as i am not in the habit of going into heroics, he will believe me when i say that, if he have any reverence for the men or things consecrated by the respect and admiration of ages, he will find it called out at athens. in the hope that i may be the means of inducing some of my countrymen to visit that famous city, i will add another inducement by saying that he may have, as i had, mr. hill for a cicerone. this gentleman is familiar with every locality and monument around or in the city, and, which i afterward found to be an unusual thing with those living in places consecrated in the minds of strangers, he retains for them all that freshness of feeling which we possess who only know them from books and pictures. by an arrangement made the evening before, early in the morning of my second day in athens mr. hill was at the door of my hotel to attend us. as we descended the steps a greek stopped him, and, bowing with his hand on his heart, addressed him in a tone of earnestness which we could not understand; but we were struck with the sonorous tones of his voice and the musical cadence of his sentences; and when he had finished, mr. hill told us that he had spoken in a strain which, in the original, was poetry itself, beginning, "americanos, i am a stagyrite. i come from the land of aristotle, the disciple of plato," &c., &c.; telling him the whole story of his journey from the ancient stagyra and his arrival in athens; and that, having understood that mr. hill was distributing books among his countrymen, he begged for one to take home with him. mr. hill said that this was an instance of every-day occurrence, showing the spirit of inquiry and thirst for knowledge among the modern greeks. this little scene with a countryman of aristotle was a fit prelude to our morning ramble. the house occupied by the american missionary as a school stands on the site of the ancient agora or market-place, where st. paul "disputed daily with the athenians." a few columns still remain; and near them is an inscription mentioning the price of oil. the schoolhouse is built partly from the ruins of the agora; and to us it was an interesting circumstance, that a missionary from a newly-discovered world was teaching to the modern greeks the same saving religion which, eighteen hundred years ago, st. paul, on the same spot, preached to their ancestors. winding around the foot of the acropolis, within the ancient and outside the modern wall, we came to the areopagus or hill of mars, where, in the early days of athens, her judges sat in the open air; and, for many ages, decided with such wisdom and impartiality, that to this day the decisions of the court of areopagites are regarded as models of judicial purity. we ascended this celebrated hill, and stood on the precise spot where st. paul, pointing to the temples which rose from every section of the city and towered proudly on the acropolis, made his celebrated address: "ye men of athens, i see that in all things ye are too superstitious." the ruins of the very temples to which he pointed were before our eyes. descending, and rising toward the summit of another hill, we came to the pnyx, where demosthenes, in the most stirring words that ever fell from human lips, roused his countrymen against the macedonian invader. above, on the very summit of the hill, is the old pnyx, commanding a view of the sea of salamis, and of the hill where xerxes sat to behold the great naval battle. during the reign of the thirty tyrants the pnyx was removed beneath the brow of the hill, excluding the view of the sea, that the orator might not inflame the passions of the people by directing their eyes to salamis, the scene of their naval glory. but, without this, the orator had material enough; for, when he stood on the platform facing the audience, he had before him the city which the athenians loved and the temples in which they worshipped, and i could well imagine the irresistible force of an appeal to these objects of their enthusiastic devotion, their firesides and altars. the place is admirably adapted for public speaking. the side of the hill has been worked into a gently inclined plane, semicircular in form, and supported in some places by a wall of immense stones. this plain is bounded above by the brow of the hill, cut down perpendicularly. in the centre the rock projects into a platform about eight or ten feet square, which forms the pnyx or pulpit for the orator. the ascent is by three steps cut out of the rock, and in front is a place for the scribe or clerk. we stood on this pnyx, beyond doubt on the same spot where demosthenes thundered his philippics in the ears of the athenians. on the road leading to the museum hill we entered a chamber excavated in the rock, which tradition hallows as the prison of socrates; and though the authority for this is doubtful, it is not uninteresting to enter the damp and gloomy cavern wherein, according to the belief of the modern athenians, the wisest of the greeks drew his last breath. farther to the south is the hill of philopappus, so called after a roman governor of that name. on the very summit, near the extreme angle of the old wall, and one of the most conspicuous objects around athens, is a monument erected by the roman governor in honour of the emperor trajan. the marble is covered with the names of travellers, most of whom, like philopappus himself, would never have been heard of but for that monument. descending toward the acropolis, and entering the city among streets encumbered with ruined houses, we came to the temple of the winds, a marble octagonal tower, built by andronicus. on each side is a sculptured figure, clothed in drapery adapted to the wind he represents; and on the top was formerly a triton with a rod in his hand, pointing to the figure marking the wind. the triton is gone, and great part of the temple buried under ruins. part of the interior, however, has been excavated, and probably, before long, the whole will be restored. east of the foot of the acropolis, and on the way to adrian's gate, we came to the lantern of demosthenes (i eschew its new name of the choragic monument of lysichus), where, according to an absurd tradition, the orator shut himself up to study the rhetorical art. it is considered one of the most beautiful monuments of antiquity, and the capitals are most elegant specimens of the corinthian order refined by attic taste. it is now in a mutilated condition, and its many repairs make its dilapidation more perceptible. whether demosthenes ever lived here or not, it derives an interest from the fact that lord byron made it his residence during his visit to athens. farther on, and forming part of the modern wall, is the arch of adrian, bearing on one side an inscription in greek, "this is the city of theseus;" and on the other, "but this is the city of adrian." on the arrival of otho a placard was erected, on which was inscribed, "these were the cities of theseus and adrian, but now of otho." many of the most ancient buildings in athens have totally disappeared. the turks destroyed many of them to construct the wall around the city, and even the modern greeks have not scrupled to build their miserable houses with the plunder of the temples in which their ancestors worshipped. passing under the arch of adrian, outside the gate, on the plain toward the ilissus, we came to the ruined temple of jupiter olympus, perhaps once the most magnificent in the world. it was built of the purest white marble, having a front of nearly two hundred feet, and more than three hundred and fifty in length, and contained one hundred and twenty columns, sixteen of which are all that now remain; and these, fluted and having rich corinthian capitals, tower more than sixty feet above the plain, perfect as when they were reared. i visited these ruins often, particularly in the afternoon; they are at all times mournfully beautiful, but i have seldom known anything more touching than, when the sun was setting, to walk over the marble floor, and look up at the lonely columns of this ruined temple. i cannot imagine anything more imposing than it must have been when, with its lofty roof supported by all its columns, it stood at the gate of the city, its doors wide open, inviting the greeks to worship. that such an edifice should be erected for the worship of a heathen god! on the architrave connecting three of the columns a hermit built his lonely cell, and passed his life in that elevated solitude, accessible only to the crane and the eagle. the hermit is long since dead, but his little habitation still resists the whistling of the wind, and awakens the curiosity of the wondering traveller. the temple of theseus is the last of the principal monuments, but the first which the traveller sees on entering athens. it was built after the battle of marathon, and in commemoration of the victory which drove the persians from the shores of greece. it is a small but beautiful specimen of the pure doric, built of pentelican marble, centuries of exposure to the open air giving it a yellowish tint, which softens the brilliancy of the white. three englishmen have been buried within this temple. the first time i visited it a company of greek recruits, with some negroes among them, was drawn up in front, going through the manual under the direction of a german corporal; and, at the same time, workmen were engaged in fitting it up for the coronation of king otho! [illustration: temple of jupiter olympus and acropolis at athena.] these are the principal monuments around the city, and, except the temples at pæstum, they are more worthy of admiration than all the ruins in italy; but towering above them in position, and far exceeding them in interest, are the ruins of the acropolis. i have since wandered among the ruined monuments of egypt and the desolate city of petra, but i look back with unabated reverence to the athenian acropolis. every day i had gazed at it from the balcony of my hotel, and from every part of the city and suburbs. early on my arrival i had obtained the necessary permit, paid a hurried visit, and resolved not to go again until i had examined all the other interesting objects. on the fourth day, with my friend m., i went again. we ascended by a broad road paved with stone. the summit is enclosed by a wall, of which some of the foundation stones, very large, and bearing an appearance of great antiquity, are pointed out as part of the wall built by themistocles after the battle of salamis, four hundred and eighty years before christ. the rest is venetian and turkish, falling to decay, and marring the picturesque effect of the ruins from below. the guard examined our permit, and we passed under the gate. a magnificent propylon of the finest white marble, the blocks of the largest size ever laid by human hands, and having a wing of the same material on each side, stands at the entrance. though broken and ruined, the world contains nothing like it even now. if my first impressions do not deceive me, the proudest portals of egyptian temples suffer in comparison. passing this magnificent propylon, and ascending several steps, we reached the parthenon or ruined temple of minerva; an immense white marble skeleton, the noblest monument of architectural genius which the world ever saw. standing on the steps of this temple, we had around us all that is interesting in association and all that is beautiful in art. we might well forget the capital of king otho, and go back in imagination to the golden age of athens. pericles, with the illustrious throng of grecian heroes, orators, and sages, had ascended there to worship, and cicero and the noblest of the romans had gone there to admire; and probably, if the fashion of modern tourists had existed in their days, we should see their names inscribed with their own hands on its walls. the great temple stands on the very summit of the acropolis, elevated far above the propylæa and the surrounding edifices. its length is two hundred and eight feet, and breadth one hundred and two. at each end were two rows of eight doric columns, thirty-four feet high and six feet in diameter, and on each side were thirteen more. the whole temple within and without was adorned with the most splendid works of art, by the first sculptors in greece, and phidias himself wrought the statue of the goddess, of ivory and gold, twenty-six cubits high, having on the top of her helmet a sphinx, with griffins on each of the sides; on the breast a head of medusa wrought in ivory, and a figure of victory about four cubits high, holding a spear in her hand and a shield lying at her feet. until the latter part of the seventeenth century, this magnificent temple, with all its ornaments, existed entire. during the siege of athens by the venetians, the central part was used by the turks as a magazine; and a bomb, aimed with fatal precision or by a not less fatal chance, reached the magazine, and, with a tremendous explosion, destroyed a great part of the buildings. subsequently the turks used it as a quarry, and antiquaries and travellers, foremost among whom is lord elgin, have contributed to destroy "what goth, and turk, and time had spared." around the parthenon, and covering the whole summit of the acropolis, are strewed columns and blocks of polished white marble, the ruins of ancient temples. the remains of the temples of erectheus and minerva polias are pre-eminent in beauty; the pillars of the latter are the most perfect specimens of the ionic in existence, and its light and graceful proportions are in elegant contrast with the severe and simple majesty of the parthenon. the capitals of the columns are wrought and ornamented with a delicacy surpassing anything of which i could have believed marble susceptible. once i was tempted to knock off a corner and bring it home, as a specimen of the exquisite skill of the grecian artist, which it would have illustrated better than a volume of description; but i could not do it; it seemed nothing less than sacrilege. afar off, and almost lost in the distance, rises the pentelican mountain, from the body of which were hewed the rough rude blocks which, wrought and perfected by the sculptor's art, now stand the lofty and stately columns of the ruined temple. what labour was expended upon each single column! how many were employed in hewing it from its rocky bed, in bearing it to the foot of the mountain, transporting it across the plain of attica, and raising it to the summit of the acropolis! and then what time, and skill, and labour, in reducing it from a rough block to a polished shaft, in adjusting its proportions, in carving its rich capitals, and rearing it where it now stands, a model of majestic grace and beauty! once, under the direction of mr. hill, i clambered up to the very apex of the pediment, and, lying down at full length, leaned over and saw under the frieze the acanthus leaf delicately and beautifully painted on the marble, and, being protected from exposure, still retaining its freshness of colouring. it was entirely out of sight from below, and had been discovered, almost at the peril of his life, by the enthusiasm of an english artist. the wind was whistling around me as i leaned over to examine it, and, until that moment, i never appreciated fully the immense labour employed and the exquisite finish displayed in every portion of the temple. the sentimental traveller must already mourn that athens has been selected as the capital of greece. already have speculators and the whole tribe of "improvers" invaded the glorious city; and while i was lingering on the steps of the parthenon, a german, who was quietly smoking among the ruins, a sort of superintendent whom i had met before, came up, and offering me a segar, and leaning against one of the lofty columns of the temple, opened upon me with "his plans of city improvements;" with new streets, and projected railroads, and the rise of lots. at first i almost thought it personal, and that he was making a fling at me in allusion to one of the greatest hobbies of my native city; but i soon found that he was as deeply bitten as if he had been in chicago or dunkirk; and the way in which he talked of moneyed facilities, the wants of the community, and a great french bank then contemplated at the piræus, would have been no discredit to some of my friends at home. the removal of the court has created a new era in athens; but, in my mind, it is deeply to be regretted that it has been snatched from the ruin to which it was tending. even i, deeply imbued with the utilitarian spirit of my country, and myself a quondam speculator in "up-town lots," would fain save athens from the ruthless hand of renovation; from the building mania of modern speculators. i would have her go on till there was not a habitation among her ruins; till she stood, like pompeii, alone in the wilderness, a sacred desert, where the traveller might sit down and meditate alone and undisturbed among the relics of the past. but already athens has become a heterogeneous anomaly; the greeks in their wild costume are jostled in the streets by englishmen, frenchmen, italians, dutchmen, spaniards, and bavarians, russians, danes, and sometimes americans. european shops invite purchasers by the side of eastern bazars, coffee-houses, and billiard-rooms, and french and german restaurants are opened all over the city. sir pultney malcolm has erected a house to hire near the site of plato's academy. lady franklin has bought land near the foot of mount hymettus for a country-seat. several english gentlemen have done the same. mr. richmond, an american clergyman, has purchased a farm in the neighbourhood; and in a few years, if the "march of improvement" continues, the temple of theseus will be enclosed in the garden of the palace of king otho; the temple of the winds will be concealed by a german opera-house, and the lantern of demosthenes by a row of "three-story houses." i was not a sentimental traveller, but i visited all the localities around athens, and, therefore, briefly mention that several times i jumped over the poetic and perennial ilissus, trotted my horse over the ground where aristotle walked with his peripatetics, and got muddied up to my knees in the garden of plato. one morning my scotch friend and i set out early to ascend mount hymettus. the mountain is neither high nor picturesque, but a long flat ridge of bare rock, the sides cut up into ravines, fissures, and gullies. there is an easy path to the summit, but we had no guide, and about midday, after a wild scramble, were worn out, and descended without reaching the top, which is exceedingly fortunate for the reader, as otherwise he would be obliged to go through a description of the view therefrom. returning, we met the king taking his daily walk, attended by two aids, one of whom was young marco bozzaris. otho is tall and thin, and, when i saw him, was dressed in a german military frockcoat and cap, and altogether, for a king, seemed to be an amiable young man enough. all the world speaks well of him, and so do i. we touched our hats to him, and he returned the civility; and what could he do more without inviting us to dinner? in old times there was a divinity about a king; but now, if a king is a gentleman, it is as much as we can expect. he has spent his money like a gentleman, that is, he cannot tell what has become of it. two of the three-millions loan are gone, and there is no colonization, no agricultural prosperity, no opening of roads, no security in the mountains; not a town in greece but is in ruins, and no money to improve them. athens, however, is to be embellished. with ten thousand pounds in the treasury, he is building a palace of white pentelican marble, to cost three hundred thousand pounds. otho was very popular, because, not being of age, all the errors of his administration were visited upon count armansbergh and the regency, who, from all accounts, richly deserved it; and it was hoped that, on receiving the crown, he would shake off the bavarians who were preying upon the vitals of greece, and gather around him his native-born subjects. in private life he bore a most exemplary character. he had no circle of young companions, and passed much of his time in study, being engaged, among other things, in acquiring the greek and english languages. his position is interesting, though not enviable; and if, as the first king of emancipated greece, he entertains recollections of her ancient greatness, and the ambition of restoring her to her position among the nations of the earth, he is doomed to disappointment. otho is since crowned and married. the pride of the greeks was considerably humbled by a report that their king's proposals to several daughters of german princes had been rejected; but the king had great reason to congratulate himself upon the spirit which induced the daughter of the duke of oldenburgh to accept his hand. from her childhood she had taken an enthusiastic interest in greek history, and it had been her constant wish to visit greece; and when she heard that otho had been called to the throne, she naively expressed an ardent wish to share it with him. several years afterward, by the merest accident, she met otho at a german watering-place, travelling with his mother, the queen of bavaria, as the count de missilonghi; and in february last she accompanied him to athens, to share the throne which had been the object of her youthful wish. m. dined at my hotel, and, returning to his own, he was picked up and carried to the guardhouse. he started for his hotel without a lantern, the requisition to carry one being imperative in all the greek and turkish cities; the guard could not understand a word he said until he showed them some money, which made his english perfectly intelligible; and they then carried him to a bavarian corporal, who, after two hours' detention, escorted him to his hotel. after that we were rather careful about staying out late at night. "thursday. i don't know the day of the month." i find this in my notes, the caption of a day of business, and at this distance of time will not undertake to correct the entry. indeed, i am inclined to think that my notes in those days are rather uncertain and imperfect; certainly not taken with the precision of one who expected to publish them. nevertheless, the residence of the court, the diplomatic corps, and strangers form an agreeable society at athens. i had letters to some of the foreign ministers, but did not present them, as i was hardly presentable myself without my carpet-bag. on "thursday," however, in company with dr. w., i called upon mr. dawkins, the british minister. mr. dawkins went to greece on a special mission, which he supposed would detain him six months from home, and had remained there ten years. he is a high tory, but retained under a whig administration, because his services could not well be dispensed with. he gave us much interesting information in regard to the present condition and future prospects of greece; and, in answer to my suggestion that the united states were not represented at all in greece, not even by a consul, he said, with emphasis, "you are better represented than any power in europe. mr. hill has more influence here than any minister plenipotentiary among us." a few days after, when confined to my room by indisposition, mr. dawkins returned my visit, and again spoke in the same terms of high commendation of mr. hill. it was pleasing to me, and i have no doubt it will be so to mr. hill's numerous friends in this country, to know that a private american citizen, in a position that keeps him aloof from politics, was spoken of in such terms by the representative of one of the great powers of europe. i had heard it intimated that there was a prospect of mr. dawkins being transferred to this country, and parted with him in the hope at some future day of seeing him the representative of his government here. i might have been presented to the king, but my carpet-bag--dr. w. borrowed a hat, and was presented; the doctor had an old white hat, which he had worn all the way from new-york. the tide is rolling backward; athens is borrowing her customs from the barbarous nations of the north; and it is part of the etiquette to enter a drawing-room with a hat (a black one) under the arm. the doctor, in his republican simplicity, thought that a hat, good enough to put on his own head, was good enough to go into the king's presence; but he was advised to the contrary, and took one of mr. hill's, not very much too large for him. he was presented by dr. ----, a german, the king's physician, with whom he had discoursed much of the different medical systems in germany and america. dr. w. was much pleased with the king. did ever a man talk with a king who was not pleased with him? but the doctor was particularly pleased with king otho, as the latter entered largely into discourse on the doctor's favourite theme, mr. hill's school, and the cause of education in greece. indeed, it speaks volumes in favour of the young king, that education is one of the things in which he takes the deepest interest. the day the doctor was to be presented we dined at mr. hill's, having made arrangements for leaving athens that night; the doctor and m. to return to europe. in the afternoon, while the doctor remained to be presented, m. and i walked down to the piræus, now, as in the days of her glory, the harbour of athens. the ancient harbour is about five miles from athens, and was formerly joined to it by _long walls_ built of stone of enormous size, sixty feet high, and broad enough on the top for two wagons to pass abreast. these have long since disappeared, and the road is now over a plain shaded a great part of the way by groves of olives. as usual at this time of day, we met many parties on horseback, sometimes with ladies; and i remember particularly the beautiful and accomplished daughters of count armansbergh, both of whom are since married and dead.[ ] it is a beautiful ride, in the afternoon particularly, as then the dark outline of the mountains beyond, and the reflections of light and shade, give a peculiarly interesting effect to the ruins of the acropolis. toward the other end we paced between the ruins of the old walls, and entered upon a scene which reminded me of home. eight months before there was only one house at the piræus; but, as soon as the court removed to athens, the old harbour revived; and already we saw long ranges of stores and warehouses, and all the hurry and bustle of one of our rising western towns. a railroad was in contemplation, and many other improvements, which have since failed; but an _omnibus!_ that most modern and commonplace of inventions, is now running regularly between the piræus and athens. a friend who visited greece six months after me brought home with him an advertisement printed in greek, english, french, and german, the english being in the words and figures following, to wit: "advertisement. "the public are hereby informed, that on the nineteenth instant an omnibus will commence running between athena and the piræus, and will continue to do so every day at the undermentioned hours until farther notice. _hours of departure._ from athens. from piræus. half past seven o'clock a.m. half past eight o'clock a.m. ten o'clock a.m. eleven o'clock a.m. two o'clock p.m. three o'clock p.m. half past four p.m. half past five p.m. "the price of a seat in the omnibus is one drachme. "baggage, if not too bulky and heavy, can be taken on the roof. "smoking cannot be allowed in the omnibus, nor can dogs be admitted. "small parcels and packages may be sent by this conveyance at a moderate charge, and given to the care of the conducteur. "the omnibus starts from the corner of the hermes and Æolus streets at athens and from the bazar at the piræus, and will wait five minutes at each place, during which period the conducteur will sound his horn. "athens, th, th september, ." old things are passing away, and all things are becoming new. for a little while yet we may cling to the illusions connected with the past, but the mystery is fast dissolving, the darkness is breaking away, and greece, and rome, and even egypt herself, henceforward claim our attention with objects and events of the present hour. already they have lost much of the deep and absorbing interest with which men turned to them a generation ago. all the hallowed associations of these ancient regions are fading away. we may regret it, we may mourn over it, but we cannot help it. the world is marching onward; i have met parties of my own townsmen while walking in the silent galleries of the coliseum; i have seen americans drinking champagne in an excavated dwelling of the ancient pompeii, and i have dined with englishmen among the ruins of thebes, but, blessed be my fortune, i never rode in an omnibus from the piræus to athens. we put our baggage on board the caique, and lounged among the little shops till dark, when we betook ourselves to a dirty little coffee-house filled with greeks dozing and smoking pipes. we met there a boat's crew of a french man-of-war, waiting for some of the officers, who were dining with the french ambassador at athens. one of them had been born to a better condition than that of a common sailor. one juvenile indiscretion after another had brought him down, and, without a single vice, he was fairly on the road to ruin. once he brushed a tear from his eyes as he told us of prospects blighted by his own follies; but, rousing himself, hurried away, and his reckless laugh soon rose above the noise and clamour of his wild companions. about ten o'clock the doctor came in, drenched with rain and up to his knees in mud. we wanted to embark immediately, but the appearance of the weather was so unfavourable that the captain preferred waiting till after midnight. the greeks went away from the coffee-house, the proprietor fell asleep in his seat, and we extended ourselves on the tables and chairs; and now the fleas, which had been distributed about among all the loungers, made a combined onset upon us. life has its cares and troubles, but few know that of being given up to the tender mercies of greek fleas. we bore the infliction till human nature could endure no longer; and, at about three in the morning, in the midst of violent wind and rain, broke out of the coffee-house and went in search of our boat. it was very dark, but we found her and got on board. she was a caique, having an open deck with a small covering over the stern. under this we crept, and with our cloaks and a sailcloth spread over us, our heated blood cooled, and we fell asleep. when we woke we were on the way to epidaurus. the weather was raw and cold. we passed within a stone's throw of salamis and Ægina, and at about three o'clock, turning a point which completely hid it from view, entered a beautiful little bay, on which stands the town of epidaurus. the old city, the birthplace of esculapius, stands upon a hill projecting into the bay, and almost forming an island. in the middle of the village is a wooden building containing a large chamber, where the greek delegates, a band of mountain warriors, with arms in their hands, "in the name of the greek nation, proclaimed before gods and men its independence." at the locanda there was by chance one bed, which not being large enough for three, i slept on the floor. at seven o'clock, after a quarrel with our host and paying him about half his demand, we set out for napoli di romania. for about an hour we moved in the valley running off from the beautiful shore of epidaurus; soon the valley deepened into a glen, and in an hour we turned off on a path that led into the mountains, and, riding through wild and rugged ravines, fell into the dry bed of a torrent; following which, we came to the hieron elios, or sacred grove of esculapius. this was the great watering-place for the invalids of ancient greece, the prototype of the cheltenham and saratoga of modern days. it is situated in a valley surrounded by high mountains, and was formerly enclosed by walls, within which, that the credit of the god might not be impeached, _no man was allowed to die, and no woman to be delivered_. within this enclosure were temples, porticoes and fountains, now lying in ruins hardly distinguishable. the theatre is the most beautiful and best preserved. it is scooped out of the side of the mountain, rather more than semicircular in form, and containing fifty-four seats. these seats are of pink marble, about fifteen inches high and nearly three feet wide. in the middle of each seat is a groove, in which, probably, woodwork was constructed, to prevent the feet of those above from incommoding them who sat below, and also to support the backs of an invalid audience. the theatre faces the north, and is so arranged that, with the mountain towering behind it, the audience was shaded nearly all the day. it speaks volumes in favour of the intellectual character of the greeks, that it was their favourite recreation to listen to the recitation of their poets and players. and their superiority in refinement over the romans is in no way manifested more clearly than by the fact, that in the ruined cities of the former are found the remains of theatres, and in the latter of amphitheatres, showing the barbarous taste of the romans for combats of gladiators and wild beasts. it was in beautiful keeping with this intellectual taste of the greeks, that their places of assembling were in the open air, amid scenery calculated to elevate the mind; and, as i sat on the marble steps of the theatre, i could well imagine the high satisfaction with which the greek, under the shade of the impending mountain, himself all enthusiasm and passion, rapt in the interest of some deep tragedy, would hang upon the strains of euripides or sophocles. what deep-drawn exclamations, what shouts of applause had rung through that solitude, what bursts of joy and grief had echoed from those silent benches! and then, too, what flirting and coqueting, the state of society at the springs in the grove of esculapius being probably much the same as at saratoga in our own days. the whole grove is now a scene of desolation. the lentisculus is growing between the crevices of the broken marble; birds sing undisturbed among the bushes; the timid hare steals among the ruined fragments; and sometimes the snake is seen gliding over the marble steps. we had expected to increase the interest of our visit by taking our noonday refection on the steps of the theatre, but it was too cold for a picnic _al fresco_; and, mounting our horses, about two o'clock we came in sight of argos, on the opposite side of the great plain; and in half an hour more, turning the mountain, saw napoli di romania beautifully situated on a gentle elevation on the shore of the gulf. the scenery in every direction around napoli is exceedingly beautiful; and, when we approached it, bore no marks of the sanguinary scenes of the late revolution. the plain was better cultivated than any part of the adjacent country; and the city contained long ranges of houses and streets, with german names, such as heidecker, maurer-street, &c., and was seemingly better regulated than any other city in greece. we drove up to the hotel des quatre nations, the best we had found in greece, dined at a restaurant with a crowd of bavarian officers and adventurers, and passed the evening in the streets and coffee-houses. the appearance of otho-street, which is the principal, is very respectable; it runs from what was the palace to the grand square or esplanade, on one side of which are the barracks of the bavarian soldiers, with a park of artillery posted so as to sweep the square and principal streets; a speaking comment upon the liberty of the greeks, and the confidence reposed in them by the government. everything in napoli recalls the memory of the brief and unfortunate career of capo d'istria. its recovery from the horrors of barbarian war, and the thriving appearance of the country around, are ascribed to the impulse given by his administration. a greek by birth, while his country lay groaning under the ottoman yoke he entered the russian service, distinguished himself in all the diplomatic correspondence during the french invasion, was invested with various high offices and honours, and subscribed the treaty of paris in as imperial russian plenipotentiary. he withdrew from her service because russia disapproved the efforts of his countrymen to free themselves from the turkish yoke; and, after passing five years in germany and switzerland, chiefly at geneva, in he was called to the presidency of greece. on his arrival at napoli amid the miseries of war and anarchy, he was received by the whole people as the only man capable of saving their country. civil war ceased on the very day of his arrival, and the traitor grievas placed in his hands the key of the palimethe. i shall not enter into any speculations upon the character of his administration. the rank he had attained in a foreign service is conclusive evidence of his talents, and his withdrawal from that service for the reason stated is as conclusive of his patriotism; but from the moment he took into his hands the reins of government, he was assailed by every so-called liberal press in europe with the party cry of russian influence. the greeks were induced to believe that he intended to sell them to a stranger; and capo d'istria, strong in his own integrity, and confidently relying on the fidelity and gratitude of his countrymen, was assassinated in the streets on his way to mass. young mauromichalis, the son of the old bey of maina, struck the fatal blow, and fled for refuge to the house of the french ambassador. a gentleman attached to the french legation told me that he himself opened the door when the murderer rushed in with the bloody dagger in his hand, exclaiming, "i have killed the tyrant." he was not more than twenty-one, tall and noble in his appearance, and animated by the enthusiastic belief that he had delivered his country. my informant told me that he barred all the doors and windows, and went up stairs to inform the minister, who had not yet risen. the latter was embarrassed and in doubt what he should do. a large crowd gathered round the house; but, as yet, they were all mauromichalis's friends. the young enthusiast spoke of what he had done with a high feeling of patriotism and pride; and while the clamour out of doors was becoming outrageous, he ate his breakfast and smoked his pipe with the utmost composure. he remained at the embassy more than two hours, and until the regular troops drew up before the house. the french ambassador, though he at first refused, was obliged to deliver him up; and my informant saw him shot under a tree outside the gate of napoli, dying gallantly in the firm conviction that he had played the brutus and freed his country from a cæsar. the fate of capo d'istria again darkened the prospects of greece, and the throne went begging for an occupant until it was accepted by the king of bavaria for his second son otho. the young monarch arrived at napoli in february, eighteen hundred and thirty-three. the whole population came out to meet him, and the grecian youth ran breast deep in the water to touch his barge as it approached the shore. in february, eighteen hundred and thirty-four, it was decided to establish athens as the capital. the propriety of this removal has been seriously questioned, for napoli possessed advantages in her location, harbour, fortress and a town already built; but the king of bavaria, a scholar and an antiquary, was influenced more, perhaps, by classical feeling than by regard for the best interests of greece. napoli has received a severe blow from the removal of the seat of government; still it was by far the most european in its appearance of any city i had seen in greece. it had several restaurants and coffee-houses, which were thronged all the evening with bavarian officers and broken-down european adventurers, discussing the internal affairs of that unfortunate country, which men of every nation seemed to think they had a right to assist in governing. napoli had always been the great gathering-place of the phil-hellenists, and many appropriating to themselves that sacred name were hanging round it still. all over europe thousands of men are trained up to be shot at for so much per day; the soldier's is as regular a business as that of the lawyer or merchant, and there is always a large class of turbulent spirits constantly on the look-out for opportunities, and ever ready with their swords to carve their way to fortune. i believe that there were men who embarked in the cause of greece with as high and noble purposes as ever animated the warrior; but of many, there is no lack of charity in saying that, however good they might be as fighters, they were not much as men; and i am sorry to add that, from the accounts i heard in greece, some of the american phil-hellenists were rather shabby fellows. mr. m., then resident in napoli, was accosted one day in the streets by a young man, who asked him where he could find general jarvis. "what do you want with him?" said mr. m. "i hope to obtain a commission in his army." "do you see that dirty fellow yonder?" said mr. m., pointing to a ragged patriot passing at the moment; "well, twenty such fellows compose jarvis's army, and jarvis himself is no better off." "well, then," said the young _american_, "i believe i'll join the turks!" allen, another american patriot, was hung at constantinople. one bore the sacred name of washington; a brave but unprincipled man. mr. m. had heard him say, that if the devil himself should raise a regiment and would give him a good commission, he would willingly march under him. he was struck by a shot from the fortress of napoli while directing a battery against it; was taken on board his britannic majesty's ship asia, and breathed his last uttering curses on his country. there were others, however, who redeemed the american character. the agents sent out by the greek committee (among them our townsmen, messrs. post and stuyvesant), under circumstances of extraordinary difficulty fulfilled the charitable purposes of their mission with such zeal and discretion as to relieve the wants of a famishing people, and secure the undying gratitude of the greeks. dr. russ, another of the agents, established an american hospital at poros, and, under the most severe privations, devoted himself gratuitously to attendance upon the sick and wounded. dr. howe, one of the earliest american phil-hellenists, in the darkest hour of the revolution, and at a time when the greeks were entirely destitute of all medical aid, with an honourable enthusiasm, and without any hope of pecuniary reward, entered the service as surgeon, was the fellow-labourer of dr. russ in establishing the american hospital, and, at the peril of his life, remained with them during almost the whole of their dreadful struggle. colonel miller, the principal agent, now resident in vermont, besides faithfully performing the duties of his trust, entered the army, and conducted himself with such distinguished gallantry that he was called by the greek braves the american delhi, or daredevil.[ ] footnotes: [ ] they married two brothers, the young princes cantacuzenes. some scruples being raised against this double alliance on the score of consanguinity, the difficulty was removed by each couple going to separate churches with separate priests to pronounce the mystic words at precisely the same moment; so that neither could be said to espouse his sister-in-law. [ ] in the previous editions of his work, the author's remarks were so general as to reflect upon the character of individuals who stand in our community above reproach. the author regrets that the carelessness of his expressions should have wounded where he never intended, and hopes the gentlemen affected will do him the justice to believe that he would not wantonly injure any man's character or feelings. chapter vi. argos.--tomb of agamemnon.--mycenæ.--gate of the lions.--a misfortune.--a midnight quarrel.--gratitude of a greek family.--megara. in the morning, finding a difficulty in procuring horses, some of the loungers about the hotel told us there was a carriage in napoli, and we ordered it to be brought out, and soon after saw moving majestically down the principal street a bella carozza, imported by its enterprising proprietor from the strada toledo at naples. it was painted a bright flaring yellow, and had a big breeched albanian for coachman. while preparing to embark, a greek came up with two horses, and we discharged the bella carozza. my companion hired the horses for padras, and i threw my cloak on one of them and followed on foot. the plain of argos is one of the most beautiful i ever saw. on every side except toward the sea it is bounded by mountains, and the contrast between these mountains, the plain, and the sea is strikingly beautiful. the sun was beating upon it with intense heat; the labourers were almost naked, or in several places lying asleep on the ground, while the tops of the mountains were covered with snow. i walked across the whole plain, being only six miles, to argos. this ancient city is long since in ruins; her thirty temples, her costly sepulchres, her gymnasium, and her numerous and magnificent monuments and statues have disappeared, and the only traces of her former greatness are some remains of her cyclopean walls, and a ruined theatre cut in the rock and of magnificent proportions. modern argos is nothing more than a straggling village. mr. riggs, an american missionary, was stationed there, but was at that time at athens with an invalid wife. i was still on foot, and wandered up and down the principal street looking for a horse. every greek in argos soon knew my business, and all kinds of four-legged animals were brought to me at exorbitant prices. when i was poring over the iliad i little thought that i should ever visit argos; still less that i should create a sensation in the ancient city of the danai; but man little knows for what he is reserved. argos has been so often visited that homer is out of date. every middy from a mediterranean cruiser has danced on the steps of her desolate theatre, and, instead of busying myself with her ancient glories, i roused half the population in hiring a horse. in fact, in this ancient city i soon became the centre of a regular horsemarket. every rascally jockey swore that his horse was the best, and, according to the descendants of the respectable sons of atreus, blindness, lameness, spavin, and staggers were a recommendation. a bavarian officer, whom i had met in the bazars, came to my assistance, and stood by me while i made my bargain. i had more regard to the guide than the horse; and picking out one who had been particularly noisy, hired him to conduct me to corinth and athens. he was a lad of about twenty, with a bright sparkling eye, who, laughing roguishly at his unsuccessful competitors, wanted to pitch me at once on the horse and be off. i joined my companions, and in a few minutes we left argos. the plain of argos has been immortalized by poetic genius as the great gathering-place of the kings and armies that assembled for the siege of troy. to the scholar and poet few plains in the world are more interesting. it carries him back to the heroic ages, to the history of times bordering on the fabulous, when fact and fiction are so beautifully blended that we would not separate them if we could. i had but a little while longer to remain with my friends, for we were approaching the point where our roads separated, and about eleven o'clock we halted and exchanged our farewell greetings. we parted in the middle of the plain, they to return to padras and europe, and i for the tomb of agamemnon, and back to athens, and i hardly know where besides. dr. w. i did not meet again until my return home. about a year afterward i arrived in antwerp in the evening from rotterdam. the city was filled with strangers, and i was denied admission at a third hotel, when a young man brushed by me in the doorway, and i recognised maxwell. i hailed him, but in cap and cloak, and with a large red shawl around my neck, he did not know me. i unrolled and discovered myself, and it is needless to say that i did not leave the hotel that night. it was his very last day of two years' travel on the continent; he had taken his passage in the steamer for london, and one day later i should have missed him altogether. i can give but a faint idea of the pleasure of this meeting. he gave me the first information of the whereabout of dr. w.; we talked nearly all night, and about noon the next day i again bade him farewell on board the steamer. i have for some time neglected our servant. when we separated, the question was who should _not_ keep him. we were all heartily tired of him, and i would not have had him with me on any account. still, at the moment of parting in that wild and distant region, never expecting to see him again, i felt some slight leaning toward him. touching the matter of shirts, it will not be surprising to a man of the world that, at the moment of parting, i had one of m.'s on my back; and, in justice to him, i must say it was a very good one, and lasted a long time. a friend once wrote to me on a like occasion not to wear his out of its turn, but m. laid no such restriction upon me. but this trifling gain did not indemnify me for the loss of my friends. i had broken the only link that connected me with home, and was setting out alone for i knew not where. i felt at once the great loss i had sustained, for my young muleteer could speak only his own language, and, as queen elizabeth said to sir walter raleigh of her hebrew, we had "forgotten our" greek. but on that classical soil i ought not to have been lonely. i should have conjured up the ghosts of the departed atridæ, and held converse on their own ground with homer's heroes. nevertheless, i was not in the mood; and, entirely forgetting the glories of the past, i started my horse into a gallop. my companion followed on a full run, close at my heels, belabouring my horse with a stick, which when he broke, he pelted him with stones; indeed, this mode of scampering over the ground seemed to hit his humour, for he shouted, hurraed, and whipped, and sometimes laying hold of the tail of the beast, was dragged along several paces with little effort of his own. i soon tired of this, and made signs to him to stop; but it was his turn now, and i was obliged to lean back till i reached him with my cane before i could make him let go his hold, and then he commenced shouting and pelting again with stones. in this way we approached the village of krabata, about a mile below the ruins of mycenæ, and the most miserable place i had seen in greece. with the fertile plain of argos uncultivated before them, the inhabitants exhibited a melancholy picture of the most abject poverty. as i rode through, crowds beset me with outstretched arms imploring charity; and a miserable old woman, darting out of a wretched hovel, laid her gaunt and bony hand upon my leg, and attempted to stop me. i shrunk from her grasp, and, under the effect of a sudden impulse, threw myself off on the other side, and left my horse in her hands. hurrying through the village, a group of boys ran before me, crying out "agamemnon," "agamemnon." i followed, and they conducted me to the tomb of "the king of kings," a gigantic structure, still in good preservation, of a conical form, covered with turf; the stone over the door is twenty-seven feet long and seventeen wide, larger than any hewn stone in the world except pompey's pillar. i entered, my young guides going before with torches, and walked within and around this ancient sepulchre. a worthy dutchman, herman van creutzer, has broached a theory that the trojan war is a mere allegory, and that no such person as agamemnon ever existed. shame upon the cold-blooded heretic. i have my own sins to answer for in that way, for i have laid my destroying hand upon many cherished illusions; but i would not, if i could, destroy the mystery that overhangs the heroic ages. the royal sepulchre was forsaken and empty; the shepherd drives within it his flock for shelter; the traveller sits under its shade to his noonday meal; and, at the moment, a goat was dozing quietly in one corner. he started as i entered, and seemed to regard me as an intruder; and when i flared before him the light of my torch, he rose up to butt me. i turned away and left him in quiet possession. the boys were waiting outside, and crying "mycenæ," "mycenæ," led me away. all was solitude, and i saw no marks of a city until i reached the relics of her cyclopean walls. i never felt a greater degree of reverence than when i approached the lonely ruins of mycenæ. at argos i spent most of my time in the horsemarket, and i had galloped over the great plain as carelessly as if it had been the road to harlem; but all the associations connected with this most interesting ground here pressed upon me at once. its extraordinary antiquity, its gigantic remains, and its utter and long-continued desolation, came home to my heart. i moved on to the gate of the lions, and stood before it a long time without entering. a broad street led to it between two immense parallel walls; and this street may, perhaps, have been a market-place. over the gate are two lions rampant, like the supporters of a modern coat-of-arms, rudely carved, and supposed to be the oldest sculptured stone in greece. under this very gate agamemnon led out his forces for the siege of troy; three thousand years ago he saw them filing before him, glittering in brass, in all the pomp and panoply of war; and i held in my hand a book which told me that this city was so old that, more than seventeen hundred years ago, travellers came as i did to visit its ruins; and that pausanias had found the gate of the lions in the same state in which i beheld it now. a great part is buried by the rubbish of the fallen city. i crawled under, and found myself within the walls, and then mounted to the height on which the city stood. it was covered with a thick soil and a rich carpet of grass. my boys left me, and i was alone. i walked all over it, following the line of the walls. i paused at the great blocks of stone, the remnants of cyclopic masonry, the work of wandering giants. the heavens were unclouded, and the sun was beaming upon it with genial warmth. nothing could exceed the quiet beauty of the scene. i became entangled in the long grass, and picked up wild flowers growing over long-buried dwellings. under it are immense caverns, their uses now unknown; and the earth sounded hollow under my feet, as if i were treading on the sepulchre of a buried city. i looked across the plain to argos; all was as beautiful as when homer sang its praises; the plain, and the mountains, and the sea were the same, but the once magnificent city, her numerous statues and gigantic temples, were gone for ever; and but a few remains were left to tell the passing traveller the story of her fallen greatness. i could have remained there for hours; i could have gone again and again, for i had not found a more interesting spot in greece; but my reveries were disturbed by the appearance of my muleteer and my juvenile escort. they pointed to the sun as an intimation that the day was passing; and crying "cavallo," "cavallo," hurried me away. to them the ruined city was a playground; they followed capering behind; and, in descending, three or four of them rolled down upon me; they hurried me through the gate of the lions, and i came out with my pantaloons, my only pantaloons, rent across the knee almost irreparably. in an instant i was another man; i railed at the ruins for their strain upon wearing apparel, and bemoaned my unhappy lot in not having with me a needle and thread. i looked up to the old gate with a sneer. this was the city that homer had made such a noise about; a man could stand on the citadel and almost throw a stone beyond the boundary-line of agamemnon's kingdom. in full sight, and just at the other side of the plain, was the kingdom of argos. the little state of rhode island would make a bigger kingdom than both of them together. but i had no time for deep meditation, having a long journey to corinth before me. fortunately, my young greek had no tire in him; he started me off on a gallop, whipping and pelting my horse with stones, and would have hurried me on, over rough and smooth, till either he, or i, or the horse broke down, if i had not jumped off and walked. as soon as i dismounted he mounted, and then he moved so leisurely that i had to hurry him on in turn. in this way we approached the range of mountains separating the plain of argos from the isthmus of corinth. entering the pass, we rode along a mountain torrent, of which the channel-bed was then dry, and ascended to the summit of the first range. looking back, the scene was magnificent. on my right and left were the ruined heights of argos and mycenæ; before me, the towering acropolis of napoli di romania; at my feet, the rich plain of argos, extending to the shore of the sea; and beyond, the island-studded Ægean. i turned away with a feeling of regret that, in all probability, i should never see it more. i moved on, and in a narrow pass, not wide enough to turn my horse if i had been disposed to take to my heels, three men rose up from behind a rock, armed to the teeth with long guns, pistols, yataghans, and sheepskin cloaks--the dress of the klept or mountain robber--and altogether presenting a most diabolically cutthroat appearance. if they had asked me for my purse i should have considered it all regular, and given up the remnant of my stock of borrowed money without a murmur; but i was relieved from immediate apprehension by the cry of passe porta. king otho has begun the benefits of civilized government in greece by introducing passports, and mountain warriors were stationed in the different passes to examine strangers. they acted, however, as if they were more used to demanding purses than passports, for they sprang into the road and rattled the butts of their guns on the rock with a violence that was somewhat startling. unluckily, my passport had been made out with those of my companions, and was in their possession, and when we parted neither thought of it; and this demand to me, who had nothing to lose, was worse than that of my purse. a few words of explanation might have relieved me from all difficulty, but my friends could not understand a word i said. i was vexed at the idea of being sent back, and thought i would try the effect of a little impudence; so, crying out "americanos," i attempted to pass on; but they answered me "nix," and turned my horse's head toward argos. the scene, which a few moments before had seemed so beautiful, was now perfectly detestable. finding that bravado had not the desired effect, i lowered my tone and tried a bribe; this was touching the right chord; half a dollar removed all suspicions from the minds of these trusty guardians of the pass; and, released from their attentions, i hurried on. the whole road across the mountain is one of the wildest in greece. it is cut up by numerous ravines, sufficiently deep and dangerous, which at every step threaten destruction to the incautious traveller. during the late revolution the soil of greece had been drenched with blood; and my whole journey had been through cities and over battle-fields memorable for scenes of slaughter unparalleled in the annals of modern war. in the narrowest pass of the mountains my guide made gestures indicating that it had been the scene of a desperate battle. when the turks, having penetrated to the plain of argos, were compelled to fall back again upon corinth, a small band of greeks, under niketas and demetrius ypsilanti, waylaid them in this pass. concealing themselves behind the rocks, and waiting till the pass was filled, all at once they opened a tremendous fire upon the solid column below, and the pass was instantly filled with slain. six thousand were cut down in a few hours. the terrified survivers recoiled for a moment; but, as if impelled by an invisible power, rushed on to meet their fate. "the mussulman rode into the passes with his sabre in his sheath and his hands before his eyes, the victim of destiny." the greeks again poured upon them a shower of lead, and several thousand more were cut down before the moslem army accomplished the passage of this terrible defile. it was nearly dark when we rose to the summit of the last range of mountains, and saw, under the rich lustre of the setting sun, the acropolis of corinth, with its walls and turrets, towering to the sky, the plain forming the isthmus of corinth; the dark, quiet waters of the gulf of lepanto; and the gloomy mountains of cithæron, and helicon, and parnassus covered with snow. it was after dark when we passed the region of the nemean grove, celebrated as the haunt of the lion and the scene of the first of the twelve labours of hercules. we were yet three hours from corinth; and, if the old lion had still been prowling in the grove, we could not have made more haste to escape its gloomy solitude. reaching the plain, we heard behind us the clattering of horses' hoofs, at first sounding in the stillness of evening as if a regiment of cavalry or a troop of banditti was at our heels, but it proved to be only a single traveller, belated like ourselves, and hurrying on to corinth. i could see through the darkness the shining butts of his pistols and hilt of his yataghan, and took his dimensions with more anxiety, perhaps, than exactitude. he recognised my frank dress; and accosted me in bad italian, which he had picked up at padras (being just the italian in which i could meet him on equal ground), and told me that he had met a party of franks on the road to padras, whom, from his description, i recognised as my friends. it was nearly midnight when we rattled up to the gate of the old locanda. the yard was thronged with horses and baggage, and greek and bavarian soldiers. on the balcony stood my old brigand host, completely crestfallen, and literally turned out of doors in his own house; a detachment of bavarian soldiers had arrived that afternoon from padras, and taken entire possession, giving him and his wife the freedom of the outside. he did not recognise me, and, taking me for an englishman, began, "sono inglesi signor" (he had lived at corfu under the british dominion); and, telling me the whole particulars of his unceremonious ouster, claimed, through me, the arm of the british government to resent the injury to a british subject; his wife was walking about in no very gentle mood, but, in truth, very much the contrary. i did not speak to her, and she did not trust herself to speak to me; but, addressing myself to the husband, introduced the subject of my own immediate wants, a supper and night's lodging. the landlord told me, however, that the bavarians had eaten everything in the house, and he had not a room, bed, blanket, or coverlet to give me; that i might lie down in the hall or the piazza, but there was no other place. i was outrageous at the hard treatment he had received from the bavarians. it was too bad to turn an honest innkeeper out of his house, and deny him the pleasure of accommodating a traveller who had toiled hard all day, with the perfect assurance of finding a bed at night. i saw, however, that there was no help for it; and noticing an opening at one end of the hall, went into a sort of storeroom filled with all kinds of rubbish, particularly old barrels. an unhinged door was leaning against the wall, and this i laid across two of the barrels, pulled off my coat and waistcoat, and on this extemporaneous couch went to sleep. i was roused from my first nap by a terrible fall against my door. i sprang up; the moon was shining through the broken casement, and, seizing a billet of wood, i waited another attack. in the mean time i heard the noise of a violent scuffling on the floor of the hall, and, high above all, the voices of husband and wife, his evidently coming from the floor in a deprecating tone, and hers in a high towering passion, and enforced with severe blows of a stick. as soon as i was fairly awake i saw through the thing at once. it was only a little matrimonial _tête-à-tête_. the unamiable humour in which i had left them against the bavarians had ripened into a private quarrel between themselves, and she had got him down, and was pummelling him with a broomstick or something of that kind. it seemed natural and right enough, and was, moreover, no business of mine; and remembering that whoever interferes between man and wife is sure to have both against him, i kept quiet. others, however, were not so considerate, and the occupants of the different rooms tumbled into the hall in every variety of fancy night-gear, among whom was one whose only clothing was a military coat and cap, with a sword in his hand. when the hubbub was at its highest i looked out, and found, as i expected, the husband and wife standing side by side, she still brandishing the stick, and both apparently outrageous at everything and everybody around them. i congratulated myself upon my superior knowledge of human nature, and went back to my bed on the door. in the morning i was greatly surprised to find that, instead of whipping her husband, she had been taking his part. two german soldiers, already half intoxicated, had come into the hall, and insisted upon having more wine; the host refused, and when they moved toward my sleeping place, where the wine was kept, he interposed, and all came down together with the noise which had woke me. his wife came to his aid, and the blows which, in my simplicity, i had supposed to be falling upon him, were bestowed on the two bavarians. she told me the story herself; and when she complained to the officers, they had capped the climax of her passion by telling her that her husband deserved more than he got. she was still in a perfect fury; and as she looked at them in the yard arranging for their departure, she added, in broken english, with deep and, as i thought, ominous passion, "'twas better to be under the turks." i learned all this while i was making my toilet on the piazza, that is, while she was pouring water on my hands for me to wash; and, just as i had finished, my eye fell upon my muleteer assisting the soldiers in loading their horses. at first i did not notice the subdued expression of his usually bright face, nor that he was loading my horse with some of their camp equipage; but all at once it struck me that they were pressing him into their service. i was already roused by what the woman had told me, and, resolving that they should not serve me as they did the greeks, i sprang off the piazza, cleared my way through the crowd, and going up to my horse, already staggering under a burden poised on his back, but not yet fastened, put my hand under one side and tumbled it over with a crash on the other. the soldiers cried out furiously; and, while they were sputtering german at me, i sprang into the saddle. i was in admirable pugilistic condition, with nothing on but pantaloons, boots, and shirt, and just in a humour to get a whipping, if nothing worse; but i detested the manner in which the bavarians lorded it in greece; and riding up to a group of officers who were staring at me, told them that i had just tumbled their luggage off my horse, and they must bear in mind that they could not deal with strangers quite so arbitrarily as they did with the greeks. the commandant was disposed to be indignant and very magnificent; but some of the others making suggestions to him, he said he understood i had only hired my horse as far as corinth; but, if i had taken him for athens, he would not interfere; and, apologizing on the ground of the necessities of government, ordered him to be released. i apologized back again, returned the horse to my guide, whose eyes sparkled with pleasure, and went in for my hat and coat. i dressed myself, and, telling him to be ready when i had finished my breakfast, went out expecting to start forthwith; but, to my surprise, my host told me that the lad refused to go any farther without an increase of pay; and, sure enough, there he stood, making no preparation for moving. the cavalcade of soldiers had gone, and taken with them every horse in corinth, and the young rascal intended to take advantage of my necessity. i told him that i had hired him to athens for such a price, and that i had saved him from impressment, and consequent loss of wages, by the soldiers, which he admitted. i added that he was a young rascal, which he neither admitted nor denied, but answered with a roguish laugh. the extra price was no object compared with the vexation of a day's detention; but a traveller is apt to think that all the world is conspiring to impose upon him, and, at times, to be very resolute in resisting. i was peculiarly so then, and, after a few words, set off to complain to the head of the police. without any ado he trotted along with me, and we proceeded together, followed by a troup of idlers, i in something of a passion, he perfectly cool, good-natured, and considerate, merely keeping out of the way of my stick. hurrying along near the columns of the old temple, i stumbled, and he sprang forward to assist me, his face expressing great interest, and a fear that i had hurt myself; and when i walked toward a house which i had mistaken for the bureau of the police department, he ran after me to direct me right. all this mollified me considerably; and, before we reached the door, the affair began to strike me as rather ludicrous. i stated my case, however, to the eparchos, a greek in frank dress, who spoke french with great facility, and treated me with the greatest consideration. he was so full of professions that i felt quite sure of a decision in my favour; but, assuming my story to be true, and without asking the lad for his excuse, he shrugged his shoulders, and said it would take time to examine the matter, and, if i was in a hurry, i had better submit. to be sure, he said, the fellow was a great rogue, and he gave his countrymen in general a character that would not tell well in print; but added, in their justification, that they were imposed upon and oppressed by everybody, and therefore considered that they had a right to take their advantage whenever an opportunity offered. the young man sat down on the floor, and looked at me with the most frank, honest, and open expression, as if perfectly unconscious that he was doing anything wrong. i could not but acknowledge that some excuse for him was to be drawn from the nature of the school in which he had been brought up, and, after a little parley, agreed to pay him the additional price, if, at the end of the journey, i was satisfied with his conduct. this was enough; his face brightened, he sprang up and took my hand, and we left the house the best friends in the world. he seemed to be hurt as well as surprised at my finding fault with him, for to him all seemed perfectly natural; and, to seal the reconciliation, he hurried on ahead, and had the horse ready when i reached the locanda. i took leave of my host with a better feeling than before, and set out a second time on the road to athens. at kalamaki, while walking along the shore, a greek who spoke the lingua franca came from on board one of the little caiques, and, when he learned that i was an american, described to me the scene that had taken place on that beach upon the arrival of provisions from america; when thousands of miserable beings who had fled from the blaze of their dwellings, and lived for months upon plants and roots; grayheaded men, mothers with infants at their breasts, emaciated with hunger and almost frantic with despair, came down from their mountain retreats to receive the welcome relief. he might well remember the scene, for he had been one of that starving people; and he took me to his house, and showed me his wife and four children, now nearly all grown, telling me that they had all been rescued from death by the generosity of my countrymen. i do not know why, but in those countries it did not seem unmanly for a bearded and whiskered man to weep; i felt anything but contempt for him when, with his heart overflowing and his eyes filled with tears, he told me, when i returned home, to say to my countrymen that i had seen and talked with a recipient of their bounty; and though the greeks might never repay us, they could never forget what we had done for them. i remembered the excitement in our country in their behalf, in colleges and schools, from the graybearded senator to the prattling schoolboy, and reflected that, perhaps, my mite, cast carelessly upon the waters, had saved from the extremity of misery this grateful family. i wish that the cold-blooded prudence which would have checked our honest enthusiasm in favour of a people, under calamities and horrors worse than ever fell to the lot of man struggling to be free, could have listened to the gratitude of this greek family. with deep interest i bade them farewell, and, telling my guide to follow with my horse, walked over to the foot of the mountain. ascending, i saw in one of the openings of the road a packhorse and a soldier in the bavarian uniform, and, hoping to find some one to talk with, i hailed him. he was on the top of the mountain, so far off that he did not hear me; and when, with the help of my greek, i had succeeded in gaining his attention, he looked for some time without being able to see me. when he did, however, he waited; but, to my no small disappointment, he answered my first question with the odious "nix." we tried each other in two or three dialects; but, finding it of no use, i sat down to rest, and he, for courtesy, joined me; my young greek, in the spirit of good-fellowship, doing the same. he was a tall, noble-looking fellow, and, like myself, a stranger in greece; and, though we could not say so, it was understood that we were glad to meet and travel together as comrades. the tongue causes more evils than the sword; and, as we were debarred the use of this mischievous member, and walked all day side by side, seldom three paces apart, before night we were sworn friends. about five o'clock in the afternoon we arrived at megara. a group of bavarian soldiers was lounging round the door of the khan, who welcomed their expected comrade and me as his companion. my friend left me, and soon returned with the compliments of the commandant, and an invitation to visit him in the evening. i had, however, accepted a prior invitation from the soldiers for a rendezvous in the locanda. i wandered till dark among the ruined houses of the town, thought of euclid and alexander the great, and returning, went up to the same room in which i had slept with my friends, pored over an old map of greece hanging on the wall, made a few notes, and throwing myself back on a sort of divan, while thinking what i should do fell asleep. about ten o'clock i was roused by the loud roar of a chorus, not like a sudden burst, but a thing that seemed to have swelled up to that point by degrees; and rubbing my eyes, and stumbling down stairs, i entered the banqueting hall; a long, rough wooden table extended the whole length of the room, supplied with only two articles, wine-flagons and tobacco-pouches; forty or fifty soldiers were sitting round it, smoking pipes and singing with all their souls, and, at the moment i entered, waving their pipes to the dying cadence of a hunting chorus. then followed a long thump on the table, and they all rose; my long travelling friend, with a young soldier who spoke a little french, came up, and, escorting me to the head of the table, gave me a seat by the side of the chairman. one of them attempted to administer a cup of wine, and the other thrust at me the end of a pipe, and i should have been obliged to kick and abscond but for the relief afforded me by the entrance of another new-comer. this was no other than the corporal's wife; and if i had been received warmly, she was greeted with enthusiasm. half the table sprang forward to escort her, two of them collared the president and hauled him off his seat, and the whole company, by acclamation, installed her in his place. she accepted it without any hesitation, while two of them, with clumsy courtesy, took off her bonnet, which i, sitting at her right hand, took charge of. all then resumed their places, and the revel went on more gayly than ever. the lady president was about thirty, plainly but neatly dressed, and, though not handsome, had a frank, amiable, and good-tempered expression, indicating that greatest of woman's attributes, a good heart. in fact, she looked what the young man at my side told me she was, the peacemaker of the regiment; and he added, that they always tried to have her at their convivial meetings, for when she was among them the brawling spirits were kept down, and every man would be ashamed to quarrel in her presence. there was no chivalry, no heroic devotion about them, but their manner toward her was as speaking a tribute as was ever paid to the influence of woman; and i question whether beauty in her bower, surrounded by belted knights and barons bold, ever exercised in her more exalted sphere a more happy influence. i talked with her, and with the utmost simplicity she told me that the soldiers all loved her; that they were all kind to her, and she looked upon them all as brothers. we broke up at about twelve o'clock with a song, requiring each person to take the hand of his neighbour; one of her hands fell to me, and i took it with a respect seldom surpassed in touching the hand of woman; for i felt that she was cheering the rough path of a soldier's life, and, among scenes calculated to harden the heart, reminding them of mothers, and sisters, and sweethearts at home. chapter vii. a dreary funeral.--marathon.--mount pentelicus.--a mystery.--woes of a lover.--reveries of glory.--scio's rocky isle.--a blood-stained page of history.--a greek prelate.--desolation.--the exile's return. early in the morning i again started. in a little khan at eleusis i saw three or four bavarian soldiers drinking, and ridiculing the greek proprietor, calling him patrioti and capitani. the greek bore their gibes and sneers without a word; but there was a deadly expression in his look, which seemed to say, "i bide my time;" and i remember then thinking that the bavarians were running up an account which would one day be settled with blood. in fact, the soldiers went too far; and, as i thought, to show off before me, one of them slapped the greek on the back, and made him spill a measure of wine which he was carrying to a customer, when the latter turned upon him like lightning, threw him down, and would have strangled him if he had not been pulled off by the by-standers. indeed, the greeks had already learned both their intellectual and physical superiority over the bavarians; and, a short time before, a party of soldiers sent to subdue a band of maniote insurgents had been captured, and, after a farce of selling them at auction at a dollar a head, were kicked, and whipped, and sent off. about four o'clock i arrived once more at athens, dined at my old hotel, and passed the evening at mr. hill's. the next day i lounged about the city. i had been more than a month without my carpet-bag, and the way in which i managed during that time is a thing between my travelling companions and myself. a prudent scotchman used to boast of a careful nephew, who, in travelling, instead of leaving some of his clothes at every hotel on the road, always brought home _more_ than he took away with him. i was a model of this kind of carefulness while my opportunities lasted; but my companions had left me, and this morning i went to the bazars and bought a couple of shirts. dressed up in one of them, i strolled outside the walls; and, while sitting in the shadow of a column of the temple of jupiter, i saw coming from the city, through hadrian's gate, four men, carrying a burden by the corners of a coverlet, followed by another having in his hands a bottle and spade. as they approached i saw they were bearing the dead body of a woman, whom, on joining them, i found to be the wife of the man who followed. he was an englishman or an american (for he called himself either, as occasion required) whom i had seen at my hotel and at mr. hill's; had been a sailor, and probably deserted from his ship, and many years a resident of athens, where he married a greek woman. he was a thriftless fellow, and, as he told me, had lived principally by the labour of his wife, who washed for european travellers. he had been so long in greece, and his connexions and associations were so thoroughly greek, that he had lost that sacredness of feeling so powerful both in englishmen and americans of every class in regard to the decent burial of the dead, though he did say that he had expected to procure a coffin, but the police of the city had sent officers to take her away and bury her. there was something so forlorn in the appearance of this rude funeral, that my first impulse was to turn away; but i checked myself and followed. several times the greeks laid the corpse on the ground and stopped to rest, chattering indifferently on various subjects. we crossed the ilissus, and at some distance came to a little greek chapel excavated in the rock. the door was so low that we were obliged to stoop on entering, and when within we could hardly stand upright. the greeks laid down the body in front of the altar; the husband went for the priest, the greeks to select a place for a grave, and i remained alone with the dead. i sat in the doorway, looking inside upon the corpse, and out upon the greeks digging the grave. in a short time the husband returned with a priest, one of the most miserable of that class of "blind teachers" who swarm in greece. he immediately commenced the funeral service, which continued nearly an hour, by which time the greeks returned and, taking up the body, carried it to the graveside and laid it within. i knew the hollow sound of the first clod of earth which falls upon the lid of a coffin, and shrunk from its leaden fall upon the uncovered body. i turned away, and, when at some distance, looked back and saw them packing the earth over the grave. i never saw so dreary a burial-scene. returning, i passed by the ancient stadium of herodes atticus, once capable of containing twenty-five thousand spectators; the whole structure was covered with the purest white marble. all remains of its magnificence are now gone; but i could still trace on the excavated side of the hill its ancient form of a horseshoe, and walked through the subterraneous passage by which the vanquished in the games retreated from the presence of the spectators. returning to the city, i learned that an affray had just taken place between some greeks and bavarians, and, hurrying to the place near the bazars, found a crowd gathered round a soldier who had been stabbed by a greek. according to the greeks, the affair had been caused by the habitual insults and provocation given by the bavarians, the soldier having wantonly knocked a drinking-cup out of the greek's hand while he was drinking. in the crowd i met a lounging italian (the same who wanted me to come up from padras by water), a good-natured and good-for-nothing fellow, and skilled in tongues; and going with him into a coffee-house thronged with bavarians and europeans of various nations in the service of government, heard another story, by which it appeared that the greeks, as usual, were in the wrong, and that the poor bavarian had been stabbed without the slightest provocation, purely from the greeks' love of stabbing. tired of this, i left the scene of contention, and a few streets off met an athenian, a friend of two or three days' standing, and, stopping under a window illuminated by a pair of bright eyes from above, happened to express my admiration of the lady who owned them, when he tested the strength of my feelings on the subject by asking me if i would like to marry her. i was not prepared at the moment to give precisely that proof, and he followed up his blow by telling me that, if i wished it, he would engage to secure her for me before the next morning. the greeks are almost universally poor. with them every traveller is rich, and they are so thoroughly civilized as to think that a rich man is, of course, a good match. toward evening i paid my last visit to the acropolis. solitude, silence, and sunset are the nursery of sentiment. i sat down on a broken capital of the parthenon; the owl was already flitting among the ruins. i looked up at the majestic temple and down at the ruined and newly-regenerated city, and said to myself, "lots must rise in athens!" i traced the line of the ancient walls, ran a railroad to the piræus, and calculated the increase on "up-town lots" from building the king's palace near the garden of plato. shall i or shall i not "make an operation" in athens? the court has removed here, the country is beautiful, climate fine, government fixed, steamboats are running, all the world is coming, and lots must rise. i bought (in imagination) a tract of good tillable land, laid it out in streets, had my plato, and homer, and washington places, and jackson avenue, built a row of houses to improve the neighbourhood where nobody lived, got maps lithographed, and sold off at auction. i was in the right condition to "go in," for i had nothing to lose; but, unfortunately, the greeks were very far behind the spirit of the age, knew nothing of the beauties of the credit system, and could not be brought to dispose of their consecrated soil "on the usual terms," _ten per cent. down, balance on bond and mortgage_, so, giving up the idea, at dark i bade farewell to the ruins of the acropolis, and went to my hotel to dinner. early the next morning i started for the field of marathon. i engaged a servant at the hotel to accompany me, but he disappointed me, and i set out alone with my muleteer. our road lay along the base of mount hymettus, on the borders of the plain of attica, shaded by thick groves of olives. at noon i was on the summit of a lofty mountain, at the base of which, still and quiet as if it had never resounded with the shock of war, the great battle-ground of the greeks and persians extended to the sea. the descent was one of the finest things i met with in greece; wild, rugged, and, in fact, the most magnificent kind of mountain scenery. at the foot of the mountain we came to a ruined convent, occupied by an old white-bearded monk. i stopped there and lunched, the old man laying before me his simple store of bread and olives, and looking on with pleasure at my voracious appetite. [illustration: mound of marathon.] this over, i hurried to the battle-field. toward the centre is a large mound of earth, erected over the athenians who fell in the battle. i made directly for this mound, ascended it, and threw the reins loose over my horse's neck; and, sitting on the top, read the account of the battle in herodotus. after all, is not our reverence misplaced, or, rather does not our respect for deeds hallowed by time render us comparatively unjust? the greek revolution teems with instances of as desperate courage, as great love of country, as patriotic devotion, as animated the men of marathon, and yet the actors in these scenes are not known beyond the boundaries of their native land. thousands whose names were never heard of, and whose bones, perhaps, never received burial, were as worthy of an eternal monument as they upon whose grave i sat. still that mound is a hallowed sepulchre; and the shepherd who looks at it from his mountain home, the husbandman who drives his plough to its base, and the sailor who hails it as a landmark from the deck of his caique, are all reminded of the glory of their ancestors. but away with the mouldering relics of the past. give me the green grave of marco bozzaris. i put herodotus in my pocket, gathered a few blades of grass as a memorial, descended the mound, betook myself to my saddle, and swept the plain on a gallop, from the mountain to the sea. it is about two miles in width, and bounded by rocky heights enclosing it at either extremity. toward the shore the ground is marshy, and at the place where the persians escaped to their ships are some unknown ruins; in several places the field is cultivated, and toward evening, on my way to the village of marathon, i saw a greek ploughing; and when i told him that i was an american, he greeted me as the friend of greece. it is the last time i shall recur to this feeling; but it was music to my heart to hear a ploughman on immortal marathon sound in my ears the praises of my country. i intended to pass the night at the village of marathon; but every khan was so cluttered up with goats, chickens, and children, that i rode back to the monastery at the foot of the mountain. it was nearly dark when i reached it. the old monk was on a little eminence at the door of his chapel, clapping two boards together to call his flock to vespers. with his long white beard, his black cap and long black gown, his picturesque position and primitive occupation, he seemed a guardian spirit hovering on the borders of marathon in memory of its ancient glory. he came down to the monastery to receive me, and, giving me a paternal welcome, and spreading a mat on the floor, returned to his chapel. i followed, and saw his little flock assemble. the ploughman came up from the plain and the shepherd came down from the mountain; the old monk led the way to the altar, and all kneeled down and prostrated themselves on the rocky floor. i looked at them with deep interest. i had seen much of greek devotion in cities and villages, but it was a spectacle of extraordinary interest to see these wild and lawless men assembled on this lonely mountain to worship in all sincerity, according to the best light they had, the god of their fathers. i could not follow them in their long and repeated kneelings and prostrations; but my young greek, as if to make amends for me, and, at the same time, to show how they did things in athens, led the van. the service over, several of them descended with us to the monastery; the old monk spread his mat, and again brought out his frugal store of bread and olives. i contributed what i had brought from athens, and we made our evening meal. if i had judged from appearances, i should have felt rather uneasy at sleeping among such companions; but the simple fact of having seen them at their devotions gave me confidence. though i had read and heard that the italian bandit went to the altar to pray forgiveness for the crimes he intended to commit, and, before washing the stains from his hands, hung up the bloody poniard upon a pillar of the church, and asked pardon for murder, i always felt a certain degree of confidence in him who practised the duties of his religion, whatever that religion might be. i leaned on my elbow, and, by the blaze of the fire, read herodotus, while my muleteer, as i judged from the frequent repetition of the word americanos, entertained them with long stories about me. by degrees the blaze of the fire died away, the greeks stretched themselves out for sleep, the old monk handed me a bench about four inches high for a pillow, and, wrapping myself in my cloak, in a few moments i was wandering in the land of dreams. before daylight my companions were in motion. i intended to return by the marble quarries on the pentelican mountain; and crying "cavallo" in the ear of my still sleeping muleteer, in a few minutes i bade farewell for ever to the good old monk of marathon. almost from the door of the monastery we commenced ascending the mountain. it was just peep of day, the weather raw and cold, the top of the mountain covered with clouds, and in an hour i found myself in the midst of them. the road was so steep and dangerous that i could not ride; a false step of my horse might have thrown me over a precipice several hundred feet deep; and the air was so keen and penetrating, that, notwithstanding the violent exercise of walking, i was perfectly chilled. the mist was so dense, too, that, when my guide was a few paces in advance, i could not see him, and i was literally groping my way through the clouds. i had no idea where i was nor of the scene around me, but i felt that i was in a measure lifted above the earth. the cold blasts drove furiously along the sides of the mountain, whistled against the precipices, and bellowed in the hollows of the rocks, sometimes driving so furiously that my horse staggered and fell back. i was almost bewildered in struggling blindly against them; but, just before reaching the top of the mountain, the thick clouds were lifted as if by an invisible hand, and i saw once more the glorious sun pouring his morning beams upon a rich valley extending a great distance to the foot of the pentelican mountain. about half way down we came to a beautiful stream, on the banks of which we took out our bread and olives. our appetites were stimulated by the mountain air, and we divided till our last morsel was gone. at the foot of the mountain, lying between it and mount pentelicus, was a large monastery, occupied by a fraternity of monks. we entered and walked through it, but found no one to receive us. in a field near by we saw one of the monks, from whom we obtained a direction to the quarries. moving on to the foot of the mountain, which rises with a peaked summit into the clouds, we commenced ascending, and soon came upon the strata of beautiful white marble for which mount pentelicus has been celebrated thousands of years. excavations appear to have been made along the whole route, and on the roadside were blocks, and marks caused by the friction of the heavy masses transported to athens. the great quarries are toward the summit. the surface has been cut perpendicularly smooth, perhaps eighty or a hundred feet high, and one hundred and fifty or two hundred feet in width, and excavations have been made within to an unknown extent. whole cities might have been built with the materials taken away, and yet by comparison with what is left, there is nothing gone. in front are entrances to a large chamber, in one corner of which, on the right, is a chapel with the painted figure of the virgin to receive the greeks' prayers. within are vast humid caverns, over which the wide roof awfully extends, adorned with hollow tubes like icicles, while a small transparent petrifying stream trickles down the rock. on one side are small chambers communicating with subterraneous avenues, used, no doubt, as places of refuge during the revolution, or as the haunts of robbers. bones of animals and stones blackened with smoke showed that but lately some part had been occupied as a habitation. the great excavations around, blocks of marble lying as they fell, perhaps, two thousand years ago, and the appearances of having been once a scene of immense industry and labour, stand in striking contrast with the desolation and solitude now existing. probably the hammer and chisel will never be heard there more, great temples will no more be raised, and modern genius will never, like the greeks of old, make the rude blocks of marble speak. [illustration: quarries of pentelicus.] at dark i was dining at the hotel de france, when mr. hill came over with the welcome intelligence that my carpet-bag had arrived. on it was pinned a large paper, with the words "huzzah!" "huzzah!" "huzzah!" by my friend maxwell, who had met it on horse back on the shores of the gulf of lepanto, travelling under the charge of a greek in search of me. i opened it with apprehension, and, to my great satisfaction, found undisturbed the object of my greatest anxiety, the precious notebook from which i now write, saved from the peril of an anonymous publication or of being used up for gun-waddings. the next morning, before i was up, i heard a gentle rap at my door, which was followed by the entrance of a german, a missionary, whom i had met several times at mr. hill's, and who had dined with me once at my hotel. i apologized for being caught in bed, and told him that he must possess a troubled spirit to send him so early from his pillow. he answered that i was right; that he did indeed possess a troubled spirit; and closing the door carefully, came to my bedside, and said he had conceived a great regard for me, and intended confiding in me an important trust. i had several times held long conversations with him at mr. hill's, and very little to my edification, as his english was hardly intelligible; but i felt pleased at having, without particularly striving for it, gained the favourable opinion of one who bore the character of a very learned and a very good man. i requested him to step into the dining-room while i rose and dressed myself; but he put his hand upon my breast to keep me down, and drawing a chair, began, "you are going to smyrna." he then paused, but, after some moments of hesitation, proceeded to say that the first name i would hear on my arrival there would be his own; that, unfortunately, it was in everybody's mouth. my friend was a short and very ugly middle-aged man, with a very large mouth, speaking english with the most disagreeable german sputter, lame from a fall, and, altogether, of a most uninteresting and unsentimental aspect; and he surprised me much by laying before me a veritable _affaire du coeur_. it was so foreign to my expectations, that i should as soon have expected to be made a confidant in a love affair by the archbishop of york. after a few preliminaries he went into particulars; lavished upon the lady the usual quota of charms "in such case made and provided," but was uncertain, rambling, and discursive in regard to the position he held in her regard. at first i understood that it was merely the old story, a flirtation and a victim; then that they were very near being married, which i afterward understood to be only so near as this, that he was willing and she not; and, finally, it settled down into the every-day occurrence, the lady smiled, while the parents and a stout two-fisted brother frowned. i could but think, if such a homely expression may be introduced in describing these tender passages, that he had the boot on the wrong leg, and that the parents were much more likely than the daughter to favour such a suitor. however, on this point i held my peace. the precise business he wished to impose on me was, immediately on my arrival in smyrna to form the acquaintance of the lady and her family, and use all my exertions in his favour. i told him i was an entire stranger in smyrna, and could not possibly have any influence with the parties; but, being urged, promised him that, if i could interfere without intruding myself improperly, he should have the benefit of my mediation. at first he intended giving me a letter to the lady, but afterward determined to give me one to the rev. mr. brewer, an american missionary, who, he said, was a particular friend of his, and intimate with the beloved and her family, and acquainted with the whole affair. placing himself at my table, on which were pens, ink, and paper, he proceeded to write his letter, while i lay quietly till he turned over the first side, when, tired of waiting, i rose, dressed myself, packed up, and, before he had finished, stood by the table with my carpet-bag, waiting until he should have done to throw in my writing materials. he bade me good-by after i had mounted my horse to leave, and, when i turned back to look at him, i could not but feel for the crippled, limping victim of the tender passion, though, in honesty, and with the best wishes for his success, i did not think it would help his suit for the lady to see him. an account of my journey from athens to smyrna, given in a letter to friends at home, was published during my absence and without my knowledge, in successive numbers of the american monthly magazine, and perhaps the favourable notice taken of it had some influence in inducing me to write a book. i give the papers as they were then published. _smyrna, april_, . my dear ****, i have just arrived at this place, and i live to tell it. i have been three weeks performing a voyage usually made in three days. it has been tedious beyond all things; but, as honest dogberry would say, if it had been ten times as tedious, i could find it in my heart to bestow it all upon you. to begin at the beginning: on the morning of the second instant, i and my long-lost carpet-bag left the eternal city of athens, without knowing exactly whither we were going, and sincerely regretted by miltiades panajotti, the garçon of the hotel. we wound round the foot of the acropolis, and, giving a last look to its ruined temples, fell into the road to the piræus, and in an hour found ourselves at that ancient harbour, almost as celebrated in the history of greece as athens itself. here we took counsel as to farther movements, and concluded to take passage in a caique to sail that evening for syra, being advised that that island was a great place of rendezvous for vessels, and that from it we could procure a passage to any place we chose. having disposed of my better half (i may truly call it so, for what is man without pantaloons, vests, and shirts), i took a little sailboat to float around the ancient harbour and muse upon its departed glories. the day that i lingered there before bidding farewell, perhaps for ever, to the shores of greece, is deeply impressed upon my mind. i had hardly begun to feel the magic influence of the land of poets, patriots, and heroes, until the very moment of my departure. i had travelled in the most interesting sections of the country, and found all enthusiasm dead within me when i had expected to be carried away by the remembrance of the past; but here, i know not how it was, without any effort, and in the mere act of whiling away my time, all that was great, and noble, and beautiful in her history rushed upon me at once; the sun and the breeze, the land and the sea, contributed to throw a witchery around me; and in a rich and delightful frame of mind, i found myself among the monuments of her better days, gliding by the remains of the immense wall erected to enclose the harbour during the peloponnesian war, and was soon floating upon the classic waters of salamis. if i had got there by accident it would not have occurred to me to dream of battles and all the fierce panoply of war upon that calm and silvery surface. but i knew where i was, and my blood was up. i was among the enduring witnesses of the athenian glory. behind me was the ancient city, the acropolis, with its ruined temples, the telltale monuments of by-gone days, towering above the plain; here was the harbour from which the galleys carried to the extreme parts of the then known world the glories of the athenian name; before me was unconquered salamis; here the invading fleet of xerxes; there the little navy, the last hope of the athenians; here the island of Ægina, from which aristides, forgetting his quarrel with themistocles, embarked in a rude boat, during the hottest of the battle, for the ship of the latter; and there the throne of xerxes, where the proud invader stationed himself as spectator of the battle that was to lay the rich plain of attica at his feet. there could be no mistake about localities; the details have been handed down from generation to generation, and are as well known to the greeks of the present day as they were to their fathers. so i went to work systematically, and fought the whole battle through. i gave the persians ten to one, but i made the greeks fight like tigers; i pointed them to their city; to their wives and children; i brought on long strings of little innocents, urging them as in the farce, "sing out, young uns;" i carried old themistocles among the persians like a modern greek fireship among the turks; i sunk ship after ship, and went on demolishing them at a most furious rate, until i saw old xerxes scudding from his throne, and the remnant of the persian fleet scampering away to the tune of "devil take the hindmost." by this time i had got into the spirit of the thing; and moving rapidly over that water, once red with blood of thousands from the fields of asia, i steered for the shore and mounted the vacant throne of xerxes. this throne is on a hill near the shore, not very high, and as pretty a place as a man could have selected to see his friends whipped and keep out of harm's way himself; for you will recollect that in those days there was no gunpowder nor cannon balls, and, consequently, no danger from long chance shots. i selected a particular stone, which i thought it probable xerxes, as a reasonable man, and with an eye to perspective, might have chosen as his seat on the eventful day of the battle; and on that same stone sat down to meditate upon the vanity of all earthly greatness. but, most provokingly, whenever i think of xerxes, the first thing that presents itself to my mind is the couplet in the primer, "xerxes the great did die, and so must you and i." this is a very sensible stanza, no doubt, and worthy of always being borne in mind; but it was not exactly what i wanted. i tried to drive it away; but the more i tried, the more it stuck to me. it was all in vain. i railed at early education, and resolved that acquired knowledge hurts a man's natural faculties; for if i had not received the first rudiments of education, i should not have been bothered with the vile couplet, and should have been able to do something on my own account. as it was, i lost one of the best opportunities ever a man had for moralizing; and you, my dear ----, have lost at least three pages. i give you, however, all the materials; put yourself on the throne of xerxes, and do what you can, and may your early studies be no stumbling-block in your way. as for me, vexed and disgusted with myself, i descended the hill as fast as the great king did of yore, and jumping into my boat, steered for the farthest point of the piræus; from the throne of _xerxes_ to the tomb of themistocles. i was prepared to do something here. this was not merely a place where he had been; i was to tread upon the earth that covered his bones; here were his ashes; here was all that remained of the best and bravest of the greeks, save his immortal name. as i approached i saw the large square stones that enclosed his grave, and mused upon his history; the deliverer of his country, banished, dying an exile, his bones begged by his repenting countrymen, and buried with peculiar propriety near the shore of the sea commanding a full view of the scene of his naval glory. for more than two thousand years the waves have almost washed over his grave, the sun has shone and the winds have howled over him; while, perhaps, his spirit has mingled with the sighing of the winds and the murmur of the waters, in moaning over the long captivity of his countrymen; perhaps, too, his spirit has been with them in their late struggle for liberty; has hovered over them in the battle and the breeze, and is now standing sentinel over his beloved and liberated country. i approached as to the grave of one who will never die. his great name, his great deeds, hallowed by the lapse of so many ages; the scene--i looked over the wall with a feeling amounting to reverence, when, directly before me, the first thing i saw, the only thing i could see, so glaring and conspicuous that nothing else could fix my eye, was a tall, stiff, wooden headboard, painted white, with black letters, to the memory of an englishman with as unclassical a name as that of _john johnson_. my eyes were blasted with the sight; i was ferocious; i railed at him as if he had buried himself there with his own hands. what had he to do there? i railed at his friends. did they expect to give him a name by mingling him with the ashes of the immortal dead? did they expect to steal immortality like fire from the flint? i dashed back to my boat, steered directly for the harbour, gave sentiment to the dogs, and in half an hour was eating a most voracious and spiteful dinner. in the evening i embarked on board my little caique. she was one of the most rakish of that rakish description of vessels. i drew my cloak around me and stretched myself on the deck as we glided quietly out of the harbour; saw the throne of xerxes, the island of salamis, and the shores of greece gradually fade from view; looked at the dusky forms of the greeks in their capotes lying asleep around me; at the helmsman sitting cross-legged at his post, apparently without life or motion; gave one thought to home, and fell asleep. in the morning i began to examine my companions. they were, in all, a captain and six sailors, probably all part owners, and two passengers from one of the islands, not one of whom could speak any other language than greek. my knowledge of that language was confined to a few rolling hexameters, which had stuck by me in some unaccountable way as a sort of memento of college days. these, however, were of no particular use, and, consequently, i was pretty much tongue-tied during the whole voyage. i amused myself by making my observations quietly upon my companions, as they did more openly upon me, for i frequently heard the word "americanos" pass among them. i had before had occasion to see something of greek sailors, and to admire their skill and general good conduct, and i was fortified in my previous opinion by what i saw of my present companions. their temperance in eating and drinking is very remarkable, and all my comparisons between them and european sailors were very much in their favour. indeed, i could not help thinking, as they sat collectively, turkish fashion, around their frugal meal of bread, caviari, and black olives, that i had never seen finer men. their features were regular, in that style which we to this day recognise as grecian; their figures good, and their faces wore an air of marked character and intelligence; and these advantages of person were set off by the island costume, the fez or red cloth cap, with a long black tassel at the top, a tight vest and jacket, embroidered and without collars, large turkish trousers coming down a little below the knee, legs bare, sharp-pointed slippers, and a sash around the waist, tied under the left side, with long ends hanging down, and a knife sticking out about six inches. there was something bold and daring in their appearance; indeed, i may say, rakish and piratical; and i could easily imagine that, if the mediterranean should again become infested with pirates, my friends would cut no contemptible figure among them. but i must not detain you as long on the voyage as i was myself. the sea was calm; we had hardly any wind; our men were at the oars nearly all the time, and, passing slowly by Ægina, cape sunium, with its magnificent ruins mournfully overlooking the sea, better known in modern times as colonna's height and the scene of falconer's shipwreck, passing also the island of zea, the ancient chios, thermia, and other islands of lesser note, in the afternoon of the third day we arrived at syra. with regard to syra i shall say but little; i am as loath to linger about it now as i was to stay there then. the fact is, i cannot think of the place with any degree of satisfaction. the evening of my arrival i heard, through a greek merchant to whom i had a letter from a friend in athens, of a brig to sail the next day for smyrna; and i lay down on a miserable bed in a miserable locanda, in the confident expectation of resuming my journey in the morning. before morning, however, i was roused by "blustering boreas" rushing through the broken casement of my window; and for more than a week all the winds ever celebrated in the poetical history of greece were let loose upon the island. we were completely cut off from all communication with the rest of the world. not a vessel could leave the port, while vessel after vessel put in there for shelter. i do not mean to go into any details; indeed, for my own credit's sake i dare not; for if i were to draw a true picture of things as i found them; if i were to write home the truth, i should be considered as utterly destitute of taste and sentiment; i should be looked upon as a most unpoetical dog, who ought to have been at home poring over the revised statutes instead of breathing the pure air of poetry and song. and now, if i were writing what might by chance come under the eyes of a sentimental young lady or a young gentleman in his teens, the truth would be the last thing i would think of telling. no, though my teeth chatter, though a cold sweat comes over me when i think of it, i would go through the usual rhapsody, and huzzah for "the land of the east and the clime of the sun." indeed, i have a scrap in my portfolio, written with my cloak and greatcoat on, and my feet over a brazier, beginning in that way. but to you, my dear ----, who know my touching sensibilities, and who, moreover, have a tender regard for my character and will not publish me, i would as soon tell the truth as not. and i therefore do not hesitate to say, but do not whisper it elsewhere, that in one of the beautiful islands of the Ægean; in the heart of the cyclades, in the sight of delos, and paros, and antiparos, any one of which is enough to throw one who has never seen them into raptures with their fancied beauties, here, in this paradise of a young man's dreams, in the middle of april, i would have hailed "chill november's surly blast" as a zephyr; i would have exchanged all the beauties of this balmy clime for the sunny side of kamschatka; i would have given my room and the whole island of syra for a third-rate lodging in communipaw. it was utterly impossible to walk out, and equally impossible to stay in my room; the house, to suit that delightful climate, being built without windows or window-shutters. if i could forget the island, i could remember with pleasure the society i met there. i passed my mornings in the library of mr. r., one of our worthy american missionaries; and my evenings at the house of mr. w., the british consul. this gentleman married a greek lady of smyrna, and had three beautiful daughters, more than half greeks in their habits and feelings; one of them is married to an english baronet, another to a greek merchant of syra, and the third--. on the ninth day the wind fell, the sun once more shone brightly, and in the evening i embarked on board a rickety brig for smyrna. at about six o'clock p.m. thirty or forty vessels were quietly crawling out of the harbour like rats after a storm. it was almost a calm when we started: in about two hours we had a favourable breeze; we turned in, going at the rate of eight miles an hour, and rose with a strong wind dead ahead. we beat about all that day; the wind increased to a gale, and toward evening we took shelter in the harbour of scio. the history of this beautiful little island forms one of the bloodiest pages in the history of the world, and one glance told that dreadful history. once the most beautiful island of the archipelago, it is now a mass of ruins. its fields, which once "budded and blossomed as the rose," have become waste places; its villages are deserted, its towns are in ruins, its inhabitants murdered, in captivity, and in exile. before the greek revolution the greeks of scio were engaged in extensive commerce, and ranked among the largest merchants in the levant. though living under hard taskmasters, subject to the exactions of a rapacious pacha, their industry and enterprise, and the extraordinary fertility of their island, enabled them to pay a heavy tribute to the turks and to become rich themselves. for many years they had enjoyed the advantages of a college, with professors of high literary and scientific attainments, and their library was celebrated throughout all that country; it was, perhaps, the only spot in greece where taste and learning still held a seat. but the island was far more famed for its extraordinary natural beauty and fertility. its bold mountains and its soft valleys, the mildness of its climate and the richness of its productions, bound the greeks to its soil by a tie even stronger than the chain of their turkish masters. in the early part of the revolution the sciotes took no part with their countrymen in their glorious struggle for liberty. forty of their principal citizens were given up as hostages, and they were suffered to remain in peace. wrapped in the rich beauties of their island, they forgot the freedom of their fathers and their own chains; and, under the precarious tenure of a tyrant's will, gave themselves up to the full enjoyment of all that wealth and taste could purchase. we must not be too hard upon human nature; the cause seemed desperate; they had a little paradise at stake; and if there is a spot on earth, the risk of losing which could excuse men in forgetting that they were slaves in a land where their fathers were free, it is the island of scio. but the sword hung suspended over them by a single hair. in an unexpected hour, without the least note of preparation, they were startled by the thunder of the turkish cannon; fifty thousand turks were let loose like bloodhounds upon the devoted island. the affrighted greeks lay unarmed and helpless at their feet, but they lay at the feet of men who did not know mercy even by name; at the feet of men who hungered and thirsted after blood; of men, in comparison with whom wild beasts are as lambs. the wildest beast of the forest may become gorged with blood; not so with the turks at scio. their appetite "grew with what it fed on," and still longed for blood when there was not a victim left to bleed. women were ripped open, children dashed against the walls, the heads of whole families stuck on pikes out of the windows of their houses, while their murderers gave themselves up to riot and plunder within. the forty hostages were hung in a row from the walls of the castle; an indiscriminate and universal burning and massacre took place; in a few days the ground was cumbered with the dead, and one of the loveliest spots on earth was a pile of smoking ruins. out of a population of one hundred and ten thousand, sixty thousand are supposed to have been murdered, twenty thousand to have escaped, and thirty thousand to have been sold into slavery. boys and young girls were sold publicly in the streets of smyrna and constantinople at a dollar a head. and all this did not arise from any irritated state of feeling toward them. it originated in the cold-blooded, calculating policy of the sultan, conceived in the same spirit which drenched the streets of constantinople with the blood of the janisaries; it was intended to strike terror into the hearts of the greeks, but the murderer failed in his aim. the groans of the hapless sciotes reached the ears of their countrymen, and gave a headlong and irresistible impulse to the spirit then struggling to be free. and this bloody tragedy was performed in our own days, and in the face of the civilized world. surely if ever heaven visits in judgment a nation for a nation's crimes, the burning and massacre at scio will be deeply visited upon the accursed turks. it was late in the afternoon when i landed, and my landing was under peculiarly interesting circumstances. one of my fellow-passengers was a native of the island, who had escaped during the massacre, and now revisited it for the first time. he asked me to accompany him ashore, promising to find some friends at whose house we might sleep; but he soon found himself a stranger in his native island: where he had once known everybody, he now knew nobody. the town was a complete mass of ruins; the walls of many fine buildings were still standing, crumbling to pieces, and still black with the fire of the incendiary turks. the town that had grown up upon the ruins consisted of a row of miserable shantees, occupied as shops for the sale of the mere necessaries of life, where the shopman slept on his window-shutter in front. all my companion's efforts to find an acquaintance who would give us a night's lodging were fruitless. we were determined not to go on board the vessel, if possible to avoid it; her last cargo had been oil, the odour of which still remained about her. the weather would not permit us to sleep on deck, and the cabin was intolerably disagreeable. to add to our unpleasant position, and, at the same time, to heighten the cheerlessness of the scene around us, the rain began to fall violently. under the guidance of a greek we searched among the ruins for an apartment where we might build a fire and shelter ourselves for the night, but we searched in vain; the work of destruction was too complete. cold, and thoroughly drenched with rain, we were retracing our way to our boat, when our guide told my companion that a greek archbishop had lately taken up his abode among the ruins. we immediately went there, and found him occupying apartments, partially repaired, in what had once been one of the finest houses in scio. the entrance through a large stone gateway was imposing; the house was cracked from top to bottom by fire, nearly one half had fallen down, and the stones lay scattered as they fell; but enough remained to show that in its better days it had been almost a palace. we ascended a flight of stone steps to a terrace, from which we entered into a large hall perhaps thirty feet wide and fifty feet long. on one side of this hall the wall had fallen down the whole length, and we looked out upon the mass of ruins beneath. on the other side, in a small room in one corner, we found the archbishop. he was sick, and in bed with all his clothes on, according to the universal custom here, but received us kindly. the furniture consisted of an iron bedstead with a mattress, on which he lay with a quilt spread over him, a wooden sofa, three wooden chairs, about twenty books, and two large leather cases containing clothes, napkins, and, probably, all his worldly goods. the rain came through the ceiling in several places; the bed of the poor archbishop had evidently been moved from time to time to avoid it, and i was obliged to change my position twice. an air of cheerless poverty reigned through the apartment. i could not help comparing his lot with that of more favoured and, perhaps, not more worthy servants of the church. it was a style so different from that of the priests at rome, the pope and his cardinals, with their gaudy equipages and multitudes of footmen rattling to the vatican; or from the pomp and state of the haughty english prelates, or even from the comforts of our own missionaries in different parts of this country, that i could not help feeling deeply for the poor priest before me. but he seemed contented and cheerful, and even thankful that, for the moment, there were others worse off than himself, and that he had it in his power to befriend them. sweetmeats, coffee, and pipes were served; and in about an hour we were conducted to supper in a large room, also opening from the hall. our supper would not have tempted an epicure, but suited very well an appetite whetted by exercise and travel. it consisted of a huge lump of bread and a large glass of water for each of us, caviari, black olives, and two kinds of turkish sweetmeats. we were waited upon by two priests: one of them, a handsome young man, not more than twenty, with long black hair hanging over his shoulders like a girl's, stood by with a napkin on his arm and a pewter vessel, with which he poured water on our hands, receiving it again in a basin. this was done both before and after eating; then came coffee and pipes. during the evening the young priest brought out an edition of homer, and i surprised _him_, and astounded _myself_, by being able to translate a passage in the iliad. i translated it in french, and my companion explained it in modern greek to the young priest. our beds were cushions laid on a raised platform or divan extending around the walls, with a quilt for each of us. in the morning, after sweetmeats, coffee, and pipes, we paid our respects to the good old archbishop, and took our leave. when we got out of doors, finding that the wind was the same, and that there was no possibility of sailing, my friend proposed a ride into the country. we procured a couple of mules, took a small basket of provisions for a collation, and started. our road lay directly along the shore; on one side the sea, and on the other the ruins of houses and gardens, almost washed by the waves. at about three miles' distance we crossed a little stream, by the side of which we saw a sarcophagus, lately disinterred, containing the usual vases of a grecian tomb, including the piece of money to pay charon his ferriage over the river styx, and six pounds of dust; being all that remained of a _man_--perhaps one who had filled a large space in the world; perhaps a hero--buried probably more than two thousand years ago. after a ride of about five miles we came to the ruins of a large village, the style of which would anywhere have fixed the attention, as having been once a favoured abode of wealth and taste. the houses were of brown stone, built together, strictly in the venetian style, after the models left during the occupation of the island by the venetians, large and elegant, with gardens of three or four acres, enclosed by high walls of the same kind of stone, and altogether in a style far superior to anything i had seen in greece. these were the country-houses and gardens of the rich merchants of scio. the manner of living among the proprietors here was somewhat peculiar, and the ties that bound them to this little village were peculiarly strong. this was the family home; the community was essentially mercantile, and most of their business transactions were carried on elsewhere. when there were three or four brothers in a family, one would be in constantinople a couple of years, another at trieste, and so on, while another remained at home; so that those who were away, while toiling amid the perplexities of business, were always looking to the occasional family reunion; and all trusted to spend the evening of their days among the beautiful gardens of scio. what a scene for the heart to turn to now! the houses and gardens were still there, some standing almost entire, others black with smoke and crumbling to ruins. but where were they who once occupied them? where were they who should now be coming out to rejoice in the return of a friend and to welcome a stranger? an awful solitude, a stillness that struck a cold upon the heart, reigned around us. we saw nobody; and our own voices, and the tramping of our horses upon the deserted pavements, sounded hollow and sepulchral in our ears. it was like walking among the ruins of pompeii; it was another city of the dead; but there was a freshness about the desolation that seemed of to-day; it seemed as though the inhabitants should be sleeping and not dead. indeed, the high walls of the gardens, and the outside of the houses too, were generally so fresh and in so perfect a state, that it seemed like riding through a handsome village at an early hour before the inhabitants had risen; and i sometimes could not help thinking that in an hour or two the streets would be thronged with a busy population. my friend continued to conduct me through the solitary streets; telling me, as we went along, that this was the house of such a family, this of such a family, with some of whose members i had become acquainted in greece, until, stopping before a large stone gateway, he dismounted at the gate of his father's house. in that house he was born; there he had spent his youth; he had escaped from it during the dreadful massacre, and this was the first time of his revisiting it. what a tide of recollections must have rushed upon him! we entered through the large stone gateway into a courtyard beautifully paved in mosaic in the form of a star, with small black and white round stones. on our left was a large stone reservoir, perhaps twenty-five feet square, still so perfect as to hold water, with an arbour over it supported by marble columns; a venerable grapevine completely covered the arbour. the garden covered an extent of about four acres, filled with orange, lemon, almond, and fig trees; overrun with weeds, roses, and flowers, growing together in wild confusion. on the right was the house, and a melancholy spectacle it was; the wall had fallen down on one side, and the whole was black with smoke. we ascended a flight of stone steps, with marble balustrades, to the terrace, a platform about twenty feet square, overlooking the garden. from the terrace we entered the saloon, a large room with high ceilings and fresco paintings on the walls; the marks of the fire kindled on the stone floor still visible, all the woodwork burned to a cinder, and the whole black with smoke. it was a perfect picture of wanton destruction. the day, too, was in conformity with the scene; the sun was obscured, the wind blew through the ruined building, it rained, was cold and cheerless. what were the feelings of my friend i cannot imagine; the houses of three of his uncles were immediately adjoining; one of these uncles was one of the forty hostages, and was hanged; the other two were murdered; his father, a venerable-looking old man, who came down to the vessel when we started to see him off, had escaped to the mountains, from thence in a caique to ipsara, and from thence into italy. i repeat it, i cannot imagine what were his feelings; he spoke but little; they must have been too deep for utterance. i looked at everything with intense interest; i wanted to ask question after question, but could not, in mercy, probe his bleeding wounds. we left the house and walked out into the garden. it showed that there was no master's eye to watch over it; i plucked an orange which had lost its flavour; the tree was withering from want of care; our feet became entangled among weeds, and roses, and rare hothouse plants growing wildly together. i said that he did not talk much; but the little he did say amounted to volumes. passing a large vase in which a beautiful plant was running wildly over the sides, he murmured indistinctly "the same vase" (le même vase), and once he stopped opposite a tree, and, turning to me, said, "this is the only tree i do not remember." these and other little incidental remarks showed how deeply all the particulars were engraved upon his mind, and told me, plainer than words, that the wreck and ruin he saw around him harrowed his very soul. indeed, how could it be otherwise? this was his father's house, the home of his youth, the scene of his earliest, dearest, and fondest recollections. busy memory, that source of all our greatest pains as well as greatest pleasures, must have pressed sorely upon him, must have painted the ruined and desolate scene around him in colours even brighter, far brighter, than they ever existed in; it must have called up the faces of well-known and well-loved friends; indeed, he must have asked himself, in bitterness and in anguish of spirit, "the friends of my youth where are they?" while the fatal answer fell upon his heart, "gone murdered, in captivity and in exile." chapter viii. a noble grecian lady.--beauty of scio.--an original.--foggi.--a turkish coffee-house.--mussulman at prayers.--easter sunday.--a greek priest.--a tartar guide.--turkish ladies.--camel scenes.--sight of a harem.--disappointed hopes.--a rare concert.--arrival at smyrna. (_continuation of the letter._) we returned to the house, and seeking out a room less ruined than the rest, partook of a slight collation, and set out on a visit to a relative of my sciote friend. on our way my companion pointed out a convent on the side of a hill, where six thousand greeks, who had been prevailed upon to come down from the mountains to ransom themselves, were treacherously murdered to a man; their unburied bones still whiten the ground within the walls of the convent. arriving at the house of his relative, we entered through a large gateway into a handsome courtyard, with reservoir, garden, &c., ruinous, though in better condition than those we had seen before. this relative was a widow, of the noble house of mavrocordato, one of the first families in greece, and perhaps the most distinguished name in the greek revolution. she had availed herself of the sultan's amnesty to return; had repaired two or three rooms, and sat down to end her days among the scenes of her childhood, among the ruins of her father's house. she was now not more than thirty; her countenance was remarkably pensive, and she had seen enough to drive a smile for ever from her face. the meeting between her and my friend was exceedingly affecting, particularly on her part. she wept bitterly, though, with the elasticity peculiar to the greek character, the smile soon chased away the tear. she invited us to spend the night there, pointing to the divan, and promising us cushions and coverlets. we accepted her invitation, and again set forth to ramble among the ruins. i had heard that an american missionary had lately come into the island, and was living somewhere in the neighbourhood. i found out his abode, and went to see him. he was a young man from virginia, by the name of ****; had married a lady from connecticut, who was unfortunately sick in bed. he was living in one room in the corner of a ruined building, but was then engaged in repairing a house into which he expected to remove soon. as an american, the first whom they had seen in that distant island, they invited me into the sickroom. in a strange land, and among a people whose language they did not understand, they seemed to be all in all to each other; and i left them, probably for ever, in the earnest hope that the wife might soon be restored to health, that hand in hand they might sustain each other in the rough path before them. toward evening we returned to the house of my friend's relative. we found there a nephew, a young man about twenty-two, and a cousin, a man about thirty-five, both accidentally on a visit to the island. as i looked at the little party before me, sitting around a brazier of charcoal, and talking earnestly in greek, i could hardly persuade myself that what i had seen and heard that day was real. all that i had ever read in history of the ferocity of the turkish character; all the wild stories of corsairs, of murdering, capturing, and carrying into captivity, that i had ever read in romances, crowded upon me, and i saw living witnesses that the bloodiest records of history and the wildest creations of romance were not overcharged. they could all testify in their own persons that these things were true. they had all been stripped of their property, and had their houses burned over their heads; had all narrowly escaped being murdered; and had all suffered in their nearest and dearest connexions. the nephew, then a boy nine years old, had been saved by a maidservant, his father had been murdered; a brother, a sister, and many of his cousins, were at that moment, and had been for years, in slavery among the turks; my friend, with his sister, had found refuge in the house of the austrian consul, and from thence had escaped into italy; the cousin was the son of one of the forty hostages who were hung, and was the only member of his father's family that escaped death; while our pensive and amiable hostess, a bride of seventeen, had seen her young husband murdered before her eyes; had herself been sold into slavery, and, after two years' servitude, redeemed by her friends. in the morning i rose early and walked out upon the terrace. nature had put on a different garb. the wind had fallen, and the sun was shining warmly upon a scene of softness and luxuriance surpassing all that i had ever heard or dreamed of the beauty of the islands of greece. away with all that i said about syra; skip the page. the terrace overlooked the garden filled with orange, lemon, almond, and fig trees; with plants, roses, and flowers of every description, growing in luxuriant wildness. but the view was not confined to the garden. looking back to the harbour of scio, was a bold range of rugged mountains bounding the view on that side; on the right was the sea, then calm as a lake; on both the other sides were ranges of mountains, irregular and picturesque in their appearance, verdant and blooming to their very summits; and within these limits, for an extent of perhaps five miles, were continued gardens like that at my feet, filled with the choicest fruit-trees, with roses and the greatest variety of rare plants and flowers that ever unfolded their beauties before the eyes of man; above all, the orange-trees, the peculiar favourite of the island, then almost in full bloom, covered with blossoms, from my elevated position on the terrace made the whole valley appear an immense bed of flowers. all, too, felt the freshening influence of the rain; and a gentle breeze brought to me from this wilderness of sweets the most delicious perfume that ever greeted the senses. do not think me extravagant when i say that, in your wildest dreams, you could never fancy so rich and beautiful a scene. even among ruins, that almost made the heart break, i could hardly tear my eyes from it. it is one of the loveliest spots on earth. it is emphatically a paradise lost, for the hand of the turks is upon it; a hand that withers all that it touches. in vain does the sultan invite the survivers, and the children made orphans by his bloody massacre, to return; in vain do the fruits and the flowers, the sun and the soil, invite them to return; their wounds are still bleeding; they cannot forget that the wild beast's paw might again be upon them, and that their own blood might one day moisten the flowers which grow over the graves of their fathers. but i must leave this place. i could hardly tear myself away then, and i love to linger about it now. while i was enjoying the luxury of the terrace a messenger came from the captain to call us on board. with a feeling of the deepest interest i bade farewell, probably for ever, to my sorrowing hostess and to the beautiful gardens of scio. we mounted our mules, and in an hour were at the port. my feelings were so wrought upon that i felt my blood boil at the first turk i met in the streets. i felt that i should like to sacrifice him to the shades of the murdered greeks. i wondered that the greeks did not kill every one on the island. i wondered that they could endure the sight of the turban. we found that the captain had hurried us away unnecessarily. we could not get out of the harbour, and were obliged to lounge about the town all day. we again made a circuit among the ruins; examined particularly those of the library, where we found an old woman who had once been an attendant there, living in a little room in the cellar, completely buried under the stones of the fallen building; and returning, sat down with a chibouk before the door of an old turkish coffee-house fronting the harbour. here i met an original in the person of the dutch consul. he was an old italian, and had been in america during the revolutionary war as _dragoman_, as he called it, to the count de grasse, though, from his afterward incidentally speaking of the count as "my master," i am inclined to think that the word dragoman, which here means a person of great character and trust, may be interpreted as "valet de chambre." the old consul was in scio during the whole of the massacre, and gave me many interesting particulars respecting it. he hates the greeks, and spoke with great indignation about the manner in which their dead bodies lay strewed about the streets for months after the massacre. "d--n them," he said, "he could not go anywhere without stumbling over them." as i began to have some apprehensions about being obliged to stay here another night, i thought i could not employ my time better than in trying to work out of the consul an invitation to spend it with him. but the old fellow was too much for me. when i began to talk about the unpleasantness of being obliged to spend the night on board, and the impossibility of spending it on shore, _having no acquaintance_ there, he began to talk poverty in the most up and down terms. i was a little discouraged, but i looked at his military coat, his cocked hat and cane, and considering his talk merely a sort of apology for the inferior style of housekeeping i would find, was ingeniously working things to a point, when he sent me to the right about by enumerating the little instances of kindness he had received from strangers who happened to visit the island; among others, from one--he had his name in his pocketbook; he should never forget him; perhaps i had heard of him--who, at parting, shook him affectionately by the hand, and gave him a doubloon and a spanish dollar. i hauled off from the representative of the majesty of holland, and perhaps, before this, have been served up to some new visitor as the "mean, stingy american." in the evening we again got under weigh; before morning the wind was again blowing dead ahead; and about midday we put into the harbour of foggi, a port in asia minor, and came to anchor under the walls of the castle, under the blood-red mussulman flag. we immediately got into the boat to go ashore. this was my first port in turkey. a huge ugly african, marked with the smallpox, with two pistols and a yataghan in his belt, stood on a little dock, waited till we were in the act of landing, and then rushed forward, ferocious as a tiger from his native sands, throwing up both his hands, and roaring out "quarantino." this was a new thing in turkey. heretofore the turks, with their fatalist notions, had never taken any precautions against the plague; but they had become frightened by the terrible ravages the disease was then making in egypt, and imposed a quarantine upon vessels coming from thence. we were, however, suffered to land, and our first movement was to the coffee-house directly in front of the dock. the coffee-house was a low wooden building, covering considerable ground, with a large piazza, or, rather, projecting roof all around it. inside and out there was a raised platform against the wall. this platform was one step from the floor, and on this step every one left his shoes before taking his seat on the matting. there were, perhaps, fifty turks inside and out; sitting cross-legged, smoking the chibouk, and drinking coffee out of cups not larger than the shell of a madeira-nut. we kicked our shoes off on the steps, seated ourselves on a mat outside, and took our chibouk and coffee with an air of savoir faire that would not have disgraced the worthiest moslem of them all. verily, said i, as i looked at the dozing, smoking, coffee-sipping congregation around me, there are some good points about the turks, after all. they never think--that hurts digestion; and they love chibouks and coffee--that shows taste and feeling. i fell into their humour, and for a while exchanged nods with my neighbours all around. suddenly the bitterness of thought came upon me; i found that my pipe was exhausted. i replenished it, and took a sip of coffee. verily, said i, there are few better things in this world than chibouks and coffee; they even make men forget there is blood upon their hands. the thought started me; i shrank from contact with my neighbours, cut my way through the volumes of smoke, and got out into the open air. my companion joined me. we entered the walls and made a circuit of the town. it was a dirty little place, having one principal street lined with shops or bazars; every third shop, almost, being a cafteria, where a parcel of huge turbaned fellows were at their daily labours of smoking pipes and drinking coffee. the first thing i remarked as being strikingly different from a european city was the total absence of women. the streets were thronged with men, and not a woman was to be seen, except occasionally i caught a glimpse of a white veil or a pair of black eyes sparkling through the latticed bars of a window. afterward, however, in walking outside the walls into the country, we met a large party of women. when we first saw them they had their faces uncovered; but, as soon as they saw us coming toward them, they stopped and arranged their long white shawls, winding them around their faces so as to leave barely space enough uncovered to allow them to see and breathe, but so that it was utterly impossible for us to distinguish a single one of their features. going on in the direction from which they came, and attracted by the mourning cypress, we came to a large burying-ground. it is situated on the side of a hill almost washed by the waves, and shaded by a thick grove of the funereal tree. there is, indeed, something peculiarly touching in the appearance of this tree; it seems to be endowed with feelings, and to mourn over the dead it shades. the monuments were generally a single upright slab of marble, with a turban on the top. there were many, too, in form like one of our oblong tombstones; and, instead of a slab of marble over the top, the interior was filled with earth, and the surface overrun with roses, evergreens, and flowers. the burying-grounds in the east are always favourite places for walking in; and it is a favourite occupation of the turkish women to watch and water the flowers growing over the graves of their friends. toward evening we returned to the harbour. i withdrew from my companion, and, leaning against one of the gates of the city, fixed my eyes upon the door of a minaret, watching till the muezzin should appear, and, for the last time before the setting of the sun, call all good mussulmans to prayer. the door opens toward mecca, and a little before dark the muezzin came out, and, leaning over the railing with his face toward the tomb of the prophet, in a voice, every tone of which fell distinctly upon my ear, made that solemn call which, from the time of mohammed, has been addressed five times a day from the tops of the minarets to the sons of the faithful. "allah! allah! god is god, and mohammed is his prophet. to prayer! to prayer!" immediately an old turk by my side fell upon his knees, with his face to the tomb of the prophet; ten times, in quick succession, he bowed his forehead till it touched the earth; then clasped his hands and prayed. i never saw more rapt devotion than in this pious old mussulman. i have often marked in italy the severe observance of religious ceremonies; i have seen, for instance, at rome, fifty penitents at a time mounting on their knees, and kissing, as they mounted, the steps of the scala santa, or holy staircase, by which, as the priests tell them, our saviour ascended into the presence of pontius pilate. i have seen the greek prostrate himself before a picture until he was physically exhausted; and i have seen the humble and pious christian at his prayers, beneath the simple fanes and before the peaceful altars of my own land; but i never saw that perfect abandonment with which a turk gives himself up to his god in prayer. he is perfectly abstracted from the things of this world; he does not regard time or place; in his closet or in the street, alone or in a crowd, he sees nothing, he hears nothing; the world is a blank; his god is everything. he is lost in the intensity of his devotion. it is a spectacle almost sublime, and for the moment you forget the polluted fountain of his religion, and the thousand crimes it sanctions, in your admiration of his sincerity and faith. not being able to find any place where we could sleep ashore, except on one of the mats of the coffee-house, head and heels with a dozen turks, we went on board, and toward morning again got under weigh. we beat up to the mouth of the gulf of smyrna, but, with the sirocco blowing directly in our teeth, it was impossible to go farther. we made two or three attempts to enter, but in tacking the last time our old brig, which had hardly ballast enough to keep her keel under water, received such a rough shaking that we got her away before the wind, and at three o'clock p.m. were again anchored in the harbour of foggi. i now began to think that there was a spell upon my movements, and that smyrna, which was becoming to me a sort of land of promise, would never greet my longing eyes. i was somewhat comforted, however, by remembering that i had never yet reached any port in the mediterranean for which i had sailed, without touching at one or two intermediate ports; and that, so far, i had always worked right at last. i was still farther comforted by our having the good fortune to be able to procure lodging ashore, at the house of a greek, the son of a priest. it was the saturday before easter sunday, and the resurrection of our saviour was to be celebrated at midnight, or, rather, the beginning of the next day, according to the rites and ceremonies of the greek church. it was also the last of the forty days' fasting, and the next day commenced feasting. supper was prepared for us, at which meat was put on the table for me only; my greek friend being supposed not to eat meat during the days of fasting. he had been, however, two years out of greece; and though he did not like to offend the prejudices of his countrymen, he did not like fasting. i felt for my fellow-traveller; and, cutting up some meat in small parcels, kept my eye upon the door while he whipped them into his mouth. after supper we lay down upon the divan, with large quilts over us, my friend having promised to rise at twelve o'clock and accompany me to the greek church. at midnight we were roused by the chant of the greeks in the streets, on their way to the church. we turned out, and fell into a procession of five hundred people, making the streets as light as day with their torches. at the door of the church we found our host, sitting at a table with a parcel of wax tapers on one side and a box to receive money on the other. we each bought a taper and went in. after remaining there at least two hours, listening to a monotonous and unintelligible routine of prayers and chants, the priests came out of the holy doors, bearing aloft an image of our saviour on the cross, ornamented with gold leaf, tassels, and festoons of artificial flowers; passed through the church, and out of the opposite door. the greeks lighted their tapers and formed into a procession behind them, and we did the same. immediately outside the door, up the staircase, and on each side of the corridor, allowing merely room enough for the procession to pass, were arranged the women, dressed in white, with long white veils, thrown back from their faces however, laid smooth over the tops of their heads, and hanging down to their feet. nearly every woman, old or young, had a child in her arms. in fact, there seemed to be as great a mustering of children as of men and women, and, for aught that i could see, as much to the edification of the former as the latter. a continued chant was kept up during the movements of the procession, and perhaps for half an hour after the arrival of the priests at the courtyard, when it rose to a tremendous burst. the torches were waved in the air; a wild, unmeaning, and discordant scream or yell rang through the hollow cloisters, and half a dozen pistols, two or three muskets, and twenty or thirty crackers were fired. this was intended as a feu-de-joie, and was supposed to mark the precise moment of our saviour's resurrection. in a few moments the phrensy seemed to pass away; the noise fell from a wild clamour to a slow chant, and the procession returned to the church. the scene was striking, particularly the part outside the church; the dead of night; the waving of torches; the women with their long white dresses, and the children in their arms, &c.; but, from beginning to end, there was nothing solemn in it. returned to the church, a priest came round with a picture of the saviour risen; and, as far as i could make it out, holding in his hand the greek flag, followed by another priest with a plate to receive contributions. he held out the picture to be kissed, then turned his hand to receive the same act of devotion, keeping his eye all the time upon the plate which followed to receive the offerings of the pious, as a sort of payment for the privilege of the kiss. his manner reminded me of the dutch parson, who, immediately after pronouncing a couple man and wife, touching the bridegroom with his elbow, said, "and now where ish mine dollar?" i kissed the picture, dodged his knuckles, paid my money, and left the church. i had been there four hours, during which time, perhaps, more than a thousand persons had been completely absorbed in their religious ceremonies; and though beginning in the middle of the night, i have seen more yawning at the theatre or at an italian opera than i saw there. they now began to disperse, though i remember i left a crowd of regular amateurs, at the head of whom were our sailors, still hanging round the desk of an exhorting priest, with an earnestness that showed a still craving appetite. i do not wonder that the turks look with contempt upon christians, for they have constantly under their eyes the disgusting mummeries of the greek church, and see nothing of the pure and sublime principles our religion inculcates. still, however, there was something striking and interesting in the manner in which the greeks in this turkish town had kept themselves, as it were, a peculiar people, and, in spite of the brands of "dog" and "infidel," held fast to the religion they received from their fathers. there was nothing interesting about them as greeks; they had taken no part with their countrymen in their glorious struggle for liberty; they were engaged in petty business, and bartered the precious chance of freedom once before them for base profits and ignoble ease; and even now were content to live in chains, and kiss the rod that smote them. we returned to the house where we had slept; and, after coffee, in company with our host and his father, the priest, sat down to a meal, in which, for the first time in forty days, they ate meat. i had often remarked the religious observance of fast days among the common people in greece. in travelling there i had more than once offered an egg to my guide on a fast day, but never could get one to accept anything that came so near to animal food, though, by a strange confusion of the principles of religious obligation, perhaps the same man would not have hesitated to commit murder if he had any inducement to do so. mrs. hill, at athens, told me that, upon one occasion, a little girl in her school refused to eat a piece of cake because it was made with eggs. at daylight i was lying on the floor looking through a crevice of the window-shutter at the door of the minaret, waiting for the muezzin's morning cry to prayer. at six o'clock i went out, and finding the wind still in the same quarter, without any apparent prospect of change, determined, at all hazards, to leave the vessel and go on by land. my friend and fellow-passenger was also very anxious to get to smyrna, but would not accompany me, from an indefinite apprehension of plague, robbers, &c. i had heard so many of these rumours, all of which had proved to be unfounded, that i put no faith in any of them. i found a turk who engaged to take me through in fourteen hours; and at seven o'clock i was in my saddle, charged with a dozen letters from captains, supercargoes, and passengers, whom i left behind waiting for a change of wind. my tartar was a big swarthy fellow, with an extent of beard and mustaches unusual even among his bearded countrymen. he was armed with a pair of enormous pistols and a yataghan, and was, altogether, a formidable fellow to look upon. but there was a something about him that i liked. there was a doggedness, a downright stubbornness that seemed honest. i knew nothing about him. i picked him up in the street, and took him in preference to others who offered, because he would not be beaten down in his price. when he saw me seated on my horse he stood by my side a little distance off, and looking at me without opening his lips, drew his belt tight around him, and adjusted his pistols and yataghan. his manner seemed to say that he took charge of me as a bale of goods, to be paid for on safe delivery, and that he would carry me through with fire and sword, if necessary. and now, said i, "let fate do her worst;" i have a good horse under me, and in fourteen hours i shall be in smyrna. "blow winds and crack your cheeks;" i defy you. my tartar led off at a brisk trot, never opening his lips nor turning his head except occasionally to see how i followed him across a stream. at about ten o'clock he turned off from the horse-path into a piece of fine pasture, and, slipping the bridle off his horse, turned him loose to feed. he then did the same with mine, and, spreading my cloak on the ground for me to sit upon, sat down by my side and opened his wallet. his manner seemed to intimate a disposition to throw provisions into a common stock, no doubt expecting the gain to be on his side; but as i could only contribute a couple of rolls of bread which i bought as we rode through the town, i am inclined to think that he considered me rather a sponge. while we were sitting there a travelling party came up, consisting of five turks and three women. the women were on horseback, riding crosswise, though there were so many quilts, cushions, &c., piled on the backs of their horses that they sat rather on seats than on saddles. after a few words of parley with my tartar, the men lifted the women from the horses, taking them in their arms, and, as it were, hauling them off, not very gracefully, but very kindly; and, spreading their quilts on the ground a short distance from us, turned their horses loose to feed, and sat down to make their morning meal. an unusual and happy thing for me the women had their faces uncovered nearly all the time, though they could not well have carried on the process of eating with them muffled up in the usual style. one of the women was old, the other two were exceedingly young; neither of them more than sixteen; each had a child in her arms, and, without any allowance for time and place, both were exceedingly beautiful. i do not say so under the influence of the particular circumstances of our meeting, nor with the view of making an incident of it, but i would have singled them out as such if i had met them in a ballroom at home. i was particularly struck with their delicacy of figure and complexion. notwithstanding their laughing faces, their mirth, and the kind treatment of the men, i could not divest myself of the idea that they were caged birds longing to be free. i could not believe that a woman belonging to a turk could be otherwise than unhappy. unfortunately, i could not understand a word of their language; and as they looked from their turbaned lords to my stiff hat and frockcoat, they seemed to regard me as something the tartar had just caught and was taking up to constantinople as a present to the sultan. i endeavoured to show, however, that i was not the wild thing they took me to be; that i had an eye to admire their beauty, and a heart to feel for their servitude. i tried to procure from them some signal of distress; i did all that i could to get some sign to come to their rescue, and to make myself generally agreeable. i looked sentimentally. this they did not seem to understand at all. i smiled; this seemed to please them better; and there is no knowing to what a point i might have arrived, but my tartar hurried me away; and i parted on the wild plains of turkey with two young and beautiful women, leading almost a savage life, whose personal graces would have made them ornaments in polished and refined society. verily, said i, the turks are not so bad, after all; they have handsome wives, and a handsome wife comes next after chibouks and coffee. i was now reminded at every step of my being in an oriental country by the caravans i was constantly meeting. caravans and camels are more or less associated with all the fairy scenes and glowing pictures of the east. they have always presented themselves to my mind with a sort of poetical imagery, and they certainly have a fine effect in a description or in a picture; but, after all, they are ugly-looking things to meet on the road. i would rather see the two young turk-_esses_ again than all the caravans in the east. the caravan is conducted by a guide on a donkey, with a halter attached to the first camel, and so on from camel to camel through the whole caravan. the camel is an exceedingly ugly animal in his proportions, and there is a dead uniformity in his movement; with a dead, vacant expression in his face, that is really distressing. if a man were dying of thirst in the desert, it would be enough to drive him to distraction to look in the cool, unconcerned, and imperturbable face of his camel. but their value is inestimable in a country like this, where there are no carriage roads, and where deserts and drought present themselves in every direction. one of the camel scenes, the encampment, is very picturesque, the camels arranged around on their knees in a circle, with their heads to the centre, and the camel-drivers with their bales piled up within; and i was struck with another scene; we came to the borders of a stream, which it was necessary to cross in a boat. the boat was then on the other side, and the boatman and camel driver were trying to get on board some camels. when we came up they had got three on board, down on their knees in the bottom of the boat, and were then in the act of coercing the fourth. the poor brute was frightened terribly; resisted with all his might, and put forth most piteous cries; i do not know a more distressing noise than the cry of a brute suffering from fear; it seems to partake of the feeling that causes it, and carries with it something fearful; but the cries of the poor brute were vain; they got him on board, and in the same way urged on board three others. they then threw in the donkey, and seven camels and the donkey were so stowed in the bottom of the boat, that they did not take up much more room than calves on board of our country boats. in the afternoon i met another travelling party of an entirely different description. if before i had occasionally any doubts or misgivings as to the reality of my situation; if sometimes it seemed to be merely a dream, that it could not be that i was so far from home, wandering alone on the plains of asia, with a guide whom i never saw till that morning, whose language i could not understand, and upon whose faith i could not rely; if the scenes of turbaned turks, of veiled women, of caravans and camels, of graveyards with their mourning cypress and thousands of tombstones, where every trace of the cities which supplied them with their dead had entirely disappeared; if these and the other strange scenes around me would seem to be the mere creations of a roving imagination, the party which i met now was so marked in its character, so peculiar to an oriental country, and to an oriental country only, that it roused me from my waking dreams, fixed my wandering thoughts, and convinced me, beyond all peradventure, that i was indeed far from home, among a people "whose thoughts are not as our thoughts, and whose ways are not as our ways;" in short, in a land where ladies are not the omnipotent creatures that they are with us. this party was no other than the ladies of a harem. they were all dressed in white, with their white shawls wrapped around their faces, so that they effectually concealed every feature, and could bring to bear only the artillery of their eyes. i found this, however, to be very potent, as it left so much room for the imagination; and it was a very easy matter to make a fatima of every one of them. they were all on horseback, not riding sidewise, but _otherwise_; though i observed, as before, that their saddles were so prepared that their delicate limbs were not subject to that extreme expansion required by the saddle of the rougher sex. they were escorted by a party of armed turks, and followed by a man in frank dress, who, as i after understood, was the physician of the harem. they were thirteen in number, just a baker's dozen, and belonged to a pacha who was making his annual tour of the different posts under his government, and had sent them on before to have the household matters all arranged upon his arrival. and no doubt, also, they were to be in readiness to receive him with their smiles; and if they continued in the same humour in which i saw them, he must have been a happy man who could call them all his own. i had not fairly recovered from the cries of the poor camel when i heard their merry voices: verily, thought i, stopping to catch the last musical notes, there are exceedingly good points about the turks: chibouks, coffee, and as many wives as they please. it made me whistle to think of it. oh, thought i, that some of our ladies could see these things; that some haughty beauty, at whose feet dozens of worthy and amiable young gentlemen are sighing themselves into premature wrinkles and ugliness, might see these things. i am no rash innovator. i would not sweep away the established customs of our state of society. i would not lay my meddling fingers upon the admitted prerogatives of our ladies; but i cannot help asking myself if, in the rapid changes of this turning world, changes which completely alter rocks and the hardest substances of nature, it may not by possibility happen that the tenour of a lady's humour will change. what a goodly spectacle to see those who are never content without a dozen admirers in their train, following by dozens in the train of one man! but i fear me much that this will never be, at least in our day. our system of education is radically wrong. the human mind, says some philosopher, and the gentleman is right, is like the sand upon the shore of the sea. you may write upon it what character you please. _we_ begin by writing upon their innocent unformed minds, that, "born for their use, we live but to oblige them." the consequence is, i will not say what; for i hope to return among them and kiss the rod in some fair hand; but this i do know, that here the "twig is so bent" that they become as gentle, as docile, and as tractable as any domestic animal. i say again, there are many exceeding good points about the turks. at about six o'clock we came in sight of smyrna, on the opposite side of the gulf, and still a long way off. at dusk we were directly opposite the city; and although we had yet to make a long circuit round the head of the gulf, i was revelling in the bright prospect before me. dreams of pulling off my pantaloons; delightful visions of clean sheets and a christian bed flitted before my eyes. yes, said i to my pantaloons and shirt, ye worthy and faithful servants, this night ye shall have rest. while other garments have fallen from me by the way, ye have stuck to me. and thou, my gray pantaloons, little did the neat parisian tailor who made thee think that the strength of his stitching would ever be tested by three weeks' uninterrupted wear; but to-morrow thou shalt go into the hands of a master, who shall sew on thy buttons and sew up thy rents; and thou, my--i was going on with words of the same affectionate import to my shirt, stockings, and drawers, which, however, did not deserve so well of me, for they had in a measure _dropped off_ on the way, when my tartar came to a dead stop before the door of a cabin, dismounted, and made signs to me to do the same. but i began now to have some notions of my own; heretofore i had been perfectly passive; i had always done as i was told, but in sight of smyrna i became restiff. i talked and shouted to him, pointed to the city, and turned my horse as though i was going on alone. my tartar, however, paid no attention to me; he very coolly took off my carpet-bag and carried it into the cabin, lighted his pipe, and sat down by the door, looking at me with the most imperturbable gravity. i had hardly had time to admire his impudence, and to calculate the chances of my being able, alone at night, to cross the many streams which emptied into the gulf, when the wind, which had been rising for some time, became very violent, and the rain began to fall in torrents. with a sigh i bade farewell to the bright visions that had deluded me, gave another sigh to the uncertainty of all human calculations, the cup and the lip, &c., and took refuge in the cabin. what a substitute for the pretty little picture i had drawn! three turks were sitting round a brazier of charcoal frying doughballs. three rugs were spread in three corners of the cabin, and over each of them were the eternal pistols and yataghan. there was nothing there to defend; their miserable lives were not worth taking; why were these weapons there? the turks at first took no notice of me, and i had now to make amends for my backwardness in entering. i resolved to go to work boldly, and at once elbowed among them for a seat around the brazier. the one next me on my right seemed a little struck by my easy ways; he put his hand on his ribs to feel how far my elbow had penetrated, and then took his pipe from his mouth and offered it to me. the ice broken, i smoked the pipe to the last whiff, and handed it to him to be refilled; with all the horrors of dyspepsy before my eyes, i scrambled with them for the last doughball, and, when the attention of all of them was particularly directed toward me, took out my watch, held it over the lamp, and wound it up. i addressed myself particularly to the one who had first taken notice of me, and made myself extremely agreeable by always smoking his pipe. after coffee and half a dozen pipes, he gave me to understand that i was to sleep with him upon his mat, at which i slapped him on the back and cried out, "bono," having heard him use that word apparently with a knowledge of its meaning. i was surprised in the course of the evening to see one of them begin to undress, knowing that such was not the custom of the country, but found that it was only a temporary disrobing for sporting purposes, to hunt fleas and bedbugs; by which i had an opportunity of comparing the turkish with some i had brought with me from greece; and though the turk had great reason to be proud of his, i had no reason to be ashamed of mine. i now began to be drowsy, and should soon have fallen asleep; but the youngest of the party, a sickly and sentimental young man, melancholy and musical, and, no doubt, in love, brought out the common turkish instrument, a sort of guitar, on which he worked with untiring vivacity, keeping time with his head and heels. my friend accompanied him with his voice, and this brought out my tartar, who joined in with groans and grunts which might have waked the dead. but my cup was not yet full. during the musical festival my friend and intended bedfellow took down from a shelf above me a large plaster, which he warmed over the brazier. he then unrolled his turban, took off a plaster from the back of his head, and disclosed a wound, raw, gory, and ghastly, that made my heart sink within me: i knew that the plague was about smyrna; i had heard that it was on this road; i involuntarily recurred to the italian prayer, "save me from the three miseries of the levant: plague, fire, and the dragoman." i shut my eyes; i had slept but two hours the night before; had ridden twelve hours that day on horseback; i drew my cloak around me; my head sank upon my carpet-bag, and i fell asleep, leaving the four turks playing cards on the bottom of a pewter plate. once during the night i was awakened by my bedfellow's mustaches tickling my lips. i turned my back and slept on. in the morning my tartar, with one jerk, stood me upright on the floor, and holding me in that position until i got awake, kicked open the door, and pointed to my horse standing before it ready saddled and bridled. in three hours i was crossing the caravan bridge, a bridge over the beautiful melissus, on the banks of which homer was born; and picking my way among caravans, which for ages have continued to cross this bridge laden with all the riches of the east, i entered the long-looked-for city of smyrna, a city that has braved the reiterated efforts of conflagrations, plagues, and earthquakes; ten times destroyed, and ten times risen from her ruins; the queen of the cities of anatolia; extolled by the ancients as smyrna the lovely, the crown of ionia, the pride of asia. but old things have passed away, and the ancient city now figures only under the head of arrivals in a newspaper, in the words and figures following, that is to say, "brig betsy, baker master, days from smyrna, with figs and raisins to order. mastic dull, opium rising." in half an hour i was in the full enjoyment of a turkish bath; lolled half an hour on a divan, with chibouk and coffee, and came out fresh as if i had spent the last three weeks training for the ring. oh, these turks are luxurious dogs. chibouks, coffee, hot baths, and as many wives as they please. what a catalogue of human enjoyments! but i intend smyrna as a place of rest, and, in charity, give you the benefit, of it. **** chapter ix. first sight of smyrna.--unveiled women.--ruins of ephesus.--ruin, all ruin.--temple of diana.--encounter with a wolf.--love at first sight.--gatherings on the road. (_another letter._) my dear ****, after my bath i returned to my hotel, breakfasted, and sallied out for a walk. it was now about twelve o'clock, sunday--the first sunday after easter--and all the frank population was in the streets. my hotel was in an out-of-the-way quarter, and when, turning a corner, i suddenly found myself in the main street, i was not prepared for the sight that met my eye. paris on a fête day does not present so gay and animated a scene. it was gay, animated, striking, and beautiful, and entirely different from anything i had ever seen in any european city. franks, jews, greeks, turks, and armenians, in their various and striking costumes, were mingled together in agreeable confusion; and making all due allowance for the circumstance that i had for some time been debarred the sight of an unveiled woman, i certainly never saw so much beauty, and i never saw a costume so admirably calculated to set off beauty. at the same time the costume is exceedingly trying to a lady's pretensions. being no better than one of the uninitiated, i shall not venture upon such dangerous ground as a lady's toilet. i will merely refer to that part which particularly struck me, and that is the headdress; no odious broad-brimmed hat; no enormous veils enveloping nose, mouth, and eyes; but simply a large gauze turban, sitting lightly and gracefully on the head, rolled back over the forehead, leaving the whole face completely exposed, and exhibiting clear dark complexions, rosy lips closing over teeth of dazzling whiteness; and then such eyes, large, dark, and rolling. it is matter of history, and it is confirmed by poetry, that "the angelic youths of old, burning for maids of mortal mould, bewildered, left the glorious skies, and lost their heaven for woman's eyes." my dear friend, this is the country where such things happened; the throne of the thunderer, high olympus, is almost in sight, and these are the daughters of the women who worked such miracles. if the age of passion, like the age of chivalry, were not over and for ever gone, if this were not emphatically a bank-note world, i would say of the smyrniotes, above all others, that they are that description of women who could "raise a mortal to the skies, or bring an angel down." and they walk, too, as if conscious of their high pretensions, as if conscious that the reign of beauty is not yet ended; and, under that enchanting turban, charge with the whole artillery of their charms. it is a perfect unmasked battery; nothing can stand before it. i wonder the sultan allows it. the turks are as touchy as tinder; they take fire as quick as any of the old demigods, and a pair of black eyes is at any time enough to put mischief in them. but the turks are a considerate people. they consider that the franks, or rather the greeks, to whom i particularly refer, have periodical fits of insanity that they go mad twice a year during carnival and after lent; and if at such a time a follower of the prophet, accidentally straggling in the frank quarter, should find the current of his blood disturbed, he would sooner die, nay, he would sooner cut off his beard, than hurt a hair of any one of the light heads that he sees flitting before him. there is something remarkable, by-the-way, in the tenacity with which the grecian women have sustained the rights and prerogatives of beauty in defiance of turkish customs and prejudices; while the men have fallen into the habits of their quondam masters, have taken to pipes and coffee, and in many instances to turbans and big trousers, the women have ever gone with their faces uncovered, and to this day one and all eschew the veil of the turkish women. pleased and amused with myself and everything i saw, i moved along unnoticed and unknown, staring, observing, and admiring; among other things, i observed that one of the amiable customs of our own city was in full force here, viz., that of the young gentlemen, with light sticks in their hands, gathering around the door of the fashionable church to stare at the ladies as they came out. i was pleased to find such a mark of civilization in a land of barbarians, and immediately fell into a thing which seemed so much like home; but, in justice to the smyrniote ladies, i must say i cannot flatter myself that i stared a single one out of countenance. but i need not attempt to interest you in smyrna; it is too every-day a place; every cape cod sailor knows it better than i do. i have done all that i could; i have waived the musty reminiscences of its history; i have waived ruins which are said to exist here, and have endeavoured to give you a faint but true picture of its living and existing beauties, of the bright and beautiful scene that broke upon me the first morning of my arrival; and now, if i have not touched you with the beauty of its women, i should despair of doing so by any description of its beautiful climate, its charming environs, and its hospitable society. leave, then, what is, after all, but the city of figs and raisins, and go with me where, by comparison, the foot of civilized man seldom treads; go with me into the desert and solitary places; go with me among the cities of the seven churches of asia; and, first, to the ruins of ephesus. i had been several days expecting a companion to make this tour with me, but, being disappointed, was obliged to set out alone. i was not exactly alone, for i had with me a turk as guide and a greek as cicerone and interpreter, both well mounted and armed to the teeth. we started at two o'clock in the morning, under the light of thousands of stars; and the day broke upon us in a country wild and desolate, as if it were removed thousands of miles from the habitations of men. there was little variety and little incident in our ride. during the whole day it lay through a country decidedly handsome, the soil rich and fertile, but showing with appalling force the fatal effects of misgovernment, wholly uncultivated, and almost wholly uninhabited. indeed, the only habitations were the little turkish coffee-houses and the black tents of the turcomans. these are a wandering tribe, who come out from the desert, and approach comparatively near the abodes of civilization. they are a pastoral people; their riches are their flocks and herds; they lead a wandering life, free as the air they breathe; they have no local attachments; to-day they pitch their tents on the hillside, to-morrow on the plain; and wherever they sit themselves down, all that they have on earth, wife, children, and friends, are immediately around them. there is something primitive, almost patriarchal, in their appearance; indeed, it carries one back to a simple and perhaps a purer age, and you can almost realize that state of society when the patriarch sat in the door of his tent and called in and fed the passing traveller. the general character of the road is such as to prepare one for the scene that awaits him at ephesus; enormous burying-grounds, with thousands of headstones shaded by the mourning cypress, in the midst of a desolate country, where not a vestige of a human habitation is to be seen. they stand on the roadside as melancholy telltales that large towns or cities once existed in their immediate neighbourhood, and that the generations who occupied them have passed away, furnishing fearful evidence of the decrease of the turkish population, and perhaps that the gigantic empire of the ottoman is tottering to its fall. for about three hours before reaching ephesus, the road, crossing a rich and beautiful plain watered by the cayster, lies between two mountains; that on the right leads to the sea, and on the left are the ruins of ephesus. near, and in the immediate vicinity, storks were calmly marching over the plain and building among the ruins; they moved as if seldom disturbed by human footsteps, and seemed to look upon us as intruders upon a spot for a long time abandoned to birds and beasts of prey. about a mile this side are the remains of the turkish city of aysalook, or temple of the moon, a city of comparatively modern date, reared into a brief magnificence out of the ruins of its fallen neighbour. a sharp hill, almost a mountain, rises abruptly from the plain, on the top of which is a ruined fortress, with many ruins of turkish magnificence at the base; broken columns, baths overgrown with ivy, and the remains of a grand mosque, the roof sustained by four granite columns from the temple of diana; the minaret fallen, the mosque deserted; the mussulman no more goes there to pray; bats and owls were building in its lofty roof, and snakes and lizards were crawling over its marble floor. it was late in the afternoon when i arrived at the little coffee-house at aysalook; a caravan had already encamped under some fine old sycamores before the door, preparatory to passing the night. i was somewhat fatigued, and my greek, who had me in charge, was disposed to stop and wait for the morrow; but the fallen city was on the opposite hill at but a short distance, and the shades of evening seemed well calculated to heighten the effect of a ramble among its ruins. in a right line it was not more than half a mile, but we soon found that we could not go directly to it; a piece of low swampy ground lay between, and we had not gone far before our horses sank up to their saddle-girths. we were obliged to retrace our steps, and work our way around by a circuitous route of more than two miles. this, too, added to the effect of our approach. it was a dreary reflection, that a city, whose ports and whose gates had been open to the commerce of the then known world; whose wealth had invited the traveller and sojourner within its walls should lie a ruin upon a hillside, with swamps and morasses extending around it, in sight but out of reach, near but unapproachable. a warning voice seemed to issue from the ruins, "_procul, procul, este profani_," my day is past, my sun is set, i have gone to my grave; pass on, stranger, and disturb not the ashes of the dead. but my turk did not understand latin, and we continued to advance. we moved along in perfect silence, for besides that my turk never spoke, and my greek, who was generally loquacious enough, was out of humour at being obliged to go on, we had enough to do in picking our lonely way. but silence best suited the scene; the sound of the human voice seemed almost a mockery of fallen greatness. we entered by a large and ruined gateway into a place distinctly marked as having been a street, and, from the broken columns strewed on each side, probably having been lined with a colonnade. i let my reins fall upon my horse's neck; he moved about in the slow and desultory way that suited my humour; now sinking to his knees in heaps of rubbish, now stumbling over a corinthian capital, and now sliding over a marble pavement. the whole hillside is covered with ruins to an extent far greater than i expected to find, and they are all of a kind that tends to give a high idea of the ancient magnificence of the city. to me, these ruins appeared to be a confused and shapeless mass; but they have been examined by antiquaries with great care, and the character of many of them identified with great certainty. i had, however, no time for details; and, indeed, the interest of these ruins in my eyes was not in the details. it mattered little to me that this was the stadium and that a fountain; that this was a gymnasium and that a market-place; it was enough to know that the broken columns, the mouldering walls, the grass-grown streets, and the wide-extended scene of desolation and ruin around me were all that remained of one of the greatest cities of asia, one of the earliest christian cities in the world. but what do i say? who does not remember the tumults and confusion raised by demetrius the silversmith, "lest the temple of the great goddess diana should be despised, and her magnificence be destroyed;" and how the people, having caught "caius and aristarchus, paul's companions in travel," rushed with one accord into the theatre, crying out, "great is diana of the ephesians." my dear friend, i sat among the ruins of that theatre; the stillness of death was around me; far as the eye could reach, not a living soul was to be seen save my two companions and a group of lazy turks smoking at the coffee-house in aysalook. a man of strong imagination might almost go wild with the intensity of his own reflections; and do not let it surprise you, that even one like me, brought up among the technicalities of declarations and replications, rebutters and surrebutters, and in nowise given to the illusions of the senses, should find himself roused, and irresistibly hurried back to the time when the shapeless and confused mass around him formed one of the most magnificent cities in the world; when a large and busy population was hurrying through its streets, intent upon the same pleasures and the same business that engage men now; that he should, in imagination, see before him st. paul preaching to the ephesians, shaking their faith in the gods of their fathers, gods made with their own hands; and the noise and confusion, and the people rushing tumultuously up the very steps where he sat; that he should almost hear their cry ringing in his ears, "great is diana of the ephesians;" and then that he should turn from this scene of former glory and eternal ruin to his own far-distant land; a land that the wisest of the ephesians never dreamed of; where the wild man was striving with the wild beast when the whole world rang with the greatness of the ephesian name; and which bids fair to be growing greater and greater when the last vestige of ephesus shall be gone and its very site unknown. but where is the temple of the great diana, the temple two hundred and twenty years in building; the temple of one hundred and twenty-seven columns, each column the gift of a king? can it be that the temple of the "great goddess diana," that the ornament of asia, the pride of ephesus, and one of the seven wonders of the world, has gone, disappeared, and left not a trace behind? as a traveller, i would fain be able to say that i have seen the ruins of this temple; but, unfortunately, i am obliged to limit myself by facts. its site has of course engaged the attention of antiquaries. i am no skeptic in these matters, and am disposed to believe all that my cicerone tells me. you remember the countryman who complained to his minister that he never gave him any latin in his sermons; and when the minister answered that he would not understand it, the countryman replied that he paid for the best, and ought to have it. i am like that honest countryman; but my cicerone understood himself better than the minister; he knew that i paid him for the best; he knew what was expected from him, and that his reputation was gone for ever if, in such a place as ephesus, he could not point out the ruins of the great temple of diana. he accordingly had _his_ temple, which he stuck to with as much pertinacity as if he had built it himself; but i am sorry to be obliged to say, in spite of his authority and my own wish to believe him, that the better opinion is, that now not a single stone is to be seen. topographers have fixed the site on the plain, near the gate of the city which opened to the sea. the sea, which once almost washed the walls, has receded or been driven back for several miles. for many years a new soil has been accumulating, and all that stood on the plain, including so much of the remains of the temple as had not been plundered and carried away by different conquerors, is probably now buried many feet under its surface. it was dark when i returned to aysalook. i had remarked, in passing, that several caravans had encamped there, and on my return found the camel-drivers assembled in the little coffee-house in which i was to pass the night. i soon saw that there were so many of us that we should make a tight fit in the sleeping part of the khan, and immediately measured off space enough to fit my body, allowing turning and kicking room. i looked with great complacency upon the light slippers of the turks, which they always throw off, too, when they go to sleep, and made an ostentatious display of a pair of heavy iron-nailed boots, and, in lying down, gave one or two preliminary thumps to show them that i was restless in my movements, and, if they came too near me these iron-nailed boots would be uncomfortable neighbours. and here i ought to have spent half the night in musing upon the strange concatenation of circumstances which had broken up a quiet practising attorney, and sent him a straggler from a busy, money-getting land, to meditate among the ruins of ancient cities, and sleep pellmell with turbaned turks. but i had no time for musing; i was amazingly tired; i looked at the group of turks in one corner, and regretted that i could not talk with them; thought of the tower of babel and the wickedness of man, which brought about a confusion of tongues; of camel-drivers, and arabian nights' entertainments; of home, and my own comfortable room in the third story; brought my boot down with a thump that made them all start, and in five minutes was asleep. in the morning i again went over to the ruins. daylight, if possible, added to their effect; and a little thing occurred, not much in itself, but which, under the circumstances, fastened itself upon my mind in such a way that i shall never forget it. i had read that here, in the stillness of the night, the jackal's cry was heard; that, if a stone was rolled, a scorpion or lizard slipped from under it; and, while picking our way slowly along the lower part of the city, a wolf of the largest size came out above, as if indignant at being disturbed in his possessions. he moved a few paces toward us with such a resolute air that my companions both drew their pistols; then stopped, and gazed at us deliberately as we were receding from him, until, as if satisfied that we intended to leave his dominions, he turned and disappeared among the ruins. it would have made a fine picture; the turk first, then the greek, each with a pistol in his hand, then myself, all on horseback, the wolf above us, the valley, and the ruined city. i feel my inability to give you a true picture of these ruins. indeed, if i could lay before you every particular, block for block, fragment for fragment, here a column and there a column, i could not convey a full idea of the desolation that marks the scene. to the christian, the ruins of ephesus carry with them a peculiar interest; for here, upon the wreck of heathen temples, was established one of the earliest christian churches; but the christian church has followed the heathen temple, and the worshippers of the true god have followed the worshippers of the great goddess diana; and in the city where paul preached, and where, in the words of the apostle, "much people were gathered unto the lord," now not a solitary christian dwells. verily, in the prophetic language of inspiration, the "candlestick is removed from its place;" a curse seems to have fallen upon it, men shun it, not a human being is to be seen among its ruins; and ephesus, in faded glory and fallen grandeur, is given up to birds and beasts of prey, a monument and a warning to nations. from ephesus i went to scala nova, handsomely situated on the shore of the sea, and commanding a fine view of the beautiful island of samos, distant not more than four miles. i had a letter to a greek merchant there, who received me kindly, and introduced me to the turkish governor. the governor, as usual, was seated upon a divan, and asked us to take seats beside him. we were served with coffee and pipes by two handsome greek slaves, boys about fourteen, with long hair hanging down their necks, and handsomely dressed; who, after serving us, descended from the platform, and waited with folded arms until we had finished. soon after a third guest came, and a third lad, equally handsome and equally well dressed, served him in the same manner. this is the style of the turkish grandees, a slave to every guest. i do not know to what extent it is carried, but am inclined to think that, in the present instance, if one or two more guests had happened to come in, my friend's retinue of slaves would have fallen short. the governor asked me from what country i came, and who was my king; and when i told him that we had no king, but a president, he said, very graciously, that our president and the grand seignior were very good friends; a compliment which i acknowledged with all becoming humility. wanting to show off a little, i told him that we were going to fight the french, and he said we should certainly whip them if we could get the grand seignior to help us. i afterward called on my own account upon the english consul. the consuls in these little places are originals. they have nothing to do, but they have the government arms blazoned over their doors, and strut about in cocked hats and regimentals, and shake their heads, and look knowing, and talk about their government; they do not know what the government will think, &c., when half the time their government hardly knows of the existence of its worthy representatives. this was an old maltese, who spoke french and italian. he received me very kindly, and pressed me to stay all night. i told him that i was not an englishman, and had no claim upon his hospitality; but he said that made no difference; that he was consul for all civilized nations, among which he did me the honour to include mine. at three o'clock i took leave of the consul. my greek friend accompanied me outside the gate, where my horses were waiting for me; and, at parting, begged me to remember that i had a friend, who hardly knew what pleasure was except in serving me. i told him that the happiness of my life was not complete before i met him; we threw ourselves into each other's arms, and, after a two hours' acquaintance, could hardly tear away from each other's embraces. such is the force of sympathy between congenial spirits. my friend was a man about fifty, square built, broad shouldered, and big mustached; and the beauty of it was, that neither could understand a word the other said; and all this touching interchange of sentiment had to pass through my mustached, big-whiskered, double-fisted, six-feet interpreter. at four o'clock we set out on our return; at seven we stopped in a beautiful valley surrounded by mountains, and on the sides of the mountains were a number of turcomans tents. the khan was worse than any i had yet seen. it had no floor and no mat. the proprietor of the khan, if such a thing, consisting merely of four mud walls with a roof of branches, which seemed to have been laid there by the winds, could be said to have a proprietor, was uncommonly sociable; he set before me my supper, consisting of bread and yort--a preparation of milk--and appeared to be much amused at seeing me eat. he asked my guide many questions about me; examined my pistols, took off his turban, and put my hat upon his shaved head, which transformed him from a decidedly bold, slashing-looking fellow, into a decidedly sneaking-looking one. i had certainly got over all fastidiousness in regard to eating, drinking, and sleeping; but i could not stand the vermin at this khan. in the middle of the night i rose and went out of doors; it was a brilliant starlight night, and, as the bare earth was in any case to be my bed, i exchanged the mud floor of my khan for the greensward and the broad canopy of heaven. my turk was sleeping on the ground, about a hundred yards from the house, with his horse grazing around him. i nestled close to him, and slept perhaps two hours. toward morning i was awakened by the cold, and, with the selfishness of misery, i began punching my turk under the ribs to wake him. this was no easy matter; but, after a while, i succeeded, got him to saddle the horses, and in a few minutes we were off, my greek not at all pleased with having his slumbers so prematurely disturbed. at about two o'clock we passed some of the sultan's _volunteers_. these were about fifty men chained together by the wrists and ankles, who had been chased, run down, and caught in some of the villages, and were now on their way to constantinople, under a guard, to be trained as soldiers. i could but smile as i saw them, not at them, for, in truth, there was nothing in their condition to excite a smile, but at the recollection of an article i had seen a few days before in a european paper, which referred to the new levies making by the sultan, and the spirit with which his subjects entered into the service. they were a speaking comment upon european insight into turkish politics. but, without more ado, suffice it to say, that at about four o'clock i found myself at the door of my hotel, my outer garments so covered with creeping things that my landlord, a prudent swiss, with many apologies, begged me to shake myself before going into the house; and my nether garments so stained with blood, that i looked as if a corps of the sultan's regulars had pricked me with their bayonets. my enthusiasm on the subject of the seven churches was in no small degree abated, and just at that moment i was willing to take upon trust the condition of the others, that all that was foretold of them in the scriptures had come to pass. i again betook me to the bath, and, in thinking of the luxury of my repose, i feel for you, and come to a full stop. **** chapter x. position of smyrna.--consular privileges.--the case of the lover.--end of the love affair.--the missionary's wife.--the casino.--only a greek row.--rambles in smyrna.--the armenians.--domestic enjoyments. but i must go back a little, and make the amende honourable, for, in truth, ghiaour ismir, or infidel smyrna, with its wild admixture of european and asiatic population, deserves better than the rather cavalier notice contained in my letter. before reaching it i had remarked its exceeding beauty of position, chosen as it is with that happy taste which distinguished the greeks in selecting the sites of their ancient cities, on the declivity of a mountain running down to the shore of the bay, with houses rising in terraces on its sides; its domes and minarets, interspersed with cypresses, rising above the tiers of houses, and the summit of the hill crowned with a large solitary castle. it was the first large turkish city i had seen, and it differed, too, from all other turkish cities in the strong foothold obtained there by europeans. indeed, remembering it as a place where often, and within a very few years, upon a sudden outbreaking of popular fury, the streets were deluged with christian blood, i was particularly struck, not only with the air of confidence and security, but, in fact, with the bearing of superiority assumed by the "christian dog!" among the followers of the prophet. directly on the bay is a row of large houses running along the whole front of the city, among which are seen emblazoned over the doors the arms of most of the foreign consuls, including the american. by the treaties of the porte with christian powers, the turkish tribunals have no jurisdiction of matters touching the rights of foreign residents; and all disputes between these, and even criminal offences, fall under the cognizance of their respective consuls. this gives the consuls in all the maritime ports of turkey great power and position; and all over the levant they are great people; but at smyrna they are far more important than ambassadors and ministers at the european capitals; and, with their janisaries and their appearance on all public occasions in uniform, are looked up to by the levantines somewhat like the consuls sent abroad under the roman empire, and by the turks as almost sultans. the morning after my arrival i delivered letters of introduction to mr. offley, the american consul, a native of philadelphia, thirty years resident in smyrna, and married to an armenian lady, mr. langdon, a merchant of boston, and mr. styth, of baltimore, of the firm of issaverdens, styth, and company; one to mr. jetter, a german missionary, whose lady told me, while her husband was reading it, that she had met me in the street the day before, and on her return home told him that an american had just arrived. i was curious to know the mark by which she recognised me as an american, being rather dubious whether it was by reason of anything praiseworthy or the reverse; but she could not tell. i trust the reader has not forgotten the victim of the tender passion who, in the moment of my leaving athens, had reposed in my sympathizing bosom the burden of his hopes and fears. at the very first house in which i was introduced to the female members of the family, i found making a morning call the lady who had made such inroads upon his affections. i had already heard her spoken of as being the largest fortune, and, par consequence, the greatest belle in smyrna, and i hailed it as a favourable omen that i accidentally made her acquaintance so soon after my arrival. i made my observations, and could not help remarking that she was by no means pining away on account of the absence of my friend. i was almost indignant at her heartless happiness, and, taking advantage of an opportunity, introduced his name, hoping to see a shade come over her, and, perhaps, to strike her pensive for two or three minutes; but her comment was a deathblow to my friend's prospects and my mediation: "poor m.!" and all present repeated "poor m.!" with a portentous smile, and the next moment had forgotten his existence. i went away in the full conviction that it was all over with "poor m.!" and murmuring to myself, put not your trust in woman, i dined, and in the afternoon called with my letter of introduction upon his friend the rev. mr. brewer, and mr. brewer's comment on reading it was about equal to the lady's "poor m.!" he asked me in what condition i left our unfortunate friend. i told him his _leg_ was pretty bad, though he continued to hobble about; but mr. brewer interrupted me; he did not mean his leg, but, he hesitated and with reluctance, as if he wished to avoid speaking of it outright, added, _his mind_. i did not comprehend him, and, from his hesitation and delicacy, imagined that he was alluding to the lover's heart; but he cleared the matter up, and to my no small surprise, by telling me that, some time before he left smyrna, "poor m." had shown such strong marks of aberration of intellect, that his friends had deemed it advisable to put him under the charge of a brother missionary and send him home, and that they hoped great benefit from travel and change of scene. i was surprised, and by no means elevated in my own conceit, when i found that i had been made the confidant of a crazy man. mr. hill, not knowing of any particular intimacy between us, and probably not wishing to publish his misfortune unnecessarily, had not given me the slightest intimation of it, and i had not discovered it. i had considered his communication to me strange, and his general conduct not less so, but i had no idea that it was anything more than the ordinary derangement which every man is said to labour under when in love. i then told mr. brewer my story, and the commission with which i was intrusted, which he said was perfectly characteristic, his malady being a sort of monomania on the subject of the tender passion; and every particle of interest which i might nevertheless have taken in the affair, in connecting his derangement in some way with the lady in question, was destroyed by the volatile direction of his passion, sometimes to one object and sometimes with another; and in regard to the lady to whom i was accredited, he had never shown any penchant toward her in particular, and must have given me her name because it happened to be the first that suggested itself at the moment of his unburdening himself to me. fortunately, i had not exposed myself by any demonstrations in behalf of my friend, so i quietly dropped him. on leaving mr. brewer i suggested a doubt whether i could be regarded as an acquaintance upon the introduction of a crazy man; but we had gone so far that it was decided, for that specific purpose, to admit his sanity. i should not mention these particulars if there was any possibility of their ever wounding the feelings of him to whom they refer; but he is now beyond the reach either of calumny or praise, for about a year after i heard, with great regret, that his malady had increased, accompanied with a general derangement of health; and, shortly after his return home, he died. my intercourse with the franks was confined principally to my own countrymen, whose houses were open to me at all times; and i cannot help mentioning the name of mr. van lennup, the dutch consul, the great friend of the missionaries in the levant, who had been two years resident in the united states, and was intimately acquainted with many of my friends at home. society in smyrna is purely mercantile; and having been so long out of the way of it, it was actually grateful to me once more to hear men talking with all their souls about cotton, stocks, exchanges, and other topics of _interest_, in the literal meaning of the word. sometimes lounging in a merchant's counting-room, i took up an american paper, and heard boston, and new-york, and baltimore, and cotton, and opium, and freight, and quarter per cent. less bandied about, until i almost fancied myself at home; and when this became too severe i had a resource with the missionaries, gentlemanly and well-educated men, well acquainted with the countries and the places worth visiting, with just the books i wanted, and, i had almost said, the wives; i mean with wives always glad to see a countryman, and to talk about home. there is something exceedingly interesting in a missionary's wife. a soldier's is more so, for she follows him to danger and, perhaps, to death; but glory waits him if he falls, and while she weeps she is proud. before i went abroad the only missionary i ever knew i despised, for i believed him to be a canting hypocrite; but i saw much of them abroad, and made many warm friends among them; and, i repeat it, there is something exceedingly interesting in a missionary's wife. she who had been cherished as a plant that the winds must not breathe on too rudely, recovers from the shock of a separation from her friends to find herself in a land of barbarians, where her loud cry of distress can never reach their ears. new ties twine round her heart, and the tender and helpless girl changes her very nature, and becomes the staff and support of the man. in his hours of despondency she raises his drooping spirits; she bathes his aching head; she smooths his pillow of sickness; and, after months of wearisome silence, i have entered her dwelling, and her heart instinctively told her that i was from the same land. i have been welcomed as a brother; answered her hurried, and anxious, and eager questions; and sometimes, when i have known any of her friends at home, i have been for a moment more than recompensed for all the toils and privations of a traveller in the east. i have left her dwelling burdened with remembrances to friends whom she will perhaps never see again. i bore a letter to a father, which was opened by a widowed mother. where i could, i have discharged every promise to a missionary's wife; but i have some yet undischarged which i rank among the sacred obligations of my life. it is true, the path of the missionary is not strewed with roses; but often, in leaving his house at night, and following my guide with a lantern through the narrow streets of a turkish city, i have run over the troubles incident to every condition of life, not forgetting those of a traveller, and have taken to whistling, and, as i stumbled into the gate of an old convent, have murmured involuntarily, "after all, these missionaries are happy fellows." every stranger, upon his arrival in smyrna, is introduced at the casino. i went there the first time to a concert. it is a large building, erected by a club of merchants, with a suite of rooms on the lower floor, billiards, cards, reading and sitting room, and a ball room above covering the whole. the concert was given in the ballroom, and, from what i had seen in the streets, i expected an extraordinary display of beauty; but i was much disappointed. the company consisted only of the aristocracy or higher mercantile classes, the families of the gentlemen composing the club, and excluded the greek and smyrniote women, among whom is found a great portion of the beauty of the place. a patent of nobility in smyrna, as in our own city, is founded upon the time since the possessor gave up selling goods, or the number of consignments he receives in the course of a year. the casino, by-the-way, is a very aristocratic institution, and sometimes knotty questions occur in its management. captains of merchant vessels are not admitted. a man came out as owner of a vessel and cargo, and also master: _quere_, could he be admitted? his consignee said yes; but the majority, not being interested in the sales of his cargo, went for a strict construction, and excluded him. the population of smyrna, professing three distinct religions, observe three different sabbaths; the mohammedans friday, the jews saturday, and the christians sunday, so that there are only four days in the week in which all the shops and bazars are open together, and there are so many fête days that these are much broken in upon. the most perfect toleration prevails, and the religious festivals of the greeks often terminate in midnight orgies which debase and degrade the christian in the eyes of the pious mussulman. on saturday morning i was roused from my bed by a loud cry and the tramp of a crowd through the street. i ran to my window, and saw a greek tearing down the street at full speed, and another after him with a drawn yataghan in his hand; the latter gained ground at every step, and, just as he turned the corner, stabbed the first in the back. he returned with the bloody poniard in his hand, followed by the crowd, and rushed into a little greek drinking-shop next door to my hotel. there was a loud noise and scuffling inside, and presently i saw him pitched out headlong into the street, and the door closed upon him. in a phrensy of passion he rushed back, and drove his yataghan with all his force into the door, stamped against it with his feet, and battered it with stones; unable to force it open, he sat down on the opposite side of the street, occasionally renewing his attack upon the door, talking violently with those inside, and sometimes the whole crowd laughing loud at the answers from within. nobody attempted to interfere. giusseppi, my host, said it was only a row among the greeks. the greek kept the street in an uproar for more than an hour, when he was secured and taken into custody. after dinner, under the escort of a merchant, a jew from trieste residing at the same hotel, i visited the jews' quarter. the jews of smyrna are the descendants of that unhappy people who were driven out from spain by the bloody persecutions of ferdinand and isabel; they still talk spanish in their families; and though comparatively secure, now, as ever, they live the victims of tyranny and oppression, ever toiling and accumulating, and ever fearing to exhibit the fruits of their industry, lest they should excite the cupidity of a rapacious master. their quarter is by far the most miserable in smyrna, and within its narrow limits are congregated more than ten thousand of "the accursed people." it was with great difficulty that i avoided wounding the feelings of my companion by remarking its filthy and disgusting appearance; and wishing to remove my unfavourable impression by introducing me to some of the best families first, he was obliged to drag me through the whole range of its narrow and dirty streets. from the external appearance of the tottering houses, i did not expect anything better within; and, out of regard to his feelings, was really sorry that i had accepted his offer to visit his people; but with the first house i entered i was most agreeably disappointed. ascending outside by a tottering staircase to the second story, within was not only neatness and comfort, but positive luxury. at one end of a spacious room was a raised platform opening upon a large latticed window, covered with rich rugs and divans along the wall. the master of the house was taking his afternoon siesta, and while we were waiting for him i expressed to my gratified companion my surprise and pleasure at the unexpected appearance of the interior. in a few minutes the master entered, and received us with the greatest hospitality and kindness. he was about thirty, with the high square cap of black felt, without any rim or border, long silk gown tied with a sash around the waist, a strongly-marked jewish face, and amiable expression. in the house of the israelite the welcome is the same as in that of the turk; and seating himself, our host clapped his hands together, and a boy entered with coffee and pipes. after a little conversation he clapped his hands again; and hearing a clatter of wooden shoes, i turned my head and saw a little girl coming across the room, mounted on high wooden sabots almost like stilts, who stepped up the platform, and with quite a womanly air took her seat on the divan. i looked at her, and thought her a pert, forward little miss, and was about asking her how old she was, when my companion told me she was our host's wife. i checked myself, but in a moment felt more than ever tempted to ask the same question; and, upon inquiring, learned that she had attained the respectable age of thirteen, and had been then two years a wife. our host told us that she had cost him a great deal of money, and the expense consisted in the outlay necessary for procuring a divorce from another wife. he did not like the other one at all; his father had married him to her, and he had great difficulty in prevailing on his father to go to the expense of getting him freed. this wife was also provided by his father, and he did not like her much at first; he had never seen her till the day of marriage, but now he began to like her very well, though she cost him a great deal for ornaments. all this time we were looking at her, and she, with a perfectly composed expression, was listening to the conversation as my companion interpreted it, and following with her eyes the different speakers. i was particularly struck with the cool, imperturbable expression of her face, and could not help thinking that, on the subject of likings and dislikings, young as she was, she might have some curious notions of her own; and since we had fallen into this little disquisition on family matters, and thinking that he had gone so far himself that i might waive delicacy, i asked him whether she liked him; he answered in that easy tone of confidence of which no idea can be given in words, "oh yes;" and when i intimated a doubt, he told me i might ask herself. but i forbore, and did not ask her, and so lost the opportunity of learning from both sides the practical operation of matches made by parents. our host sustained them; the plan saved a great deal of trouble, and wear and tear of spirit; prudent parents always selected such as were likely to suit each other; and being thrown together very young, they insensibly assimilated in tastes and habits; he admitted that he had missed it the first time, but he had hit it the second, and allowed that the system would work much better if the cost of procuring a divorce was not so great. with the highest respect, and a pressing invitation to come again, seconded by his wife, i took my leave of the self-satisfied israelite. from this we went into several other houses, in all of which the interior belied, in the same manner, their external appearance. i do not say that they were gorgeous or magnificent, but they were clean, comfortable, and striking by their oriental style of architecture and furniture; and being their sabbath, the women were in their best attire, with their heads, necks, and wrists adorned with a profusion of gold and silver ornaments. several of the houses had libraries, with old hebrew books, in which an old rabbi was reading or sometimes instructing children. in the last house a son was going through his days of mourning on the death of his father. he was lying in the middle of the floor, with his black cap on, and covered with a long black cloak. twenty or thirty friends were sitting on the floor around him, who had come in to condole with him. when we entered, neither he nor any of his friends took any notice of us, except to make room on the floor. we sat down with them. it was growing dark, and the light broke dimly through the latticed windows upon the dusky figures of the mourning israelites; and there they sat, with stern visages and long beards, the feeble remnant of a fallen people, under scorn and contumely, and persecution and oppression, holding on to the traditions received from their fathers, practising in the privacy of their houses the same rites as when the priests bore aloft the ark of the covenant, and out of the very dust in which they lie still looking for the restoration of their temporal kingdom. in a room adjoining sat the widow of the deceased, with a group of women around her, all perfectly silent; and they too took no notice of us either when we entered or when we went away. the next day the shops were shut, and the streets again thronged as on the day of my arrival. i went to church at the english chapel attached to the residence of the british consul, and heard a sermon from a german missionary. i dined at one o'clock, and, in company with mine host of the pension suisse, and a merchant of smyrna resident there, worked my way up the hill through the heart of the turks' quarter to the old castle standing alone and in ruins on its summit. we rested a little while at the foot of the castle, and looked over the city and the tops of the minarets upon the beautiful bay, and descending in the rear of the castle, we came to the river meles winding through a deep valley at the foot of the hill. this stream was celebrated in grecian poetry three thousand years ago. it was the pride of the ancient smyrneans, once washed the walls of the ancient city, and tradition says that on its banks the nymph critheis gave birth to homer. we followed it in its winding course down the valley, murmuring among evergreens. over it in two places were the ruins of aqueducts which carried water to the old city, and in one or two places it turns an overshot mill. on each side, at intervals along its banks, were oriental summer-houses, with verandahs, and balconies, and latticed windows. approaching the caravan bridge we met straggling parties, and by degrees fell into a crowd of people, franks, europeans of every nation, greeks, turks, and armenians, in all their striking costumes, sitting on benches under the shade of noble old sycamores, or on the grass, or on the river's brink, and moving among them were turks cleanly dressed, with trays of refreshments, ices, and sherbet. there was an unusual collection of greek and smyrniote women, and an extraordinary display of beauty; none of them wore hats, but the greek women a light gauze turban, and the smyrniotes a small piece of red cloth, worked with gold, secured on the top of the head by the folds of the hair, with a long tassel hanging down from it. opposite, and in striking contrast, the great turkish burying-ground, with its thick grove of gloomy cypress, approached the bank of the river. i crossed over and entered the burying-ground, and penetrated the grove of funereal trees; all around were the graves of the dead; thousands and tens of thousands who but yesterday were like the gay crowd i saw flitting through the trees, were sleeping under my feet. over some of the graves the earth was still fresh, and they who lay in them were already forgotten; but no, they were not forgotten; woman's love still remembered them, for turkish women, with long white shawls wrapped around their faces, were planting over them myrtle and flowers, believing that they were paying an acceptable tribute to the souls of the dead. i left the burying-ground and plunged once more among the crowd. it may be that memory paints these scenes brighter than they were; but, if that does not deceive me, i never saw at paris or vienna so gay and beautiful a scene, so rich in landscape and scenery, in variety of costume, and in beauty of female form and feature. we left the caravan bridge early to visit the armenian quarter, this being the best day for seeing them collectively at home; and i had not passed through the first street of their beautiful quarter before i was forcibly struck with the appearance of a people different from any i had yet seen in the east. the armenians are one of the oldest nations of the civilized world, and, amid all the revolutions of barbarian war and despotism, have maintained themselves as a cultivated people. from the time when their first chieftain fled from babylon, his native place, to escape from the tyranny of belus, king of assyria, this warlike people, occupying a mountainous country near the sources of the tigris and euphrates, battled the assyrians, medes, the persians, macedonians, and arabians, until their country was depopulated by the shah of persia. less than two millions are all that now remain of that once powerful people. commerce has scattered them, like the israelites, among all the principal nations of europe and asia, and everywhere they have preserved their stern integrity and uprightness of character. the armenian merchant is now known in every quarter of the globe, and everywhere distinguished by superior cultivation, honesty, and manners. as early as the fourth century the armenians embraced christianity; they never had any sympathy with, and always disliked and avoided, the greek christians, and constantly resisted the endeavours of the popes to bring them within the catholic pale. their doctrine differs from that of the orthodox chiefly in their admitting only one nature in christ, and believing the holy spirit to issue from the father alone. their first abode, mount ararat, is even at the present day the centre of their religious and political union. they are distinguished by a patriarchal simplicity in their domestic manners; and it was the beautiful exhibition of this trait in their character that struck me on entering their quarter at smyrna. in style and appearance their quarter is superior to any in smyrna; their streets are broad and clean; their houses large, in good order, and well painted; oriental in their style of architecture, with large balconies and latticed windows, and spacious halls running through the centre, floored with small black and white stones laid in the form of stars and other fanciful devices, and leading to large gardens in the rear, ornamented with trees, vines, shrubs, and flowers, then in full bloom and beauty. all along the streets the doors of the houses were thrown wide open, and the old armenian "knickerbockers" were sitting outside or in the doorway, in their flowing robes, grave and sedate, with long pipes and large amber mouth pieces, talking with their neighbours, while the younger members were distributed along the hall or strolling through the garden, and children climbing the trees and arbours. it was a fête day for the whole neighbourhood. all was social, and cheerful, and beautiful, without being gay or noisy, and all was open to the observation of every passer-by. my companion, an old resident of smyrna, stopped with me at the house of a large banker, whose whole family, with several neighbours young and old, were assembled in the hall. in the street the armenian ladies observe the turkish custom of wearing the shawl tied around the face so that it is difficult to see their features, though i had often admired the dignity and grace of their walk, and their propriety of manners; but in the house there was a perfect absence of all concealment; and i have seldom seen more interesting persons than the whole group of armenian ladies, and particularly the young armenian girls. they were not so dark, and wanted the bold, daring beauty of the greek, but altogether were far more attractive. the great charm of their appearance was an exceeding modesty, united with affability and elegance of manner; in fact, there was a calm and quiet loveliness about them that would have made any one of them dangerous to be shut up alone with, i.e., if a man could talk with her without an interpreter. this was one of the occasions when i numbered among the pains of life the confusion of tongues. but, notwithstanding this, the whole scene was beautiful; and, with all the simplicity of a dutchman's fireside, the style of the house, the pebbled hall, the garden, the foliage, and the oriental costumes, threw a charm around it which now, while i write, comes over me again. chapter xi. an american original.--moral changes in turkey.--wonders of steam navigation.--the march of mind.--classic localities.--sestos and abydos.--seeds of pestilence. on my return from ephesus i heard of the arrival in smyrna of two american travellers, father and son, from egypt; and the same day, at mr. langdon's, i met the father, dr. n. of mississippi. the doctor had made a long and interesting tour in egypt and the holy land, interrupted, however, by a severe attack of ophthalmia on the nile, from which he had not yet recovered, and a narrow escape from the plague at cairo. he was about fifty-five, of a strong, active, and inquiring mind; and the circumstances which had brought him to that distant country were so peculiar, that i cannot help mentioning them. he had passed all his life on the banks of the mississippi, and for many years had busied himself with speculations in regard to the creation of the world. year after year he had watched the deposites and the formation of soil on the banks of the mississippi, had visited every mound and mountain indicating any peculiar geological formation, and, unable to find any data to satisfy him, he started from his plantation directly for the banks of the nile. he possessed all the warm, high-toned feelings of the southerner, but a thorough contempt for the usages of society and everything like polish of manners. he came to new-york and embarked for havre. he had never been even to new-york before; was utterly ignorant of any language but his own; despised all foreigners, and detested their "jabber." he worked his way to marseilles with the intention of embarking for alexandria, but was taken sick, and retraced his steps directly to his plantation on the mississippi. recovering, he again set out for the nile the next year, accompanied by his son, a young man of about twenty-three, acquainted with foreign languages, and competent to profit by foreign travel. this time he was more successful, and, when i saw him, he had rambled over the pyramids and explored the ruined temples of egypt. the result of his observations had been to fortify his preconceived notions, that the age of this world far exceeds six thousand years. indeed, he was firmly persuaded that some of the temples of the nile were built more than six thousand years ago. he had sent on to smyrna enormous boxes of earth and stones, to be shipped to america, and was particularly curious on the subject of trees, having examined and satisfied himself as to the age of the olive-trees in the garden of gethsemane and the cedars of lebanon. i accompanied him to his hotel, where i was introduced to his son; and i must not forget another member of this party, who is, perhaps, already known to some of my readers by the name of paolo nuozzo, or, more familiarly, paul. this worthy individual had been travelling on the nile with two hungarian counts, who discharged him, or whom he discharged (for they differed as to the fact), at cairo. dr. n. and his son were in want, and paul entered their service as dragoman and superintendent of another man, who, they said, was worth a dozen of paul. i have a very imperfect recollection of my first interview with this original. indeed, i hardly remember him at all until my arrival at constantinople, and have only an indistinct impression of a dark, surly-looking, mustached man following at the heels of dr. n., and giving crusty answers in horrible english. before my visit to ephesus i had talked with a prussian baron of going up by land to constantinople; but on my return i found myself attacked with a recurrence of an old malady, and determined to wait for the steamboat. the day before i left smyrna, accompanied by mr. o. langdon, i went out to boujac to dine with mr. styth. the great beauty of smyrna is its surrounding country. within a few miles there are three villages, bournabat, boujac, and sediguey, occupied by franks, of which boujac is the favourite. the franks are always looking to the time of going out to their country houses, and consider their residences in their villages the most agreeable part of their year; and, from what i saw of it, nothing can be more agreeable. not more than half of them had yet moved out, but after dinner we went round and visited all who were there. they are all well acquainted, and, living in a strange and barbarous country, are drawn closer together than they would be in their own. every evening there is a reunion at some of their houses, and there is among them an absence of all unnecessary form and ceremony, without which there can be no perfect enjoyment of the true pleasures of social intercourse. these villages, too, are endeared to them as places of refuge during the repeated and prolonged visitations of the plague, the merchant going into the city every morning and returning at night, and during the whole continuance of the disease avoiding to touch any member of his family. the whole region of country around their villages is beautiful in landscape and scenery, producing the choicest flowers and fruits; the fig tree particularly growing with a luxuriance unknown in any other part of the world. but the whole of this beautiful region lies waste and uncultivated, although, if the government could be relied on, holding out, by reason of its fertility, its climate, and its facility of access, particularly now by means of steamboats, far greater inducements to european emigration than any portion of our own country. i will not impose upon the reader my speculations on this subject; my notes are burdened with them; but, in my opinion, the old world is in process of regeneration, and at this moment offers greater opportunities for enterprise than the new. on monday, accompanied by dr. n. and his son and paolo nuozzo, i embarked on board the steamboat maria dorothea for constantinople; and here follows another letter, and the last, dated from the capital of the eastern empire. constantinople, may ----, . my dear ****, oh you who hope one day to roam in eastern lands, to bend your curious eyes upon the people warmed by the rising sun, come quickly, for all things are changing. you who have pored over the story of the turk; who have dreamed of him as a gloomy enthusiast, hating, spurning, and slaying all who do not believe and call upon the prophet; "one of that saintly, murderous brood, to carnage and the koran given, who think through unbelievers' blood lies their directest path to heaven;" come quickly, for that description of turk is passing away. the day has gone by when the haughty mussulman spurned and persecuted the "christian dog." a few years since it would have been at peril of a man's life to appear in many parts of turkey in a european dress; but now the european is looked upon, not only as a creature fit to live, but as a man to be respected. the sultan himself, the great head of the nation and the religion, the vicegerent of god upon earth, has taken off the turban, and all the officers of government have followed his example. the army wears a bastard european uniform, and the great study of the sultan is to introduce european customs. thanks to the infirmities of human nature, many of these customs have begun to insinuate themselves. the pious follower of the prophet has dared to raise the winecup to his lips; and in many instances, at the peril of losing his paradise of houris, has given himself up to strong drink. time was when the word of a turk was sacred as a precept of the koran; now he can no more be relied upon than a jew or a christian. he has fallen with great facility into lying, cheating, and drinking, and if the earnest efforts to change him are attended with success, perhaps we may soon add stealing and having but one wife. and all this change, this mighty fall, is ascribed by the europeans here to the destruction of the janisaries, a band of men dangerous to government, brave, turbulent, and bloody, but of indomitable pride; who were above doing little things, and who gave a high tone to the character of the whole people. if i was not bent upon a gallop, and could stop for the jogtrot of an argument, i would say that the destruction of the janisaries is a mere incidental circumstance, and that the true cause is--_steam navigation_. do not laugh, but listen. the turks have ever been a proud people, possessing a sort of peacock pride, an extravagantly good opinion of themselves, and a superlative contempt for all the rest of the world. heretofore they have had comparatively little intercourse with europeans, consequently but little opportunity of making comparisons, and consequently, again, but little means of discovering their own inferiority. but lately things have changed; the universal peace in europe and the introduction of steamboats into the mediterranean have brought the europeans and the turks comparatively close together. it seems to me that the effect of steamboats here has as yet hardly begun to be felt. there are but few of them, indifferent boats, constantly getting out of order, and running so irregularly that no reliance can be placed upon them. but still their effects are felt, their convenience is acknowledged; and, so far as my knowledge extends, they have never been introduced anywhere yet without multiplying in numbers, and driving all other vessels off the water. now the mediterranean is admirably suited to the use of steamboats; indeed, the whole of these inland waters, the mediterranean, the adriatic, the archipelago, the dardanelles, the sea of marmora, the bosphorus, and the black sea, from the straits of gibraltar to the sea of azoff, offer every facility that can be desired for steam navigation; and when we consider that the most interesting cities in the world are on the shores of these waters, i cannot but believe that in a very few years they will be, to a certain extent, covered with steamboats. at all events, i have no doubt that in two or three years you will be able to go from paris to constantinople in fifteen or twenty days; and, when that time comes, it will throw such numbers of europeans into the east as will have a sensible effect upon the manners and customs of the people. these eastern countries will be invaded by all classes of people, travellers, merchants, and mechanics, gentlemen of elegant leisure, and blacksmiths, shoemakers, tinkers, and tailors, nay, even mantuamakers, milliners, and bandboxes, the last being an incident to civilized life as yet unknown in turkey. indeed, wonderful as the effects of steamboats have been under our own eyes, we are yet to see them far more wonderful in bringing into close alliance, commercial and social, people from distant countries, of different languages and habits; in removing national prejudices, and in breaking down the great characteristic distinctions of nations. nous verrons, twenty years hence, what steamboats will have done in this part of the world! but, in standing up for steamboats, i must not fail in doing justice to the grand seignior. his highness has not always slept upon a bed of roses. he had to thank the petticoats of a female slave for saving his life when a boy, and he had hardly got upon his throne before he found that he should have a hard task to keep it. it lay between him and the janisaries. in spite of them and of the general prejudices of the people, he determined to organize an army according to european tactics. he staked his throne and his head upon the issue; and it was not until he had been pushed to the desperate expedient of unfurling the sacred standard of the prophet, parading it through the streets of constantinople, and calling upon all good mussulmans to rally round it; in short, it was not until the dead bodies of thirty thousand janisaries were floating down the bosphorus, that he found himself the master in his own dominions. since that time, either because he is fond of new things, or because he really sees farther than those around him, he is constantly endeavouring to introduce european improvements. for this purpose he invites talent, particularly mechanical and military, from every country, and has now around him europeans among his most prominent men, and directing nearly all his public works. the turks are a sufficiently intelligent people, and cannot help feeling the superiority of strangers. probably the immediate effect may be to make them prone rather to catch the faults and vices than the virtues of europeans; but afterward better things will come; they will fall into our better ways; and perhaps, though that is almost more than we dare hope for, they will embrace a better religion. but, however this may be, or whatever may be the cause, all ye who would see the turk of mohammed; the turk who swept the plains of asia, who leaned upon his bloody sword before the walls of vienna, and threatened the destruction of christendom in europe; the turk of the turban, and the pipe, and the seraglio, come quickly, for he is becoming another man. a little longer, and the great characteristic distinctions will be broken down; the long pipe, the handsome pipe-bearer, and the amber mouthpiece are gone, and oh, death to all that is beautiful in eastern romance, the walls of the seraglio are prostrated, the doors of the harem thrown open, the black eunuch and the veiled woman are no more seen, while the honest turk trudges home from a quiet tea-party stripped of his retinue of fair ones, with his one and only wife tucked under his arm, his head drooping between his shoulders, taking a lecture from his better half for an involuntary sigh to the good old days that are gone. and oh you who turn up your aristocratic noses at such parvenues as mohammed and the turks; who would go back to those distant ages which time covers with its dim and twilight glories, "when the world was fresh and young, and the great deluge still had left it green;" you who come piping-hot from college, your brains teeming with recollections of the heroic ages; who would climb mount ida, to sit in council with the gods, come quickly, also, for all things are changing. a steamboat--shade of hector, ajax, and agamemnon, forgive the sins of the day--an austrian steamboat is now splashing the island-studded Ægean, and paddling the classic waters of the hellespont. oh ye princes and heroes who armed for the trojan war, and covered these waters with your thousand ships, with what pious horror must you look down from your blessed abodes upon the impious modern monster of the deep, which strips the tall mast of its flowing canvass, renders unnecessary the propitiation of the gods, and flounders on its way in spite of wind and weather! a new and unaccountable respect for the classics almost made me scorn the newfangled conveyance, though much to the comfort of wayfaring men; but sundry recollections of greek caiques, and also an apprehension that there might be those yet living who had heard me in early days speak anything but respectfully of homer, suggested to me that one man could not stem the current of the times, and that it was better for a humble individual like myself to float with the tide. this idea, too, of currents and tides made me think better of prince metternich and his steamboat; and smothering, as well as i could, my sense of shame, i sneaked on board the maria dorothea for a race to constantinople. join me, now, in this race; and if your heart does not break at going by at the rate of eight or ten miles an hour, i will whip you over a piece of the most classic ground consecrated in history, mythology, or poetry, and in less time than ever the swiftfooted achilles could have travelled it. at eleven o'clock on a bright sunny day the maria dorothea turned her back upon the city and beautiful bay of smyrna; in about two hours passed the harbour of vourla, then used as a quarantine station, the yellow plague flag floating in the city and among the shipping; and toward dark, turning the point of the gulf, came upon my old acquaintance foggi, the little harbour into which i had been twice driven by adverse winds. my greek friend happened to be on board, and, in the honesty of his heart, congratulated me upon being this time independent of the elements, without seeming to care a fig whether he profaned the memory of his ancestors in travelling by so unclassical a conveyance. if he takes it so coolly, thought i, what is it to me? they are his relations, not mine. in the evening we were moving close to the island of mytilene, the ancient lesbos, the country of sappho, alcæus, and terpander, famed for the excellence of its wine and the beauty of its women, and pre-eminently distinguished for dissipation and debauchery, the fatal plague flag now floating mournfully over its walls, marking it as the abode of pestilence and death. early in the morning i found myself opposite the promontory of lectum, now cape baba, separating the ancient troas from Æolia; a little to the right, but hardly visible, were the ruins of assos, where the apostles stopped to take in paul; a little farther the ruins of alexandria troas, one of the many cities founded by alexander during his conquests in asia; to the left, at some distance in the sea, is the island of lemnos, in the songs of the poets overshadowed by the lofty olympus, the island that received vulcan after he was kicked out of heaven by jupiter. a little farther, nearer the land, is the island of tenedos, the ancient leucophrys, where paris first landed after carrying off helen, and behind which the greeks withdrew their fleet when they pretended to have abandoned the siege of troy. still farther, on the mainland, is the promontory of sigæum, where the scamander empties into the sea, and near which were fought the principal of homer's battles. a little farther--but hold, stop the engine! if there be a spot of classic ground on earth in which the historical, and the poetical, and the fabulous are so beautifully blended together that we would not separate them even to discover the truth, it is before us now. extending for a great distance along the shore, and back as far as the eye can reach, under the purest sky that ever overshadowed the earth, lies a rich and beautiful plain, and it is the plain of troy, the battle-ground of heroes. oh field of glory and of blood, little does he know, that surly turk who is now lazily following his plough over thy surface, that every blade of thy grass could tell of heroic deeds, the shock of armies, the meeting of war chariots, the crashing of armour, the swift flight, the hot pursuit, the shouts of victors, and the groans of the dying. beyond it, towering to the heavens, is a lofty mountain, and it is mount ida, on whose top paris adjudged the golden apple to the goddess of beauty, and paved the way for those calamities which brought on the ten years' siege, and laid in ruins the ancient city of priam. two small streams, taking their rise from the mountain of the gods, join each other in the middle of the plain; scamander and simois, whose waters once washed the walls of the ancient city of dardanus; and that small, confused, and shapeless mass of ruins, that beautiful sky and the songs of homer, are all that remain to tell us that "troy was." close to the sea, and rising like mountains above the plain, are two immense mounds of earth; they are the tombs of ajax and achilles. shades of departed heroes, fain would we stop and pay the tribute which we justly owe, but we are hurried past by an engine of a hundred horse power. onward, still onward! we have reached the ancient hellespont, the dardanelles of the turks, famed as the narrow water that divides europe from asia, for the beauties that adorn its banks, and for its great turkish fortifications. three miles wide at the mouth, it becomes gradually narrower, until, in the narrowest part, the natives of europe and asia can talk together from the opposite sides. for sixty miles (its whole length) it presents a continued succession of new beauties, and in the hands of europeans, particularly english, improved as country seats, would make one of the loveliest countries in the world. i had just time to reflect that it was melancholy, and seemed inexplicable that this and other of the fairest portions of the earth should be in the hands of the turks, who neither improve it themselves nor allow others to do so. at three o'clock we arrived at the dardanelles, a little turkish town in the narrowest and most beautiful part of the straits; a strong fort with enormous cannon stands frowning on each side. these are the terrible fortifications of mohammed ii., the keys of constantinople. the guns are enormous; of one in particular, the muzzle is two feet three inches in diameter; but, with turkish ingenuity, they are so placed as to be discharged when a ship is directly opposite. if the ship is not disabled by the first fire, and does not choose to go back and take another, she is safe. at every moment a new picture presents itself; a new fort, a new villa, or the ruins of an ancient city. a naked point on the european side, so ugly compared with all around it as to attract particular attention, projects into the strait, and here are the ruins of sestos; here xerxes built his bridge of boats to carry over his millions to the conquest of greece; and here, when he returned with the wreck of his army, defeated and disgraced, found his bridge destroyed by a tempest, and, in his rage, ordered the chains to be thrown into the sea and the waves to be lashed with rods. from this point, too, leander swam the hellespont for love of hero, and lord byron and mr. ekenhead for fun. nearly opposite, close to a turkish fort, are the ruins of abydos. here xerxes, and leander, and lord byron, and mr. ekenhead landed. our voyage is drawing to a close. at gallipoli, a large turkish town handsomely situated at the mouth of the dardanelles, we took on board the turkish governor, with his pipe-bearer and train of attendants, escorted by thirty or forty boats, containing three or four hundred people, his mightiness taking a deck passage. toward evening we were entering the sea of marmora, the ancient propontis, like one of our small lakes, and i again went to sleep lulled by the music of a high-pressure engine. at daylight we were approaching constantinople; twelve miles this side, on the bank of the sea of marmora, is the village of st. stephano, the residence of commodore porter. here the domes and minarets of the ancient city, with their golden points and glittering crescents, began to appear in sight. high above the rest towered the mosque of sultan achmet and the beautiful dome of st. sophia, the ancient christian church, but now, for nearly four hundred years, closed against the christians' feet. we approach the walls and pass a range of gloomy turrets; there are the seven towers, prisons, portals of the grave, whose mysteries few live to publish: the bowstring and the sea reveal no secrets. that palace, with its blinded windows and its superb garden, surrounded by a triple range of walls, is the far-famed seraglio; there beauty lingers in a splendid cage, and, lolling on her rich divan, sighs for the humblest lot and freedom. in front, that narrow water, a thousand caiques shooting through it like arrows, and its beautiful banks covered with high palaces and gardens in the oriental style, is the thracian bosphorus. we float around the walls of the seraglio, enter the golden horn, and before us, with its thousand mosques and its myriad of minarets, their golden points glittering in the sun, is the roman city of constantinople, the thracian byzantium, the stamboul of the turks; the city which, more than all others, excites the imagination and interests the feelings; once dividing with rome the empire of the world; built by a christian emperor and consecrated as a christian city, a "burning and a shining light" in a season of universal darkness, all at once lost to the civilized world; falling into the hands of a strange and fanatic people, the gloomy followers of a successful soldier; a city which, for nearly four centuries, has sat with its gates closed in sullen distrust and haughty defiance of strangers; which once sent forth large and terrible armies, burning, slaying, and destroying, shaking the hearts of princes and people, now lying like a fallen giant, huge, unwieldy, and helpless, ready to fall into the hands of the first invader, and dragging out a precarious and ignoble existence but by the mercy or policy of the great christian powers. the morning sun, now striking upon its domes and minarets, covers it, as it were, with burnished gold; a beautiful verdure surrounds it, and pure waters wash it on every side. can this beautiful city, rich with the choicest gifts of heaven, be pre-eminently the abode of pestilence and death? where a man carries about with him the seeds of disease to all whom he holds dear? if he extend the hand of welcome to a friend, if he embrace his child or rub against a stranger, the friend, and the child, and the stranger follow him to the grave? where, year after year, the angel of death stalks through the streets, and thousands and tens of thousands look him calmly in the face, and murmuring "allah, allah, god is merciful," with a fatal trust in the prophet, lie down and die? we enter the city, and these questions are quickly answered. a lazy, lounging, and filthy population; beggars basking in the sun, and dogs licking their sores; streets never cleaned but by the winds and rains; immense burying-grounds all over the city; tombstones at the corners of the streets; graves gaping ready to throw out their half-buried dead, the whole approaching to one vast charnel-house, dispel all illusions and remove all doubts, and we are ready to ask ourselves if it be possible that, in such a place, health can ever dwell. we wonder that it should ever, for the briefest moment, be free from that dreadful scourge which comes with every summer's sun and strews its streets with dead. **** chapter xii. mr. churchill.--commodore porter.--castle of the seven towers.--the sultan's naval architect.--launch of the great ship.--sultan mahmoud.--jubilate.--a national grievance.--visit to a mosque.--the burial-grounds. there is a good chance for an enterprising connecticut man to set up a hotel in constantinople. the reader will see that i have travelled with my eyes open, and i trust this shrewd observation on entering the city of the cæsars will be considered characteristic and american. paul was at home in pera, and conducted us to the hotel d'italia, which was so full that we could not get admission, and so vile a place that we were not sorry for it. we then went to madame josephine's, a sort of private boarding-house, but excellent of its kind. we found there a collection of travellers, english, french, german, and russian, and the dinner was particularly social; but dr. n. was so disgusted with the clatter of foreign tongues, that he left the table with the first course, and swore he would not stay there another day. we tried to persuade him. i reminded him that there was an englishman among them, but this only made him worse; he hated an englishman, and wondered how i, as an american, could talk with one as i had with him. in short, he was resolved, and had paul running about every street in pera looking for rooms. notwithstanding his impracticabilities as a traveller, i liked the doctor, and determined to follow him, and before breakfast the next morning we were installed in a suite of rooms in the third story of a house opposite the old palace of the british ambassador. for two or three days i was _hors du combat_, and put myself under the hands of dr. zohrab, an armenian, educated at edinburgh, whom i cordially recommend both for his kindness and medical skill. on going out, one of my first visits was to my banker, mr. churchill, a gentleman whose name has since rung throughout europe, and who at one time seemed likely to be the cause of plunging the whole civilized world into a war. he was then living in sedikuey, on the site of the ancient chalcedon, in asia; and i have seldom been more shocked than by reading in a newspaper, while in the lazaretto at malta, that, having accidentally shot a turkish boy with a fowling-piece, he had been seized by the turks, and, in defiance of treaties, _bastinadoed_ till he was almost dead. i had seen the infliction of that horrible punishment; and, besides the physical pain, there was a sense of the indignity that roused every feeling. i could well imagine the ferocious spirit with which the turks would stand around and see a christian scourged. the civilized world owes a deep debt of gratitude to the english government for the uncompromising stand taken in this matter with the sultan, and the firmness with which it insisted on, and obtained, the most ample redress for mr. churchill, and atonement for the insult offered to all christendom in his person. my companions and myself had received several invitations from commodore porter, and, accompanied by mr. dwight, one of our american missionaries, to whom i am under particular obligations for his kindness, early in the morning we took a caique with three athletic turks, and, after a beautiful row, part of it from the seraglio point to the seven towers, a distance of five miles, being close under the walls of the city, in two hours reached the commodore's residence at st. stephano, twelve miles from constantinople, on the borders of the sea of marmora. the situation is beautiful, abounding in fruit-trees, among which are some fig trees of the largest size; and the commodore was then engaged in building a large addition to his house. it will be remembered that commodore porter was the first envoy ever sent by the united states' government to the sublime porte. he had formerly lived at buyukdere, on the bosphorus, with the other members of the diplomatic corps; but his salary as chargé being inadequate to sustain a becoming style, he had withdrawn to this place. i had never seen commodore porter before. i afterward passed a month with him in the lazaretto at malta, and i trust he will not consider me presuming when i say that our acquaintance ripened into friendship. he is entirely different from the idea i had formed of him; small, dark, weather-beaten, much broken in health, and remarkably mild and quiet in his manners. his eye is his best feature, though even that does not indicate the desperate hardihood of character which he has exhibited on so many occasions. perhaps i ought not to say so, but he seemed ill at ease in his position, and i could not but think that he ought still to be standing in the front rank of that service he so highly honoured. he spoke with great bitterness of the foxardo affair, and gave me an account of an interesting interview between general jackson and himself on his recall from south america. general jackson wished him to resume his rank in the navy, but he answered that he would never accept service with men who had suspended him for doing what, they said in their sentence of condemnation, was done "to sustain the honour of the american flag." at the primitive hour of one we sat down to a regular family dinner. we were all americans. the commodore's sister, who was living with him, presided, and we looked out on the sea of marmora and talked of home. i cannot describe the satisfaction of these meetings of americans so far from their own country. i have often experienced it most powerfully in the houses of the missionaries in the east. besides having, in many instances, the same acquaintances, we had all the same habits and ways of thinking; their articles of furniture were familiar to me, and there was scarcely a house in which i did not find an article unknown except among americans, a boston rocking-chair. we talked over the subject of our difficulties with france, then under discussion in the chamber of deputies, and i remember that commodore porter was strong in the opinion that the bill paying the debt would pass. before rising from table, the commodore's janisary came down from constantinople, with papers and letters just arrived by the courier from paris. he told me that i should have the honour of breaking the seals, and i took out the paper so well known all over europe, "galignani's messenger," and had the satisfaction of reading aloud, in confirmation of the commodore's opinion, that the bill for paying the american claims had passed the chamber of deputies by a large majority. [illustration: castle of the seven towers.] about four o'clock we embarked in our caique to return to constantinople. in an hour mr. d. and i landed at the foot of the seven towers, and few things in this ancient city interested me more than my walk around its walls. we followed them the whole extent on the land side, from the sea of marmora to the golden horn. they consist of a triple range, with five gates, the principal of which is the cannon gate, through which mohammed ii. made his triumphal entry into the christian city. they have not been repaired since the city fell into the hands of the turks, and are the same walls which procured for it the proud name of the "well-defended city;" to a great extent, they are the same walls which the first constantine built and the last constantine died in defending. time has laid his ruining hand upon them, and they are everywhere weak and decaying, and would fall at once before the thunder of modern war. the moat and fossé have alike lost their warlike character, and bloom and blossom with the vine and fig tree. beyond, hardly less interesting than the venerable walls, and extending as far as the eye can reach, is one continued burying-ground, with thousands and tens of thousands of turbaned headstones, shaded by thick groves of the mourning cypress. opposite the damascus gate is an elevated enclosure, disconnected from all around, containing five headstones in a row, over the bodies of ali pacha, the rebel chief of yanina, and his four sons. the fatal mark of death by the bowstring is conspicuous on the tombs, as a warning to rebels that they cannot escape the sure vengeance of the porte. it was toward the sunset of a beautiful evening, and all stamboul was out among the tombs. at dark we reached the golden horn, crossed over in a caique, and in a few minutes were in pera. the next day i took a caique at tophana, and went up to the shipyards at the head of the golden horn to visit mr. rhodes, to whom i had a letter from a friend in smyrna. mr. rhodes is a native of long island, but from his boyhood a resident of this city, and i take great pleasure in saying that he is an honour to our state and country. the reader will remember that, some years ago, mr. eckford, one of our most prominent citizens, under a pressure of public and domestic calamities, left his native city. he sailed from new-york in a beautiful corvette, its destination unknown, and came to anchor under the walls of the seraglio in the harbour of constantinople. the sultan saw her, admired her, and bought her; and i saw her "riding like a thing of life" on the waters of the golden horn, a model of beauty. the fame of his skill, and the beautiful specimen he carried out with him, recommended mr. eckford to the sultan as a fit instrument to build up the character of the ottoman navy; and afterward, when his full value became known, the sultan remarked of him that america must be a great nation if she could spare from her service such a man. had he lived, even in the decline of life he would have made for himself a reputation in that distant quarter of the globe equal to that he had left behind him, and doubtless would have reaped the attendant pecuniary reward. mr. rhodes went out as mr. eckford's foreman, and on his death the task of completing his employer's work devolved on him. it could not have fallen upon a better man. from a journeyman shipbuilder, all at once mr. rhodes found himself brought into close relations with the seraskier pacha, the reis effendi, the grand vizier, and the sultan himself; but his good sense never deserted him. he was then preparing for the launch of the great ship; the longest, as he said, and he knew the dimensions of every ship that floated, in the world. i accompanied him over the ship and through the yards, and it was with no small degree of interest that i viewed a townsman, an entire stranger in the country, by his skill alone standing at the head of the great naval establishment of the sultan. he was dressed in a blue roundabout jacket, without whiskers or mustache, and, except that he wore the tarbouch, was thorough american in his appearance and manners, while his dragoman was constantly by his side, communicating his orders to hundreds of mustached turks, and in the same breath he was talking with me of shipbuilders in new-york, and people and things most familiar in our native city. mr. rhodes knows and cares but little for things that do not immediately concern him; his whole thoughts are of his business, and in that he possesses an ambition and industry worthy of all praise. as an instance of his discretion, particularly proper in the service of that suspicious and despotic government, i may mention that, while standing near the ship and remarking a piece of cloth stretched across her stern, i asked him her name, and he told me he did not know; that it was painted on her stern, and his dragoman knew, but he had never looked under, that he might not be able to answer when asked. i have seldom met a countryman abroad with whom i was more pleased, and at parting he put himself on a pinnacle in my estimation by telling me that, if i came to the yard the next day at one, i would see the sultan! there was no man living whom i had a greater curiosity to see. at twelve o'clock i was at the yard, but the sultan did not come. i went again, and his highness had come two hours before the time; had accompanied mr. rhodes over the ship, and left the yard less than five minutes before my arrival; his caique was still lying at the little dock, his attendants were carrying trays of refreshments to a shooting-ground in the rear, and two black eunuchs belonging to the seraglio, handsomely dressed in long black cloaks of fine pelisse cloth, with gold-headed canes and rings on their fingers, were still lingering about the ship, their effeminate faces and musical voices at once betraying their neutral character. the next was the day of the launch; and early in the morning, in the suite of commodore porter, i went on board an old steamer provided by the sultan expressly for the use of mr. rhodes's american friends. the waters of the golden horn were already covered; thousands of caiques, with their high sharp points, were cutting through it, or resting like gulls upon its surface; and there were ships with the still proud banner of the crescent, and strangers with the flags of every nation in christendom, and sailboats, longboats, and rowboats, ambassadors' barges, and caiques of effendis, beys, and pachas, with red silk flags streaming in the wind, while countless thousands were assembled on the banks to behold the extraordinary spectacle of an american ship, the largest in the world, launched in the harbour of old stamboul. the sultan was then living at his beautiful palace at sweet waters, and was obliged to pass by our boat; he had made a great affair of the launch; had invited all the diplomatic corps, and, through the reis effendi, particularly requested the presence of commodore porter; had stationed his harem on the opposite side of the river; and as i saw prepared for himself near the ship a tent of scarlet cloth trimmed with gold, i expected to see him appear in all the pomp and splendour of the greatest potentate on earth. i had already seen enough to convince me that the days of eastern magnificence had gone by, or that the gorgeous scenes which my imagination had always connected with the east had never existed; but still i could not divest myself of the lingering idea of the power and splendour of the sultan. his commanding style to his own subjects: "i command you, ----, my slave, that you bring the head of ----, my slave, and lay it at my feet;" and then his lofty tone with foreign powers: "i, who am, by the infinite grace of the great, just, and all-powerful creator, and the abundance of the miracles of the chief of his prophets, emperor of powerful emperors; refuge of sovereigns; distributor of crowns to the kings of the earth; keeper of the two very holy cities (mecca and medina); governor of the holy city of jerusalem; master of europe, asia, and africa, conquered with our victorious sword and our terrible lance; lord of two seas (black and white); of damascus, the odour of paradise; of bagdad, the seat of the califs; of the fortresses of belgrade, agra, and a multitude of countries, isles, straits, people, generations, and of so many victorious armies who repose under the shade of our sublime porte; i, in short, who am the shadow of god upon earth;" i was rolling these things through my mind when a murmur, "the sultan is coming," turned me to the side of the boat, and one view dispelled all my gorgeous fancies. there was no style, no state, a citizen king, a republican president, or a democratic governor, could not have made a more unpretending appearance than did this "shadow of god upon earth." he was seated in the bottom of a large caique, dressed in the military frockcoat and red tarbouch, with his long black beard, the only mark of a turk about him, and he moved slowly along the vacant space cleared for his passage, boats with the flags of every nation, and thousands of caiques falling back, and the eyes of the immense multitude earnestly fixed upon him, but without any shouts or acclamations; and when he landed at the little dock, and his great officers bowed to the dust before him, he looked the plainest, mildest, kindest man among them. i had wished to see him as a wholesale murderer, who had more blood upon his hands than any man living; who had slaughtered the janisaries, drenched the plains of greece, to say nothing of bastinadoes, impalements, cutting off heads, and tying up in sacks, which are taking place every moment; but i will not believe that sultan mahmoud finds any pleasure in shedding blood. dire necessity, or, as he himself would say, fate, has ever been driving him on. i look upon him as one of the most interesting characters upon earth; as the creature of circumstances, made bloody and cruel by the necessities of his position. i look at his past life and at that which is yet in store for him, through all the stormy scenes he is to pass until he completes his unhappy destiny, the last of a powerful and once-dreaded race, bearded by those who once crouched at the footstool of his ancestors, goaded by rebellious vassals, conscious that he is going a downward road, and yet unable to resist the impulse that drives him on. like the strong man encompassed with a net, he finds no avenue of escape, and cannot break through it. the seraskier pacha and other principal officers escorted him to his tent, and now all the interest which i had taken in the sultan was transferred to mr. rhodes. he had great anxiety about the launch, and many difficulties to contend with: first, in the turks' jealousy of a stranger, which obliged him to keep constantly on the watch lest some of his ropes should be cut or fastenings knocked away; and he had another turkish prejudice to struggle against: the day had been fixed twice before, but the astronomers found an unfortunate conjunction of the stars, and it was postponed, and even then the stars were unpropitious; but mr. rhodes had insisted that the work had gone so far that it could not be stopped. and, besides these, he had another great difficulty in his ignorance of their language. with more than a thousand men under him, all his orders had to pass through interpreters, and often, too, the most prompt action was necessary, and the least mistake might prove fatal. fortunately, he was protected from treachery by the kindness of mr. churchill and dr. zohrab, one of whom stood on the bow and the other in the stern of the ship, and through whom every order was transmitted in turkish. probably none there felt the same interest that we did; for the flags of the barbarian and every nation in christendom were waving around us, and at that distance from home the enterprise of a single citizen enlisted the warmest feelings of every american. we watched the ship with as keen an interest as if our own honour and success in life depended upon her movements. for a long time she remained perfectly quiet. at length she moved, slowly and almost imperceptibly; and then, as if conscious that the eyes of an immense multitude were on her, and that the honour of a distant nation was in some measure at stake, she marched proudly to the water, plunged in with a force that almost buried her, and, rising like a huge leviathan, parted the foaming waves with her bow, and rode triumphantly upon them. even mussulman indifference was disturbed; all petty jealousies were hushed; the whole immense mass was roused into admiration; loud and long-continued shouts of applause rose with one accord from turks and christians, and the sultan was so transported that he jumped up and clapped his hands like a schoolboy. mr. rhodes's triumph was complete; the sultan called him to his tent, and with his own hands fixed on the lappel of his coat a gold medal set in diamonds, representing the launching of a ship. mr. rhodes has attained among strangers the mark of every honourable man's ambition, the head of his profession. he has put upon the water what commodore porter calls the finest ship that ever floated, and has a right to be proud of his position and prospects under the "shade of the sublime porte." the sultan wishes to confer upon him the title of chief naval constructor, and to furnish him with a house and a caique with four oars. in compliment to his highness, who detests a hat, mr. rhodes wears the tarbouch; but he declines all offices and honours, and anything that may tend to fix him as a turkish subject, and looks to return and enjoy in his own country and among his own people the fruits of his honourable labours. if the good wishes of a friend can avail him, he will soon return to our city rich with the profits of untiring industry, and an honourable testimony to his countrymen of the success of american skill and enterprise abroad. to go back a moment. all day the great ship lay in the middle of the golden horn, while perhaps more than a hundred thousand turks shot round her in their little caiques, looking up from the surface of the water to her lofty deck: and in pera, wherever i went, perhaps because i was an american, the only thing i heard of was the american ship. proud of the admiration excited so far from home by this noble specimen of the skill of an american citizen, i unburden myself of a long-smothered subject of complaint against my country. i cry out with a loud voice for _reform_, not in the hackneyed sense of petty politicians, but by a liberal and enlarged expenditure of public money; by increasing the outfits and salaries of our foreign ambassadors and ministers. we claim to be rich, free from debt, and abundant in resources, and yet every american abroad is struck with a feeling of mortification at the inability of his representative to take that position in social life to which the character of his country entitles him. we may talk of republican simplicity as we will, but there are certain usages of society and certain appendages of rank which, though they may be unmeaning and worthless, are sanctioned, if not by the wisdom, at least by the practice of all civilized countries. we have committed a fatal error since the time when franklin appeared at the court of france in a plain citizen's dress; everywhere our representative conforms to the etiquette of the court to which he is accredited, and it is too late to go back and begin anew; and now, unless our representative is rich and willing to expend his own fortune for the honour of the nation, he is obliged to withdraw from the circles and position in which he has a right and ought to move, or to move in them on an inferior footing, under an acknowledgment of inability to appear as an equal. and again: our whole consular system is radically wrong, disreputable, and injurious to our character and interests. while other nations consider the support of their consuls a part of the expenses of their government, we suffer ourselves to be represented by merchants, whose pecuniary interests are mixed up with all the local and political questions that affect the place and who are under a strong inducement to make their office subservient to their commercial relations. i make no imputations against any of them. i could not if i would, for i do not know an american merchant holding the office who is not a respectable man; but the representative of our country ought to be the representative of our country only; removed from any distracting or conflicting interests, standing like a watchman to protect the honour of his nation and the rights of her citizens. and more than this, all over the mediterranean there are ports where commerce presents no inducements to the american merchant, and there the office falls into the hands of the natives; and at this day the american arms are blazoned on the doors, and the american flag is waving over the houses, of greeks, italians, jews, and arabs, and all the mongrel population of that inland sea; and in the ports under the dominion of turkey particularly, the office is coveted as a means of protecting the holder against the liabilities to his own government, and of revenue by selling that protection to others. i will not mention them by name, for i bear them no ill will personally, and i have received kindness from most of the petty vagabonds who live under the folds of the american flag; but the consuls at gendoa and algiers are a disgrace to the american name. congress has lately turned its attention to this subject, and will, before long, i hope, effect a complete change in the character of our consular department, and give it the respectability which it wants; the only remedy is by following the example of other nations, in fixing salaries to the office, and forbidding the holders to engage in trade. besides the leading inducements to this change, there is a secondary consideration, which, in my eyes, is not without its value, in that it would furnish a valuable school of instruction for our young men. the offices would be sought by such. a thousand or fifteen hundred dollars a year would maintain them respectably, in most of the ports of the mediterranean, and young men resident in those places, living upon salaries, and not obliged to engage in commerce, would employ their leisure hours in acquiring the language of the country, in communicating with the interior, and among them would return upon us an accumulation of knowledge far more than repaying us for all the expense of supporting them abroad. doubtless the reader expects other things in constantinople; but all things are changing. the day has gone by when the christian could not cross the threshold of a mosque and live. even the sacred mosque of st. sophia, the ancient christian church, so long closed against the christians' feet, now, upon great occasions, again opens its doors to the descendants of its christian builders. one of these great occasions happened while i was there. the sultan gave a firman to the french ambassador, under which all the european residents and travellers visited it. unfortunately, i was unwell, and could not go out that day, and was obliged afterward to content myself with walking around its walls, with uplifted eyes and a heavy heart, admiring the glittering crescent and thinking of the prostrate cross. but no traveller can leave constantinople without having seen the interior of a mosque; and accordingly, under the guidance of mustapha, the janisary of the british consul, i visited the mosque of sultan suliman, next in point of beauty to that of st. sophia, though far inferior in historical interest. at an early hour we crossed the golden horn to old stamboul; threaded our way through its narrow and intricate streets to an eminence near the seraskier pacha's tower; entered by a fine gateway into a large courtyard, more than a thousand feet square, handsomely paved and ornamented with noble trees, and enclosed by a high wall; passed a marble fountain of clear and abundant water, where, one after another, the faithful stopped to make their ablutions; entered a large colonnade, consisting of granite and marble pillars of every form and style, the plunder of ancient temples, worked in without much regard to architectural fitness, yet, on the whole, producing a fine effect; pulled off our shoes at the door, and, with naked feet and noiseless step, crossed the sacred threshold of the mosque. silently we moved among the kneeling figures of the faithful scattered about in different parts of the mosque and engaged in prayer; paused for a moment under the beautiful dome sustained by four columns from the temple of diana at ephesus; leaned against a marble pillar which may have supported, two thousand years ago, the praying figure of a worshipper of the great goddess; gazed at the thousand small lamps suspended from the lofty ceiling, each by a separate cord, and with a devout feeling left the mosque. [illustration: mosque of sultan suliman.] in the rear, almost concealed from view by a thick grove of trees, shrubs, and flowers, is a circular building about forty feet in diameter, containing the tomb of suliman, the founder of the mosque, his brother, his favourite wife roxala, and two other wives. the monuments are in the form of sarcophagi, with pyramidal tops, covered with rich cashmere shawls, having each at the head a large white turban, and enclosed by a railing covered with mother-of-pearl. the great beauty of the sepulchral chamber is its dome, which is highly ornamented, and sparkles with brilliants. in one corner is a plan of mecca, the holy temple, and tomb of the prophet. in the afternoon i went for the last time to the armenian burying-ground. in the east the graveyards are the general promenades, the places of rendezvous, and the lounging-places; and in constantinople the armenian burying-ground is the most beautiful, and the favourite. situated in the suburbs of pera, overlooking the bosphorus, shaded by noble palm-trees, almost regularly toward evening i found myself sitting upon the same tombstone, looking upon the silvery water at my feet, studded with palaces, flashing and glittering with caiques from the golden palace of the sultan to the seraglio point, and then turned to the animated groups thronging the burying-ground; the armenian in his flowing robes, the dashing greek, the stiff and out-of-place-looking frank; turks in their gay and bright costume, glittering arms, and solemn beards, enjoying the superlative of existence in dozing over their pipe; and women in long white veils, apart under some delightful shade, in little picnic parties, eating ices and confectionary. here and there, toward the outskirts, was the araba, the only wheeled carriage known among the turks, with a long low body, highly carved and gilded, drawn by oxen fancifully trimmed with ribands, and filled with soft cushions, on which the turkish and armenian ladies almost buried themselves. instead of the cypress, the burying-ground is shaded by noble plane-trees; and the tombstones, instead of being upright, are all flat, having at the head a couple of little niches scooped out to hold water, with the beautiful idea to induce birds to come there and drink and sing among the trees. their tombstones, too, have another mark, which, in a country where men are apt to forget who their fathers were, would exclude them even from that place where all mortal distinctions are laid low, viz., a mark indicating the profession or occupation of the deceased; as, a pair of shears to mark the grave of a tailor; a razor that of a barber; and on many of them was another mark indicating the manner of death, the bowstring, or some other mark, showing that the stone covered a victim of turkish cruelty. but all these things are well known; nothing has escaped the prying eyes of curious travellers; and i merely state, for my own credit's sake, that i followed the steps of those who had gone before me, visited the sweet waters, scutary, and belgrade, the reservoirs, aqueducts, and ruins of the palace of constantine, and saw the dancing dervishes; rowed up the bosphorus to buyukdere, lunched under the tree where godfrey encamped with his gallant crusaders, and looked out upon the black sea from the top of the giant's mountain. chapter xiii. visit to the slave-market.--horrors of slavery.--departure from stamboul.--the stormy euxine.--odessa.--the lazaretto.--russian civility.--returning good for evil. the day before i left constantinople i went, in company with dr. n. and his son, and attended by paul, to visit the slave-market; crossing over to stamboul, we picked up a jew in the bazars, who conducted us through a perfect labyrinth of narrow streets to a quarter of the city from which it would have been utterly impossible for me to extricate myself alone. i only know that it was situated on high ground, and that we passed through a gateway into a hollow square of about a hundred and fifty or two hundred feet on each side. it was with no small degree of emotion that i entered this celebrated place, where so many christian hearts have trembled; and, before crossing the threshold, i ran over in my mind all the romantic stories and all the horrible realities that i could remember connected with its history: the tears of beauty, the pangs of brave men, and so down to the unsentimental exclamation of johnson to his new friend don juan: "yon black eunuch seems to eye us; i wish to god that somebody would buy us." the bazar forms a hollow square, with little chambers about fifteen feet each way around it, in which the slaves belonging to the different dealers are kept. a large shed or portico projects in front, under which, and in front of each chamber, is a raised platform, with a low railing around it, where the slave-merchant sits and gossips, and dozes over his coffee and pipes. i had heard so little of this place, and it was so little known among europeans, taking into consideration, moreover, that in a season of universal peace the market must be without a supply of captives gained in war, that i expected to see but a remnant of the ancient traffic, supposing that i should find but few slaves, and those only black; but, to my surprise, i found there twenty or thirty white women. bad, horrible as this traffic is under any circumstances, to my habits and feelings it loses a shade of its horrors when confined to blacks; but here whites and blacks were exposed together in the same bazar. the women were from circassia and the regions of the caucasus, that country so renowned for beauty; they were dressed in the turkish costume, with the white shawl wrapped around the mouth and chin, and over the forehead, shading the eyes, so that it was difficult to judge with certainty as to their personal appearance. europeans are not permitted to purchase, and their visits to this bazar are looked upon with suspicion. if we stopped long opposite a door, it was closed upon us; but i was not easily shaken off, and returned so often at odd times, that i succeeded in seeing pretty distinctly all that was to be seen. in general, the best slaves are not exposed in the bazars, but are kept at the houses of the dealers; but there was one among them not more than seventeen, with a regular circassian face, a brilliantly fair complexion, a mild and cheerful expression; and in the slave-market, under the partial disguise of the turkish shawl, it required no great effort of the imagination to make her decidedly beautiful. paul stopped, and with a burst of enthusiasm, the first i had discovered in him, exclaimed "quelle beauté!" she noticed my repeatedly stopping before her bazar; and, when i was myself really disposed to be sentimental, instead of drooping her head with the air of a distressed heroine, to my great surprise she laughed and nodded, and beckoned me to come to her. paul was very much struck; and repeating his warm expression of admiration at her beauty, told me that she wanted me to buy her. without waiting for a reply, he went off and inquired the price, which was two hundred and fifty dollars; and added that he could easily get some turk to let me buy her in his name, and then i could put her on board a vessel, and carry her where i pleased. i told him it was hardly worth while at present; and he, thinking my objection was merely to the person, in all honesty and earnestness told me he had been there frequently, and never saw anything half so handsome; adding that, if i let slip this opportunity, i would scarcely have another as good, and wound up very significantly by declaring that, if he was a gentleman, he would not hesitate a moment. a gentleman, in the sense in which paul understood the word, is apt to fall into irregular ways in the east. removed from the restraints which operate upon men in civilized countries, if he once breaks through the trammels of education, he goes all lengths; and it is said to be a matter of general remark, that slaves are always worse treated by europeans than by the turks. the slave-dealers are principally jews, who buy children when young, and, if they have beauty train up the girls in such accomplishments as may fascinate the turks. our guide told us that, since the greek revolution, the slave-market had been comparatively deserted; but, during the whole of that dreadful struggle, every day presented new horrors; new captives were brought in, the men raving and struggling, and vainly swearing eternal vengeance against the turks, and the women shrieking distractedly in the agony of a separation. after the massacre at scio, in particular, hundreds of young girls, with tears streaming down their cheeks, and bursting hearts, were sold to the unhallowed embraces of the turks for a few dollars a head. we saw nothing of the horrors and atrocities of this celebrated slave-market. indeed, except prisoners of war and persons captured by turkish corsairs, the condition of those who now fill the slave-market is not the horrible lot that a warm imagination might suppose. they are mostly persons in a semibarbarous state; blacks from sennaar and abyssinia, or whites from the regions of the caucasus, bought from their parents for a string of beads or a shawl; and, in all probability, the really beautiful girl whom i saw had been sold by parents who could not feed or clothe her, who considered themselves rid of an encumbrance, and whom she left without regret; and she, having left poverty and misery behind her, looked to the slave-market as the sole means of advancing her fortune; and, in becoming the favoured inmate of a harem, expected to attain a degree of happiness she could never have enjoyed at home. i intended to go from constantinople to egypt, but the plague was raging there so violently that it would have been foolhardy to attempt it; and while making arrangements with a tartar to return to europe on horseback across the balkan, striking the danube at semlin and belgrade, a russian government steamer was advertised for odessa; and as this mode of travelling at that moment suited my health better, i altered my whole plan, and determined to leave the ruined countries of the old world for a land just emerging from a state of barbarism, and growing into gigantic greatness. with great regret i took leave of dr. n. and his son, who sailed the same day for smyrna, and i have never seen them since. paul was the last man to whom i said farewell. at the moment of starting my shirts were brought in dripping wet, and paul bestowed a malediction upon the greek while he wrung them out and tumbled them into my carpet-bag. i afterward found him at malta, whence he accompanied me on my tour in egypt, arabia petræa, and the holy land, by which he is, perhaps, already known to some of my readers. with my carpet-bag on the shoulders of a turk, i walked for the last time to tophana. a hundred caiquemen gathered around me, but i pushed them all back, and kept guard over my carpet-bag, looking out for one whom i had been in the habit of employing ever since my arrival in constantinople. he soon spied me; and when he took my luggage and myself into his caique, manifested that he knew it was for the last time. having an hour to spare, i directed him to row once more under the walls of the seraglio; and still loath to leave, i went on shore and walked around the point, until i was stopped by a turkish bayonet. the turk growled, and his mustache curled fiercely as he pointed it at me. i had been stopped by frenchmen, italians, and by a mountain greek, but found nothing that brings a man to such a dead stand as the turkish bayonet. i returned to my caique, and went on board the steamer. she was a russian government vessel, more classically called a pyroscaphe, a miserable old thing; and yet as much form and circumstance were observed in sending her off as in fitting out an _exploring expedition_. consuls' and ambassadors' boats were passing and repassing, and after an enormous fuss and preparation, we started under a salute of cannon, which was answered from one of the sultan's frigates. we had the usual scene of parting with friends, waving of handkerchiefs, and so on; and feeling a little lonely at the idea of leaving a city containing a million inhabitants without a single friend to bid me godspeed, i took my place on the quarter-deck, and waved my handkerchief to my caiqueman, who, i have no doubt, independent of the loss of a few piasters per day, was very sorry to lose me; for we had been so long together, that, in spite of our ignorance of each other's language, we understood each other perfectly. i found on board two englishmen whom i had met at corfu, and a third, who had joined them at smyrna, going to travel in the crimea; our other cabin-passengers were mr. luoff, a russian officer, an aiddecamp of the emperor, just returned from travels in egypt and syria, mr. perseani, secretary to the russian legation in greece; a greek merchant, with a russian protection, on his way to the sea of azoff; and a french merchant of odessa. the tub of a steamboat dashed up the bosphorus at the rate of three miles an hour; while the classic waters, as if indignant at having such a bellowing, blowing, blustering monster upon their surface, seemed to laugh at her unwieldy and ineffectual efforts. slowly we mounted the beautiful strait, lined on the european side almost with one continued range of houses, exhibiting in every beautiful nook a palace of the sultan, and at terapeia and buyukdere the palaces of the foreign ambassadors; passed the giant's mountain, and about an hour before dark were entering a new sea, the dark and stormy euxine. advancing, the hills became more lofty and ragged, terminating on the thracian side in high rocky precipices. the shores of this extremity of the bosphorus were once covered with shrines, altars, and temples, monuments of the fears or gratitude of mariners who were about to leave, or who had escaped, the dangers of the inhospitable euxine; and the remains of these antiquities were so great that a traveller almost in our own day describes the coasts as "covered by their ruins." the castles on the european and the asiatic side of the strait are supposed to occupy the sites where stood, in ancient days, the great temples of jupiter serapis and jupiter urius. the bosphorus opens abruptly, without any enlargement at its mouth, between two mountains. the parting view of the strait, or, rather, of the coast on each side, was indescribably grand, presenting a stupendous wall opposed to the great bed of waters, as if torn asunder by an earthquake, leaving a narrow rent for their escape. on each side, a miserable lantern on the top of a tower, hardly visible at the distance of a few miles, is the only light to guide the mariner at night; and as there is another opening called the false bosphorus, the entrance is difficult and dangerous, and many vessels are lost here annually. as the narrow opening closed before me, i felt myself entering a new world; i was fairly embarked upon that wide expanse of water which once, according to ancient legends, mingled with the caspian, and covered the great oriental plain of tartary, and upon which jason, with his adventurous argonauts, having killed the dragon and carried off the golden fleece from colchis, if those same legends be true (which some doubt), sailed across to the great ocean. i might and should have speculated upon the great changes in the face of nature and the great deluge recorded by grecian historians and poets, which burst the narrow passage of the thracian bosphorus for the outlet of the mighty waters; but who could philosophize in a steamboat on the euxine? oh fulton! much as thou hast done for mechanics and the useful arts, thy hand has fallen rudely upon all cherished associations. we boast of thee; i have myself been proud of thee as an american; but as i sat at evening on the stern of the steamer, and listened to the clatter of the engine, and watched the sparks rushing out of the high pipes, and remembered that this was on the dark and inhospitable euxine, i wished that thy life had begun after mine was ended. i trust i did his memory no wrong; but if i had borne him malice, i could not have wished him worse than to have all his dreams of the past disturbed by the clatter of one of his own engines. i turned away from storied associations to a new country grown up in our own day. we escaped, and, i am obliged to say, without noticing them, the cyaneæ, "the blue symplegades," or "wandering islands," which, lying on the european and asiatic side, floated about, or, according to pliny, "were alive, and moved to and fro more swiftly than the blast," and in passing through which the good ship argo had a narrow escape, and lost the extremity of her stern. history and poetry have invested this sea with extraordinary and ideal terrors; but my experience both of the mediterranean and black sea was unfortunate for realizing historical and poetical accounts. i had known the beautiful mediterranean a sea of storm and sunshine, in which the storm greatly predominated. i found the stormy euxine calm as an untroubled lake; in fact, the black sea is in reality nothing more than a lake, not as large as many of our own, receiving the waters of the great rivers of the north: the don, the cuban, the phase, the dnieper, and the danube, and pouring their collected streams through the narrow passage of the bosphorus into the mediterranean. still, if the number of shipwrecks be any evidence of its character, it is indeed entitled to its ancient reputation of a dangerous sea, though probably these accidents proceed, in a great measure, from the ignorance and unskilfulness of mariners, and the want of proper charts and of suitable lighthouses at the opening of the bosphorus. at all events, we outblustered the winds and waves with our steamboat; passed the serpent isles, the ancient leuce, with a roaring that must have astonished the departed heroes whose souls, according to the ancient poets, were sent there to enjoy perpetual paradise, and scared the aquatic birds which every morning dipped their wings in the sea, and sprinkled the temple of achilles, and swept with their plumage its sacred pavement. [illustration: odessa.] on the third day we made the low coast of moldavia or bess arabia, within a short distance of odessa, the great seaport of southern russia. here, too, there was nothing to realize preconceived notions; for, instead of finding a rugged region of eternal snows, we were suffering under an intensely hot sun when we cast anchor in the harbour of odessa. the whole line of the coast is low and destitute of trees; but odessa is situated on a high bank; and, with its beautiful theatre, the exchange, the palace of the governor, &c., did not look like a city which, thirty years ago, consisted only of a few fishermen's huts. the harbour of odessa is very much exposed to the north and east winds, which often cause great damage to the shipping. many hundred anchors cover the bottom, which cut the rope cables; and, the water being shallow, vessels are often injured by striking on them. an austrian brig going out, having struck one, sank in ten minutes. there are two moles, the quarantine mole, in which we came to anchor, being the principal. quarantine flags were flying about the harbour, the yellow indicating those undergoing purification, and the red the fatal presence of the plague. we were prepared to undergo a vexatious process. at constantinople i had heard wretched accounts of the rude treatment of lazaretto subjects, and the rough, barbarous manners of the russians to travellers, and we had a foretaste of the light in which we were to be regarded, in the conduct of the health-officer who came alongside. he offered to take charge of any letters for the town, purify them that night, and deliver them in the morning; and, according to his directions, we laid them down on the deck, where he took them up with a pair of long iron tongs, and putting them into an iron box, shut it up and rowed off. in the morning, having received notice that the proper officers were ready to attend us, we went ashore. we landed in separate boats at the end of a long pier, and, forgetting our supposed pestiferous influence, were walking up toward a crowd of men whom we saw there, when their retrograde movements, their gestures, and unintelligible shouts reminded us of our situation. one of our party, in a sort of ecstasy at being on shore, ran capering up the docks, putting to flight a group of idlers, and, single-handed, might have depopulated the city of odessa, if an ugly soldier with a bayonet had not met him in full career and put a stop to his gambols. the soldier conducted us to a large building at the upper end of the pier; and carefully opening the door, and falling back so as to avoid even the wind that might blow from us in his direction, told us to go in. at the other end of a large room, divided by two parallel railings, sat officers and clerks to examine our passports and take a general account of us. we were at once struck with the military aspect of things, every person connected with the establishment wearing a military uniform; and now commenced a long process. the first operation was to examine our passports, take down our names, and make a memorandum of the purposes for which we severally entered the dominions of the emperor and autocrat of all the russias. we were all called up, one after the other, captain, cook, and cabin-boy, cabin and deck passengers; and never, perhaps, did steamboat pour forth a more motley assemblage than we presented. we were jews, turks, and christians; russians, poles, and germans; english, french, and italians; austrians, greeks, and illyrians; moldavians, wallachians, bulgarians, and sclavonians; armenians, georgians, and africans; and one american. i had before remarked the happy facility of the russians in acquiring languages, and i saw a striking instance in the officer who conducted the examination, and who addressed every man in his own language with apparently as much facility as though it had been his native tongue. after the oral commenced a corporeal examination. we were ordered one by one into an adjoining room, where, on the other side of a railing, stood a doctor, who directed us to open our shirt bosoms, and slap our hands smartly under our arms and upon our groins, these being the places where the fatal plague-marks first exhibit themselves. this over, we were forthwith marched to the lazaretto, escorted by guards and soldiers, who behaved very civilly and kept at a respectful distance from us. among our deck passengers were forty or fifty jews, dirty and disgusting objects, just returned from a pilgrimage to jerusalem. an old man, who seemed to be, in a manner, the head of the party, and exceeded them all in rags and filthiness, but was said to be rich, in going up to the lazaretto amused us and vexed the officers by sitting down on the way, paying no regard to them when they urged him on, being perfectly assured that they would not dare to touch him. once he resolutely refused to move; they threatened and swore at him, but he kept his place until one got a long pole and punched him on ahead. in this way we entered the lazaretto; but if it had not been called by that name, and if we had not looked upon it as a place where we were compelled to stay for a certain time, nolens volens, we should have considered it a beautiful spot. it is situated on high ground, within an enclosure of some fifteen or twenty acres, overlooking the black sea, laid out in lawn and gravel walks, and ornamented with rows of acacia-trees. fronting the sea was a long range of buildings divided into separate apartments, each with a little courtyard in front containing two or three acacias. the director, a fine, military-looking man, with a decoration on his lapel, met us on horseback within the enclosure, and with great suavity of manner said that he could not bid us welcome to a prison, but that we should have the privilege of walking at will over the grounds, and visiting each other, subject only to the attendance of a guardiano; and that all that could contribute to our comfort should be done for us. we then selected our rooms, and underwent another personal examination. this was the real touchstone; the first was a mere preliminary observation by a medical understrapper; but this was conducted by a more knowing doctor. we were obliged to strip naked; to give up the clothes we pulled off, and put on a flannel gown, drawers, and stockings, and a woollen cap provided by the government, until our own should be smoked and purified. in everything, however, the most scrupulous regard was paid to our wishes, and a disposition was manifested by all to make this rather vexatious proceeding as little annoying as possible. the bodily examination was as delicate as the nature of the case would admit; for the doctor merely opened the door, looked in, and went out without taking his hand from off the knob. it was none of my business, i know, and may be thought impertinent, but, as he closed the door, i could not help calling him back to ask him whether he held the same inquisition upon the fair sex; to which he replied with a melancholy upturning of the eyes that in the good old days of russian barbarism this had been part of his duties, but that the march of improvement had invaded his rights, and given this portion of his professional duties to a _sage femme_. all our effects were then taken to another chamber, and arranged on lines, each person superintending the disposition of his own, so as to prevent all confusion, and left there to be fumigated with sulphuric acid for twenty-four hours. so particular were they in fumigating everything susceptible of infection, that i was obliged to leave there a black riband which i wore round my neck as a guard to my watch. toward evening the principal director, one of the most gentlemanly men i ever met, came round, and with many apologies and regrets for his inability to receive us better, requested us to call upon him freely for anything we might want. not knowing any of us personally, he did me the honour to say that he understood there was an american in the party, who had been particularly recommended to him by a russian officer and fellow-passenger. afterward came the commissary, or chief of the department, and repeated the same compliments, and left us with an exalted opinion of russian politeness. i had heard horrible accounts of the rough treatment of travellers in russia, and i made a note at the time, lest after vexations should make me forget it, that i had received more politeness and civility from these northern barbarians, as they are called by the people of the south of europe, than i ever found amid their boasted civilization. having still an hour before dark, i strolled out, followed by my guardiano, to take a more particular survey of our prison. in a gravel walk lined with acacias, immediately before the door of my little courtyard, i came suddenly upon a lady of about eighteen, whose dark hair and eyes i at once recognised as grecian, leading by the hand a little child. i am sure my face brightened at the first glimpse of this vision which promised to shine upon us in our solitude; and perhaps my satisfaction was made too manifest by my involuntarily moving toward her. but my presumption received a severe and mortifying check; for though at first she merely crossed to the other side of the walk, she soon forgot all ceremony, and, fairly dragging the child after her, ran over the grass to another walk to avoid me; my mortification, however, was but temporary; for though, in the first impulse of delight and admiration, i had forgotten time, place, and circumstance, the repulse i had received made me turn to myself, and i was glad to find an excuse for the lady's flight in the flannel gown and long cap and slippers, which marked me as having just entered upon my season of purification. i was soon initiated into the routine of lazaretto ceremonies and restrictions. by touching a quarantine patient, both parties are subjected to the longest term of either; so that if a person, on the last day of his term, should come in contact with another just entered, he would lose all the benefit of his days of purification, and be obliged to wait the full term of the latter. i have seen, in various situations in life, a system of operations called keeping people at a distance, but i never saw it so effectually practised as in quarantine. for this night, at least, i had full range. i walked where i pleased, and was very sure that every one would keep out of my way. during the whole time, however, i could not help treasuring up the precipitate flight of the young lady; and i afterward told her, and, i hope, with the true spirit of one ready to return good for evil, that if she had been in my place, and the days of my purification had been almost ended, in spite of plague and pestilence she might have rushed into my arms without my offering the least impediment. in making the tour of the grounds, i had already an opportunity of observing the relation in which men stand to each other in russia. when an officer spoke to a soldier, the latter stood motionless as a statue, with his head uncovered during the whole of the conference; and when a soldier on guard saw an officer, no matter at what distance, he presented arms, and remained in that position until the officer was out of sight. returning, i passed a grating, through which i saw our deck passengers, forty or fifty in number, including the jewish pilgrims, miserable, dirty-looking objects, turned in together for fourteen days, to eat, drink, and sleep as best they might, like brutes. with a high idea of the politeness of the russians toward the rich and great, or those whom they believed to be so, and with a strong impression already received confirming the accounts of the degraded condition of the lower classes, i returned to my room, and, with a frenchman and a greek for my room-mates, my window opening upon the black sea, i spent my first night in quarantine. chapter xiv. the guardiano.--one too many.--an excess of kindness.--the last day of quarantine.--mr. baguet.--rise of odessa.--city-making.--count woronzow.--a gentleman farmer.--an american russian. i shall pass over briefly the whole of our _pratique_. the next morning i succeeded in getting a room to myself. a guardiano was assigned to each room, who took his place in the antechamber, and was always in attendance. these guardianos are old soldiers, entitled by the rules of the establishment to so much a day; but, as they always expect a gratuity, their attention and services are regulated by that expectation. i was exceedingly fortunate in mine; he was always in the antechamber, cleaning his musket, mending his clothes, or stretched on a mattress looking at the wall; and, whenever i came through with my hat on, without a word he put on his belt and followed me; and very soon, instead of regarding him as an encumbrance, i became accustomed to him, and it was a satisfaction to have him with me. sometimes, in walking for exercise, i moved so briskly that it tired him to keep up with me; and then i selected a walk where he could sit down and keep his eye upon me, while i walked backward and forward before him. besides this, he kept my room in order, set my table, carried my notes, brushed my clothes, and took better care of me than any servant i ever had. our party consisted of eight, and being subjected to the same quarantine, and supposed to have the same quantum of infection, we were allowed to visit each other; and every afternoon we met in the yard, walked an hour or two, took tea together, and returned to our own rooms, where our guardianos mounted guard in the antechamber; our gates were locked up, and a soldier walked outside as sentinel. i was particularly intimate with the russian officer, whom i found one of the most gentlemanly, best educated, and most amiable men i ever met. he had served and been wounded in the campaign against poland; had with him two soldiers, his own serfs, who had served under him in that campaign, and had accompanied him in his tour in egypt and syria. he gave me his address at st. petersburgh and promised me the full benefit of his acquaintance there. i have before spoken of the three englishmen. two of them i had met at corfu; the third joined them at smyrna, and added another proof to the well-established maxim that three spoil company; for i soon found that they had got together by the ears; and the new-comer having connected himself with one of the others, they were anxious to get rid of the third. many causes of offence existed between them; and though they continued to room together, they were merely waiting till the end of our pratique for an opportunity to separate. one morning the one who was about being thrown off came to my room, and told me that he did not care about going to the crimea, and proposed accompanying me. this suited me very well; it was a long and expensive journey, and would cost a mere fraction more for two than for one; and when the breach was widened past all possibility of being healed, the cast-off and myself agreed to travel together. i saw much of the secretary of legation, and also of the greek and frenchman, my room-mates for the first night. indeed, i think i may say that i was an object of special interest to all our party. i was unwell, and my companions overwhelmed me with prescriptions and advice; they brought in their medicine chests; one assuring me that he had been cured by this, another by that, and each wanted me to swallow his own favourite medicine, interlarding their advice with anecdotes of whole sets of passengers who had been detained, some forty, some fifty, and some sixty days, by the accidental sickness of one. i did all i could for them, always having regard to the circumstance that it was not of such vital importance to me, at least, to hold out fourteen days if i broke down on the fifteenth. in a few days the doctor, in one of his rounds, told me he understood i was unwell, and i confessed to him the reason of my withholding the fact, and took his prescriptions so well, that, at parting, he gave me a letter to a friend in chioff, and to his brother, a distinguished professor in the university at st. petersburgh. we had a restaurant in the lazaretto, with a new bill of fare every day; not first-rate, perhaps, but good enough. i had sent a letter of introduction to mr. baguet, the spanish consul, also to a german, the brother of a missionary at constantinople, and a note to mr. ralli, the american consul, and had frequent visits from them, and long talks at the parlatoria through the grating. the german was a knowing one, and came often; he had a smattering of english, and would talk in that language, as i thought, in compliment to me; but the last time he came he thanked me kindly, and told me he had improved more in his english than by a year's study. when i got out he never came near me. sunday, june seventh, was our last day in quarantine. we had counted the days anxiously; and though our time had passed as agreeably as, under the circumstances, it could pass, we were in high spirits at the prospect of our liberation. to the last, the attention and civility of the officers of the yard continued unremitted. every morning regularly the director knocked at each gate to inquire how we had passed the night, and whether he could do anything for us; then the doctor, to inquire into our corporeal condition; and every two or three days, toward evening, the director, with the same decoration on the lapel of his coat, and at the same hour, inquired whether we had any complaints to make of want of attendance or improper treatment. our last day in the lazaretto is not to be forgotten. we kept as clear of the rest of the inmates as if they had been pickpockets, though once i was thrown into a cold sweat by an act of forgetfulness. a child fell down before me; i sprang forward to pick him up, and should infallibly have been fixed for ten days longer if my guardiano had not caught me. lingering for the last time on the walk overlooking the black sea, i saw a vessel coming up under full sail, bearing, as i thought, the american flag. my heart almost bounded at seeing the stars and stripes on the black sea; but i was deceived; and almost dejected with the disappointment, called my guardiano, and returned for the last time to my room. the next morning we waited in our rooms till the doctor paid his final visit, and soon after we all gathered before the door of the directory, ready to sally forth. every one who has made a european voyage knows the metamorphosis in the appearance of the passengers on the day of landing. it was much the same with us; we had no more slipshod, long-bearded companions, but all were clean shirted and shaved becomingly, except our old jew and his party, who probably had not changed a garment or washed their faces since the first day in quarantine, nor perhaps for many years before. they were people from whom, under any circumstances, one would be apt to keep at a respectful distance; and to the last they carried everything before them. we had still another vexatious process in passing our luggage through the custom-house. we had handed in a list of all our effects the night before, in which i intentionally omitted to mention byron's poems, these being prohibited in russia. he had been my companion in italy and greece, and i was loath to part with him; so i put the book under my arm, threw my cloak over me, and walked out unmolested. outside the gate there was a general shaking of hands; the director, whom we had seen every day at a distance, was the first to greet us, and mr. baguet, the brother of the spanish consul, who was waiting to receive me, welcomed me to russia. with sincere regret i bade good-by to my old soldier, mounted a drosky, and in ten minutes was deposited in a hotel, in size and appearance equal to the best in paris. it was a pleasure once more to get into a wheel-carriage; i had not seen one since i left italy, except the old hack i mentioned at argos, and the arabas at constantinople. it was a pleasure, too, to see hats, coats, and pantaloons. early associations will cling to a man; and, in spite of a transient admiration for the dashing costume of the greek and turk, i warmed to the ungraceful covering of civilized man, even to the long surtout and bell-crowned hat of the russian marchand; and, more than all, i was attracted by an appearance of life and energy particularly striking after coming from among the dead-and-alive turks. while in quarantine i had received an invitation to dine with mr. baguet, and had barely time to make one tour of the city in a drosky before it was necessary to dress for dinner. mr. baguet was a bachelor of about forty, living in pleasant apartments, in an unpretending and gentlemanly style. as in all the ports of the levant, except where there are ambassadors, the consuls are the nobility of the place. several of them were present; and the european consuls in those places are a different class of men from ours, as they are paid by salaries from their respective governments, while ours, who receive no pay, are generally natives of the place, who serve for the honour or some other accidental advantage. we had, therefore, the best society in odessa at mr. baguet's, the american consul not being present, which, by-the-way, i do not mean in a disrespectful sense, as mr. ralli seemed every way deserving of all the benefits that the station gives. in the evening the consul and myself took two or three turns on the boulevards, and at about eleven i returned to my hotel. after what i have said of this establishment, the reader will be surprised to learn that, when i went to my room, i found there a bedstead, but no bed or bedclothes. i supposed it was neglect, and ordered one to be prepared; but, to my surprise, was told that there were no beds in the hotel. it was kept exclusively for the rich seigneurs who always carry their own beds with them. luckily, the bedstead was not corded, but contained a bottom of plain slabs of wood, about six or eight inches wide, and the same distance apart, laid crosswise, so that lengthwise there was no danger of falling through; and wrapping myself in my cloak, and putting my carpet-bag under my head, i went to sleep. before breakfast the next morning i had learned the topography of odessa. to an american russia is an interesting country. true, it is not classic ground; but as for me, who had now travelled over the faded and wornout kingdoms of the old world, i was quite ready for something new. like our own, russia is a new country, and in many respects resembles ours. it is true that we began life differently. russia has worked her way to civilization from a state of absolute barbarism, while we sprang into being with the advantage of all the lights of the old world. still there are many subjects of comparison, and even of emulation, between us; and nowhere in all russia is there a more proper subject to begin with than my first landing-place. odessa is situated in a small bay between the mouths of the dnieper and dniester. forty years ago it consisted of a few miserable fishermen's huts on the shores of the black sea. in the empress catharine resolved to built a city there; and the turks being driven from the dominion of the black sea, it became a place of resort and speculation for the english, austrians, neapolitans, dutch, ragusans, and greeks of the ionian republic. in eighteen hundred and two, two hundred and eighty vessels arrived from constantinople and the mediterranean; and the duke de richelieu, being appointed governor-general by alexander, laid out a city upon a gigantic scale, which, though at first its growth was not commensurate with his expectations, now contains sixty thousand inhabitants, and bids fair to realize the extravagant calculations of its founder. mr. baguet and the gentlemen whom i met at his table were of opinion that it is destined to be the greatest commercial city in russia, as the long winters and the closing of the baltic with ice must ever be a great disadvantage to st. petersburgh; and the interior of the country can as well be supplied from odessa as from the northern capital. there is no country where cities have sprung up so fast and increased so rapidly as in ours; and, altogether, perhaps nothing in the world can be compared with our buffalo, rochester, cincinnati, &c. but odessa has grown faster than any of these, and has nothing of the appearance of one of our new cities. we are both young, and both marching with gigantic strides to greatness, but we move by different roads; and the whole face of the country, from the new city on the borders of the black sea to the steppes of siberia, shows a different order of government and a different constitution of society. with us, a few individuals cut down the trees of the forest, or settle themselves by the banks of a stream, where they happen to find some local advantages, and build houses suited to their necessities; others come and join them; and, by degrees, the little settlement becomes a large city. but here a gigantic government, endowed almost with creative powers, says, "let there be a city," and immediately commences the erection of large buildings. the rich seigneurs follow the lead of government, and build hotels to let out in apartments. the theatre, casino, and exchange at odessa are perhaps superior to any buildings in the united states. the city is situated on an elevation about a hundred feet above the sea; a promenade three quarters of a mile long, terminated at one end by the exchange, and at the other by the palace of the governor, is laid out in front along the margin of the sea, bounded on one side by an abrupt precipice, and adorned with trees, shrubs, flowers, statues, and busts, like the garden of the tuileries, the borghese villa, or the villa recali at naples. on the other side is a long range of hotels built of stone, running the whole length of the boulevards, some of them with façades after the best models in italy. a broad street runs through the centre of the city, terminating with a semicircular enlargement at the boulevards, and in the centre of this stands a large equestrian statue erected to the duke de richelieu; and parallel and at right angles are wide streets lined with large buildings, according to the most approved plans of modern architecture. the custom which the people have of taking apartments in hotels causes the erection of large buildings, which add much to the general appearance of the city; while with us, the universal disposition of every man to have a house to himself, conduces to the building of small houses, and, consequently, detracts from general effect. the city, as yet, is not generally paved, and is, consequently, so dusty, that every man is obliged to wear a light cloak to save his dress. paving-stone is brought from trieste and malta, and is very expensive. about two o'clock mr. ralli, our consul, called upon me. mr. ralli is a greek of scio. he left his native island when a boy; has visited every port in europe as a merchant, and lived for the last eight years in odessa. he has several brothers in england, trieste, and some of the greek islands, and all are connected in business. when mr. rhind, who negotiated our treaty with the porte, left odessa, he authorized mr. ralli to transact whatever consular business might be required, and on his recommendation mr. ralli afterward received a regular appointment as consul. mr. rhind, by-the-way, expected a great trade from opening the black sea to american bottoms; but he was wrong in his anticipations, and there have been but two american vessels there since the treaty. mr. ralli is rich and respected, being vice-president of the commercial board, and very proud of the honour of the american consulate, as it gives him a position among the dignitaries of the place, enables him to wear a uniform and sword on public occasions, and yields him other privileges which are gratifying, at least, if not intrinsically valuable. no traveller can pass through odessa without having to acknowledge the politeness of count woronzow, the governor of the crimea, one of the richest seigneurs in russia, and one of the pillars of the throne. at the suggestion of mr. ralli, i accompanied him to the palace and was presented. the palace is a magnificent building, and the interior exhibits a combination of wealth and taste. the walls are hung with italian paintings, and, for interior ornaments and finish, the palace is far superior to those in italy; the knobs of the doors are of amber, and the doors of the dining-room from the old imperial palace at st. petersburgh. the count is a military-looking man of about fifty, six feet high, with sallow complexion and gray hair. his father married an english lady of the sidney family, and his sister married the earl of pembroke. he is a soldier in bearing and appearance, held a high rank during the french invasion of russia, and distinguished himself particularly at borodino; in rank and power he is the fourth military officer in the empire. he possesses immense wealth in all parts of russia, particularly in the crimea; and his wife's mother, after demidoff and scheremetieff, is the richest subject in the whole empire. he speaks english remarkably well, and, after a few commonplaces, with his characteristic politeness to strangers, invited me to dine at the palace the next day. i was obliged to decline, and he himself suggested the reason, that probably i was engaged with my countryman, mr. sontag (of whom more anon), whom the count referred to as his old friend, adding that he would not interfere with the pleasure of a meeting between two countrymen so far from home, and asked me for the day after, or any other day i pleased. i apologized on the ground of my intended departure, and took my leave. my proposed travelling companion had committed to me the whole arrangements for our journey, or, more properly, had given me the whole trouble of making them; and, accompanied by one of mr. ralli's clerks, i visited all the carriage repositories to purchase a vehicle, after which i accompanied mr. ralli to his country-house to dine. he occupied a pretty little place a few versts from odessa, with a large fruit and ornamental garden. mr. ralli's lady is also a native of greece, with much of the cleverness and _spirituelle_ character of the educated greeks. one of her _bons mots_ current in odessa is, that her husband is consul for the other world. a young italian, with a very pretty wife, dined with us, and, after dinner and a stroll through the garden, we walked over to mr. perseani's, the father of our russian secretary; another walk in the garden with a party of ladies, tea, and i got back to odessa in time for a walk on the boulevards and the opera. before my attention was turned to odessa, i should as soon have thought of an opera-house at chicago as there; but i already found, what impressed itself more forcibly upon me at every step, that russia is a country of anomalies. the new city on the black sea contains many french and italian residents, who are willing to give all that is not necessary for food and clothing for the opera; the russians themselves are passionately fond of musical and theatrical entertainments, and government makes up all deficiencies. the interior of the theatre corresponds with the beauty of its exterior. all the decorations are in good taste, and the corinthian columns, running from the foot to the top, particularly beautiful. the opera was the barber of seville; the company in _full_ undress, and so barbarous as to pay attention to the performance. i came out at about ten o'clock, and, after a turn or two on the boulevards, took an icecream at the café of the hotel de petersbourgh. this hotel is beautifully situated on one corner of the main street, fronting the boulevards, and opposite the statue of the duke de richelieu; and looking from the window of the café, furnished and fitted up in a style superior to most in paris, upon the crowd still thronging the boulevards, i could hardly believe that i was really on the borders of the black sea. having purchased a carriage and made all my arrangements for starting, i expected to pass this day with an unusual degree of satisfaction, and i was not disappointed. i have mentioned incidentally the name of a countryman resident in odessa; and, being so far from home, i felt a yearning toward an american. in france or italy i seldom had this feeling, for there americans congregate in crowds; but in greece and turkey i always rejoiced to meet a compatriot; and when, on my arrival at odessa, before going into the lazaretto, the captain told me that there was an american residing there, high in character and office, who had been twenty years in russia, i requested him to present my compliments, and say that, if he had not forgotten his fatherland, a countryman languishing in the lazaretto would be happy to see him through the gratings of his prison-house. i afterward regretted having sent this message, as i heard from other sources that he was a prominent man, and during the whole term of my quarantine i never heard from him personally. i was most agreeably disappointed, however, when, on the first day of my release, i met him at dinner at the spanish consul's. he had been to the crimea with count woronzow; had only returned that morning, and had never heard of my being there until invited to meet me at dinner. i had wronged him by my distrust; for, though twenty years an exile, his heart beat as true as when he left our shores. who can shake off the feeling that binds him to his native land? not hardships nor disgrace at home; not favour nor success abroad; not even time, can drive from his mind the land of his birth or the friends of his youthful days. general sontag was a native of philadelphia; had been in our navy, and served as sailing-master on board the wasp; became dissatisfied from some cause which he did not mention, left our navy, entered the russian, and came round to the black sea as captain of a frigate; was transferred to the land service, and, in the campaign of , entered paris with the allied armies as colonel of a regiment. in this campaign he formed a friendship with count woronzow, which exists in full force at this day. he left the army with the rank of brigadier-general. by the influence of count woronzow, he was appointed inspector of the port of odessa, in which office he stood next in rank to the governor of the crimea, and, in fact, on one occasion, during the absence of count woronzow, lived in the palace and acted as governor for eight months. he married a lady of rank, with an estate and several hundred slaves at moscow; wears two or three ribands at his buttonhole, badges of different orders; has gone through the routine of offices and honours up to the grade of grand counsellor of the empire; and a letter addressed to him under the title of "his excellency" will come to the right hands. he was then living at his country place, about eight versts from odessa, and asked me to go out and pass the next day with him. i was strongly tempted, but, in order that i might have the full benefit of it, postponed the pleasure until i had completed my arrangements for travelling. the next day general sontag called upon me, but i did not see him; and this morning, accompanied by mr. baguet the younger, i rode out to his place. the land about odessa is a dead level, the road was excessively dry, and we were begrimed with dust when we arrived. general sontag was waiting for us, and, in the true spirit of an american farmer at home, proposed taking us over his grounds. his farm is his hobby; it contains about six hundred acres, and we walked all over it. his crop was wheat, and, although i am no great judge of these matters, i think i never saw finer. he showed me a field of very good wheat, which had not been sowed in three years, but produced by the fallen seed of the previous crops. we compared it with our genesee wheat, and to me it was an interesting circumstance to find an american cultivating land on the black sea, and comparing it with the products of our genesee flats, with which he was perfectly familiar. one thing particularly struck me, though, as an american, perhaps i ought not to have been so sensitive. a large number of men were at work in the field, and they were all slaves. such is the force of education and habit, that i have seen hundreds of black slaves without a sensation; but it struck rudely upon me to see white men slaves to an american, and he one whose father had been a soldier of the revolution, and had fought to sustain the great principle that "all men are by nature free and equal." mr. sontag told me that he valued his farm at about six thousand dollars, on which he could live well, have a bottle of crimea wine, and another every day for a friend, and lay up one thousand dollars a year; but i afterward heard that he was a complete enthusiast on the subject of his farm; a bad manager, and that he really knew nothing of its expense or profit. returning to the house, we found madame sontag ready to receive us. she is an authoress of great literary reputation, and of such character that, while the emperor was prosecuting the turkish war in person, and the empress remained at odessa, the young archduchesses were placed under her charge. at dinner she talked with much interest of america, and expressed a hope, though not much expectation, of one day visiting it. but general sontag himself, surrounded as he is by russian connexions, is all american. pointing to the riband on his buttonhole, he said he was entitled to one order which he should value above all others; that his father had been a soldier of the revolution, and member of the cincinnati society, and that in russia the decoration of that order would be to him the proudest badge of honour that an american could wear. after dining we retired into a little room fitted up as a library, which he calls america, furnished with all the standard american books, irving, paulding, cooper, &c., engravings of distinguished americans, maps, charts, canal and railroad reports, &c.; and his daughter, a lovely little girl and only child, has been taught to speak her father's tongue and love her father's land. in honour of me she played on the piano "hail columbia" and "yankee doodle," and the day wore away too soon. we took tea on the piazza, and at parting i received from him a letter to his agent on his estate near moscow, and from madame sontag one which carried me into the imperial household, being directed to monsieur l'intendant du prince héritiere, petersbourgh. a few weeks ago i received from him a letter, in which he says, "the visit of one of my countrymen is so great a treat, that i can assure you, you are never forgotten by any one of my little family; and when my daughter wishes to make me smile, she is sure to succeed if she sits down to her piano and plays 'hail columbia' or 'yankee doodle;' this brings to mind mr. ----, mr. ----, mr. ----, and mr. ----, who have passed through this city; to me alone it brings to mind my country, parents, friends, youth, and a world of things and ideas past, never to return. should any of our countrymen be coming this way, do not forget to inform them that in odessa lives one who will be glad to see them;" and i say now to any of my countrymen whom chance may throw upon the shores of the black sea, that if he would receive so far from home the welcome of a true-hearted american, general sontag will be glad to render it. it was still early in the evening when i returned to the city. it was moonlight, and i walked immediately to the boulevards. i have not spoken as i ought to have done of this beautiful promenade, on which i walked every evening under the light of a splendid moon. the boulevards are bounded on one side by the precipitous shore of the sea; are three quarters of a mile in length, with rows of trees on each side, gravel walks and statues, and terminated at one end by the exchange, and at the other by the palace of count woronzow. at this season of the year it was the promenade of all the beauty and fashion of odessa, from an hour or two before dark until midnight. this evening the moon was brighter, and the crowd was greater and gayer than usual. the great number of officers, with their dashing uniforms, the clashing of their swords, and rattling of their spurs, added to the effect; and woman never looks so interesting as when leaning on the arm of a soldier. even in italy or greece i have seldom seen a finer moonlight scene than the columns of the exchange through the vista of trees lining the boulevards. i expected to leave the next day, and i lingered till a late hour. i strolled up and down the promenade, alone among thousands. i sat down upon a bench, and looked for the last time on the black sea, the stormy euxine, quiet in the moonbeams, and glittering like a lake of burnished silver. by degrees the gay throng disappeared; one after another, party after party withdrew; a few straggling couples, seeming all the world to each other, still lingered, like me, unable to tear themselves away. it was the hour and the place for poetry and feeling. a young officer and a lady were the last to leave; they passed by me, but did not notice me; they had lost all outward perceptions; and as, in passing for the last time, she raised her head for a moment, and the moon shone full upon her face, i saw there an expression that spoke of heaven. i followed them as they went out, murmured involuntarily "happy dog," whistled "heighho, says thimble," and went to my hotel to bed. end of vol. i. list of corrections: p. iii, preface: "egypt, arabia petræ, and the holy land." was changed to "egypt, arabia petræa, and the holy land." p. : "that we coud" was changed to "that we could." p. : "friends in this county" was changed to "friends in this country." p. : "but we connot" was changed to "but we cannot." p. : "gate of the lyons" was changed to "gate of the lions" as in the rest of the book. p. : "to favour such a suiter" was changed to "to favour such a suitor." p. : "it is confirmed by poetry, hat" was changed to "it is confirmed by poetry, that." p. : "the jackall's cry was heard" was changed to "the jackal's cry was heard." p. : "cartainly whip them" was changed to "certainly whip them." p. : "threade our way" was changed to "threaded our way." p. : "cachmere shawls" was changed to "cashmere shawls." p. : "the phase, the dneiper, and the danube" was changed to "the phase, the dnieper, and the danube." p. : "the mouths of the dneiper and dneister" was changed to "the mouths of the dnieper and dniester." p. : "quiet in the moonbeans" was changed to "quiet in the moonbeams." errata: the summary in the table of contents is not always consistent with the summary at the beginning of each chapter. the original has been retained.