The person charging this material is re- sponsible for its return to the library from which it was withdrawn on or before the Latest Date stamped below. Theft, mutilation, and underlining of books are reasons for disciplinary action and may result in dismissal from the University. UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT URBAN ACHAMPAIGN NOV f 4 9 L161 — O-1096 Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2014 https://archive.org/details/italyfromalpstomOOstie ITALY FROM THE ALPS TO MOUNT ETNA TRANSLATED BY FRANCES ELEANOR TROLLOPE AND EDITED BY THOMAS ADOLPHUS TROLLOPE Illustrate}) WITH UPWARDS OF ONE HUNDRED FULL-PAGE AND THREE HUNDRED SMALLER ENGRAVINGS LONDON : CHAPMAN AND HALL, 19 3, PICCADILLY. W. MDCCCLXXV1I. LONDON* : BRADIU'RY. AGNEW, & CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS. TABLE OF CONTENTS. FROM THE ALPS TO THE ARNO. PAGE SONNET i THE GREAT ROADS TO ITALY i THROUGH THE MONT CENIS i THE VIA MALA 6 ACROSS THE ST. GOTHARD 9 ACROSS THE BRENNER • 14 IN THE TRENTINO 19 ON THE LAGO DI GARDA . 26 VERONA 35 FROM VERONA TO THE MOUNTAINS OF VENETIA 48 FROM VERONA TO THE ADRIATIC 55 VENICE 60 TO TRIESTE AND MIRAMAR 78 MANTUA 83 MILAN 87 THREE LAKES 99 LAGO DI COMO 99 LAGO DI LUGANO 105 LAGO MAGGIORE 108 TURIN in GENOA 117 ON THE RIVIERA DI PONENTE 128 ON THE RIVIERA DI LEVANTE 141 IN EMILIA 149 FROM THE ARNO TO THE TIBER. FLORENCE 157 FLORENTINE ART 170 FLORENTINE NATURE 177 PISA 183 SIENA 187 THE LAKE OF THRASYMENE ' 192 THE ROADS TO ROME 199 BESIDE THE ADRIATIC 199 BESIDE THE TYRRHENE SEA 204 THE MIDDLE ROADS 205 TO ROME 208 b 715009 vi TABLE OF CONTENTS. FROM THE TIBER TO ETNA. PAGE WITHIN THE CONFINES OF LATIUM 215 ROME 215 THE ETERNAL CITY IN A MODERN TOGA 231 AMONG THE RUINS 246 PIOUS PILGRIMAGES AND PROFANE PROMENADES 253 A WORD ABOUT CICERONI 275 THE NORTHERN WANDERER IN THE ROMAN CAMPAGNA 280 FROM THE SHORES OF LAGO FUCINO TO THE PONTINE MARSHES . . . 300 MOUNTAIN MONASTERIES AND A PAINTER'S PARADISE 332 FROM THE BANKS OF THE LIRIS TO THE SHORES OF THE SIRENS 343 COMPANION LANDSCAPES 343 EXCURSION FROM THE GRAN SASSO D'lTALIA TO VESUVIUS . . -343 "KNOW'ST THOU THE LAND?" 354 ANCIENT AND MODERN CAMPANIANS 362 THE EVER YOUNG PARTHENOPE 373 THE BEAUTIFUL, DANGEROUS NEIGHBOUR . . . 384 AMONG GRECIAN RUINS . . • 392 A SEA VOYAGE FROM BAIyE TO SALERNO .... 404 THE THREE SISTER ISLANDS 414 THE ISLAND OF TIBERIUS : 420 FROM THE SHORES OF THE SIRENS TO THE MOUNTAINS OF CALABRIA . .430 GRvECIA MAGNA 430 A PROCESSION ACROSS THE COUNTRY 430 LUCANIA, APULIA, AND CALABRIA, IN THE PAST AND PRESENT 434 FROM THE SILA TO ETNA 447 SICILIAN LANDSCAPE . . . . . 447 THE ISLAND UNDER THE VEIL OF LEGEND AND HISTORY 447 A VOYAGE ROUND THE ISLAND 453 TO ETNA 463 FULL PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE ORNAMENTAL BORDER i VIA MALA. "LE TROU PERDU" 7 MAKING THE TUNNEL THROUGH THE ST. GOTHARD 13 PALAZZO SARDAGNA IN TRENT 19 OLIVE GROVE ON THE SHORE OF THE LAKE OF GARDA, NEAR TORBOLE . . . 29 VERONA 35 VIEW FROM THE GIARDINO GIUSTI, VERONA 45 PIAZZA DEI SIGNORI IN VICENZA 57 PIAZZA OF ST. MARK, WITH THE PIAZZETTA. VENICE 63 FISH-MARKET NEAR THE RIALTO 67 COFFEE-HOUSE ON THE RIVA DEGLI SCHIAVONI 69 CANOVA'S TOMB IN SANTA MARIA GLORIOSA DEI FRARI. VENICE 73 SCENE IN CHIOGGIA 77 TRIESTE 79 MIRAMAR 83 THE CATHEDRAL OF MILAN 93 MILANESE LADY 97 THE CERTOSA, NEAR PAVIA 99 COMO 101 MENDICANT FRIAR IN THE BRIANZA 104 LAGO MAGGIORE, WITH ISOLA BELLA AND ISOLA PESCATORE .... . . 109 SALITA SAN PAOLO, GENOA 119 VIA SAN LUCA, GENOA . 123 PEGLI ON THE RIVIERA DI PONENTE 129 SAN REMO i 3I FROM A VILLA NEAR BORDIGHERA I33 MONACO 135 SEASHORE NEAR SAVONA I37 NICE 139 PORTO VENERE, GULF OF SPEZIA 145 MARBLE QUARRIES NEAR CARRARA I49 CANOSSA 151 MARKET-PLACE, WITH THE FOUNTAIN OF NEPTUNE. BOLOGNA 155 FLORENCE, FROM SAN MINIATO 159 VIA DEGLI STROZZI 163 LOGGIA DEI LANZI 165 ORLANDINI'S BEER-GARDEN, FLORENCE 167 SAN MICHELE 169 b 2 viii FULL PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE COURTYARD OF THE PALAZZO VECCHIO, FLORENCE 173 CHOIR OF SANTA MARIA NOVELLA, FLORENCE 177 VINTAGE IN TUSCANY i8t CAMPO SANTO, PISA 203 CASCADES OF TERN I 205 ORVIETO 207 RUINS OF THE PALACE OF THE OESARS ON THE PALATINE 217 CAMPO VACCINO, ROME 221 ROME FROM THE CONVENT GARDEN OF SANTA SABINA ON THE AVENTINE . . 229 FOUNTAIN IN A ROMAN COURTYARD 233 PIAZZA MONTANARA, WITH THE THEATRE OF MARCELLUS 239 ROMAN FLOWER-SELLER 243 COLISEUM, FROM THE PALATINE 247 FORUM ROMANUM 249 A SERMON IN THE COLISEUM 251 ST. PETER'S, FROM THE VILLA DORIA PAMFILI 253 EVENING ON THE PINCIAN 255 INTERIOR OF ST. PETER'S. ROME . 259 ROME, FROM THE VILLA CORSINI 263 POUSSIN'S VALLEY 273 ON THE PINCIAN 275 AFTER THE MASS IN S. TRINITA DE' MONTI, ROME 277 FOUNTAIN OF TREVI, ROME 279 ACQUA ACETOSA IN THE ROMAN CAMPAGNA, LOOKING TOWARDS MOUNT SORACTE 281 NEAR NETTUNO 2 $ $ BRETHREN OF THE MISERICORDIA BEARING THE BODY OF A MAN WHO HAS BEEN KILLED IN THE ROMAN CAMPAGNA 289 ON THE WAY TO CERVARA. ARTIST'S' FESTIVAL IN ROME (ist MAY, 1869) . . . 293 VIA FLAMINIA ON THE ROMAN CAMPAGNA 295 SHEPHERD BOY IN THE CAMPAGNA 299 BATTLEFIELD NEAR TAGLIACOZZO 303 OLE VAN O 307 FROM THE VILLA OF HADRIAN, NEAR TIVOLI 319 CAMP OF HANNIBAL NEAR ROCCA DI PAPA 325 ARICCIA 329 BY THE WELL AT OLEVANO ' 339 TERRACINA 343 FALL OF THE LIRIS NEAR ISOLA 347 OLIVE GROVE NEAR VENAFRO 349 VAL DI SANGRO 351 SUMMER NIGHT AT POSILIPPO . 355 TRIUMPHAL ARCH OF KING ALFONSO 359 NAPLES, WITH VESUVIUS, FROM POSILIPPO 363 CORSO AT NAPLES ' 365 PORTA CAPUANA, NAPLES 367 DOLCE FAR NIENTE 369 CEMETERY. FEAST OF ALL SOULS, NAPLES 371 VIEW OF NAPLES FROM THE CORSO VITTORIO EMANUELE 375 PORT OF NAPLES • • 379 FULL PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS. ix PAGE THE LAVA COMES 385 EXCAVATIONS IN POMPEII 397 PINE-WOOD NEAR TORRE DEL GRECO 405 A VILLA AT SORRENTO 407 FROM A VILLA, CASTELLAMARE 409 BATH OF DIANA 411 VIEW OF AMALFI FROM THE CAPUCHINS' GARDEN 413 CORAL FISHING . . . . . * . . . 417 CAPRI, FROM THE HOTEL PAGANO 421 A GARDEN SPRING IN CAPRI 425 ARRIVAL OF A MARKET BOAT, CAPRI 427 ENTRANCE TO THE BLUE GROTTO 429 BATTLEFIELD OF CANNAE ....... 435 PLATANI NEAR MONTALLEGRO 453 ON THE ORETO IN THE CONCA D'ORO, NEAR PALERMO 455 PALERMO 461 ETNA FROM THE SOUTH 467 ILLUSTRATIONS IN THE TEXT. PAGE Road over the Mont Cenis 3 The Devil's Bridge 10 On the Brenner, below Gossensass . . .15 Wanderers on the Brenner Pass . . . . 17 The Castle of Trent 19 Fountain in the Cathedral Square at Trent 22 Fruit-Sellers in Trent 23 Peasant Woman from the Neighbourhood of Trent 24 RlVA . . 26 Castle of Arco in the Val di Sarca . . 27 Pietramurata in the Val di Sarca . . . 28 Lake of Cavedine in the Val di Sarca . 29 Mill in the Buco di Vela . ... 30 Departure of a Steamboat from Peschiera . 32 Desenzano 33 Torbole 34 Santa Anastasia, Verona 35 Fontana di Ferro, near Verona . . 36 Piazza d'Erbe 37 Juliet's House 38 Draw-Well 39 The Amphitheatre 41 Court- Yard of a House in Verona . . . 42 Bridge of the Borghetto, near Valeggio . 43 Valstagna . . . 45 Castle of Villafranca 47 Bassano 48 Porta Rusteri, Feltre 49 Near Primolano in the Val Sugana . . 51 On the Cordevole 52 Cittadella 52 Mountain Fortress of Covolo . . . .53 Cottage in the Valley of the Brenta . . 54 Villa Giustiniani, Padua 55 The Old Seminary, Vicenza 56 Church of St. Anthony, Padua . . . .58 rlva degli schiavoni, venice 60 Venetian Fishing-Boat 61 Arrival of a Milk-Boat 62 San Pietro, Castello 64 On the Island of Torcello 65 Bridge of Sighs 67 Ghetto 68 Monument of General Farnese in the Jesuits' Church 70 Street in Venice . . . : . . . 71 On the Giudecca 7 2 Street Scene 73 Street in Venice 74 A Gondola . 75 From the Lagoons 76 On the Roofs 76 Grotto of San Servolo near Trieste . . 80 wlnckelm ann's monument 8 1 View of Mantua from the Bridge of San Giorgio 83 Riflemen Waiting for a Train . . . .85 Monument to Leonardo Da Vinci . . . . 88 Columns of San Lorenzo 89 Santa Maria delle Grazie 91 corso vlttorio emanuele . . . . 94 Monk at the Well in the Certosa . . . 95 Lake of Como. — View of Malgrate prom Lecco 97 Bellaggio, seen from Villa Giulia . . . 99 Street in Tremezzo 101 Tavern in Lugano 102 The Ravine of the Pioverna, near Bellano . 103 Monte Salvatore, on the Lake of Lugano . 105 Rotunda of Hercules on Isola Bella . . 106 Bay of Pallanza 107 MONCALIERI, NEAR TURIN Ill Fountain in the Giardino Reale . . . 112 Monte Dei Cappuccini 113 Road to the Church of Superga . . . . 114 Porta Palatina 115 Fountain in the Acqua Sola 117 Porta Vecchia Della Lanterna . . .119 Evening at the Mole 120 Market in the Piazza di Pescheria . . .121 At the Port 122 Before the Confessional in San Lorenzo . 123 Harbour of Genoa 125 Scene on the Shore 128 Near Bordighera 129 Obelisk in Villa Pallavicini . . . .130 Procession 131 Bordighera 132 xii ILLUSTRATIONS IN THE TEXT. Harbour of Monaco 133 View near San Remo 133 Convent Garden at Pesio 135 Mentone 136 Interior of a Peasant's Cottage in Briga . . 137 On the Shore of the Lavenza, near Briga . 138 Street in Tenda 139 Castle of Monaco . . . . . . .140 Lavagna — Return from Fishing . . . . 141 Seashore near Ouinto 142 Jezzano, in the Bay of Spezia . . . . 142 On the Peninsula near Sestri Levante . . 143 The Island Palmaria, in the Bay of Spezia . 144 Fountain of the Siren in Carrara . . .145 Lerici, near Spezia 146 Siesta . .. 147 On the Riviera 148 Monks Playing Bowls 149 Pifferari 151 The Leaning Towers in Bologna . . .152 Tomb of Theodoric, Ravenna 153 Ponte Vecchio . .158 Fountain of Neptune in the Piazza della SlGNORIA 159 Palazzo Pitti 161 Loggia near Mercato Nuovo . . . .163 Fountain of the Porcellino in the Mercato Nuovo 167 In Front of the Loggia de' Lanzi . . . . 169 Courtyard of the Bargello . . . .171 Bronze Fountain in the Piazza della Santis- sima Annunziata 1 73 View from the Boboli Gardens . . . . 174 Fountain in the Boboli Gardens . . .175 View in the Val d'Arno 179 San Miniato al Monte 180 Colossal Statue of the Apennine in the Park AT PRATOLINO l8l Street Life in Pisa 183 Piazza del Duomo 185 Tavern near San Frediano, Lucca . . . 186 Church of San Domenico 187 St. Galgano near Chiusdino 188 Confirmation in the Cathedral of Siena . 189 Porta Augusta, Perugia 193 Interior of an Etruscan Tomb near Perugia 197 Assisi 199 Departure for the Mountains . . . .200 Cathedral of Ancona 201 San Marino 202 Aqueduct of Spoleto 205 Prelate Fugger's Tombstone . . . .206 Etruscan Rock-Tombs at Castel d'Asso, near Viterbo • • 308 The Great Fountain in Viterbo . . . . 209 House in Viterbo 210 PAGE Lake of Nemi 217 Roman Forum 219 Well near Ariccia 221 Santa Croce in Gerusalemme, and Nero's Aqueduct 222 Porta Furba, in the Roman Campagna . . 223 Civita Lavigna 224 Well beneath Olive Trees near Tivoli . . 225 Cascades at Tivoli 226 Old Trees in the Villa d'Este . . . .227 Roman Girl 230 In the Villa Borghese 231 Seggiola del Diavolo in the Roman Campagna 233 Villa Lante on the Janiculum .... 234 Courtship 235 In Villa Massimo 237 Churchyard at Monte Serrone . . . . 239 Stella, a Roman Model 241 Peasant of the Campagna 242 Woman of Trastevere 243 Seminarist . 244 Roman Model 245 Temple of Minerva in the Forum of Nerva . 247 Scene in the Ruins of the Temple of Ves- pasian . 249 The Pantheon 251 Arch of Titus 252 A Group of Houses in the Ghetto . . . 254 Entrance to the Ghetto 255 Old Jewess 257 The Confessional 259 Claudian Aqueduct in the Villa Wolkonsky . 262 Via Appia . . . . ' . . . . . 264 Game of Mora 267 On the Campagna 268 Cypresses by the Well of Michael Angelo . 269 Wood and Grotto of Egeria in the Campagna 271 The Ponte Nomentano 273 Via Appia 275 Scala Santa 277 Broccoli-Sellers in Trastevere . . . . 278 Peasants in the Roman Campagna . . .281 Velletri 282 Valmontone 283 Castle of Palo 285 Herdsman in the Campagna 286 The Shepherd's Return Home . . . . 287 Ostia 289 Civita Castellana 290 Bracciano 291 Shepherd of the Campagna 293 Midday in Poussin's Valley 295 Goatherd 298 Ceccano 299 Celano, on Lago Fucino 301 Civitella 3°4 ILLUSTRATIONS IN THE TEXT Xlll PAGE Cyclopean Walls near Alba Fucese . . . 305 Capistrello, in the Valley of the Liris . . 307 Arpino 3°9 The Italian Family Umbrella . . .311 Villa Falconieri, near Frascati . . . 312 Genazzano 3 J 3 Temple of the Sibyl, Tivoli . . . . 316 Tivoli 3 J 7 Roman Beggar Child 3 '9 Roman Peasants 3 21 Marino on the Lake Albano 323 Genzano on the Lake of Nemi . . . .325 View of Castel Gandolfo from the Villa Doria 326 Ninfa, with Norma 3 2 7 La Mamelle, near Civitella . . . 329 Girl of the Sabine Hills . 330 Boy of the Sabine Hills . - 33' Subiaco 333 Characteristic Head from the Sabine Hills . 334 Road from Cavi to Genazzano . . . .335 San Germano and Monte Cassino . . 337 Peasants of Sora.— Sunday Rest . . . 338 Peasants of Sora preparing Polenta . . . 339 The Serpentara near Olf.vano . . . .341 Boy of the Abruzzi 344 Girl of the Abruzzi . . . . . .345 Alba ... 347 Street Scene in the Abruzzi .... 349 Gran Sasso d'Italia . 352 Vignette . . . . . . . . . 354 Girl of the Mountains near Salerno . -355 Fountain in the Villa Reale, Naples . 357 Fisherman of Gaeta . . . . . . . 358 The Bay of Naples from Camaldoli . . 359 Neapolitan Fisher-girt 360 On an Errand 365 Grotto of Posilippo 367 Oyster-Beds at Santa Lucia .... 370 Zampognaro 371 On the Mole, Naples 374 Gipsy Tinkers in Naples . . . . . 375 The Custom-House Dock, Naples . . . 377 Santa Maria in Portico, Naples . . . . 379 In Front of a Baker's Oven in Naples .381 Pompeii 385 Draw -Well at the Foot of Vesuvius . 387 In the Harbour of Portici 390 Evening in the Street of Tombs, Pompeii . 392 PAGE On the Shore by Cum/E 393 Temple of Venus near Baije . . . -395 Lago di Fusaro near BAIjE 398 In the Street of Tombs, Pompeii . . 4°° Temple of Neptune at P^estum . . . . 401 On the Shore at Bale 4°5 Road near Massa. View of Capri . . . . 4°7 Gorge near Sorrento 409 Tasso's House, Sorrento 410 Ravello • 41 1 Salerno • • ■ • 4 12 ISCHIA 4 ! 5 Pozzuoli, with Cape Misenum and the Islands of Procida and Ischia 4 r 7 At the Well 4*8 Courtyard in Ischia 4 ! 9 Old "Scalinata " in Capri 4 21 Natural Archway 4 2 4 Marina, Capri 4 2 5 Rock of Tiberius, with the Jupiter Villa, Capri 427 A Toilet in Capri 4 2 9 Monte Vergine 43 1 Mill near Ariano 433 Petra Roseti, on the Calore near Benevento 435 Ruins of the Abbey of the Holy Trinity, Venosa 436 Catacombs of Siponto, near Manfredonia . 437 Street in Monte Sant' Angelo . ... 43S Jewish Catacombs near Venosa . . . 439 Canosa Antica 440 Lakes of Monticchio . . . .44' Tavola de' Paladini .... . . 44 2 On the Busento near Cosenza .... 443 Reggio Calabro 444 Fisherman's Cottage . . . . . 445 Straits of Messina 448 Ruins of the Ancient Theatre at Syracuse . 449 Shipping off Captive Brigands . . . . 451 The Roadstead, near Licata .... 454 Near Alcamo 455 Latomie del Paradiso, near Syracuse . 457 Ruins of the Temple of Hercules, near Gir- GENTI 459 Convent of San Martino, near Palermo . . 460 Cathedral of Palermo 461 Palazzo Corvaja, in Taormina .... 464 Evergreen Oaks, near Sciacca . . . . 465 On the Road from Messina to Taormina . 467 c FROM THE ALPS TO THE ARNO. BY KARL STIELER. ITALY. THE GREAT ROADS TO ITALY. THROUGH THE MONT CENIS. TALY has been called the Land of Wonders; but even the very ways into Italy have something of wonder about them— a kind of enchantment which no other roads or paths can pretend to. The road to Italy seizes powerfully on our imagination as we wend on our pilgrimage towards that great goal, and impresses us before we know the land to which it leads. As far back as historic records reach, Italy has always been the Paradise of the earth. It almost seems as though nature herself were desirous to screen and protect this sanctuary of her beauties, for on three sides she has protected it by the sea, and to the north has built up a gigantic wall. But this barrier has been stormed by the passion of almost all nations, and the historic foot-prints which they have left behind them are these mighty Alpine roads ! In this lies their grandeur and their charm : they were not con- structed by this or that powerful individual, but the longing, the envy, the vengeful ness; of whole nations, have traced these paths. Italy was the soul of the world, and all were wooing her ; she was the focus of all ancient culture, and this focus each nation desired to possess as its own. To speak without metaphor, the various incursions into Italy have been the result of great historic tides, or mighty passions, and the traces of these great movements remain in the colossal construction of the Alpine roads. One of the most ancient and mighty of these is the Mont Cenis, Mons Cinerum. According to the legend, it derives its name from the fact that thousands of years ago the woods which covered it were burnt to ashes. Let us place ourselves in the narrow moun- tain-walled gorge. We are among the Cottian Alps. The peaks of Cima del Caro, La Levanna, Monginevro, and Gran Paradiso, rise before us, and in the midst of them is the solemn, world-famed, Mont Cenis. It forms the point at which the Graian and Cottian Alps meet. Here lies the barren, long-drawn plateau over which led the ancient military road from France to Italy. High above the pass rise jagged peaks of rock, almost always veiled in grey clouds, almost always covered with deep snow : Rocciamelone, and La Rouche, and others. They rise to an altitude of eleven thousand feet, the height of the plateau itself being seven thousand five hundred feet. Cardinal Bentivoglio, writing his memoirs in Venice in the year 1648, speaks of . the Mont Cenis as the King of the Alps, and in truth there is something majestic in these titanic outlines, these gloomy features, in the brooding solitude, through which we are n 2 ITAL Y. passing. Between the rocks spreads a thicket of luxuriant shrubs, interspersed here and there by a slender birch tree ; glowing Alpine roses peep through the dark green, and in the clefts blooms the fragrant Viola ccuisia, but it blooms only to fade unseen. No human eye meets ours on this pilgrimage ; we hear only the fluttering of the ptarmigan in its flight, or the shrill whistle of the marmot ; and when the air is still we can hear great stones fall, loosened from the rocks above. We can see the eagle tracing his airy circles ; but these are all the signs of life we encounter. All else is dead. Hard by the road lies the dark little lake, from whose depths the Cenisia rises. During seven months of the year the lake is covered with thick grey ice. But even when the tardy spring loosens these bonds, when the trout once more rises towards the sunlight, still there remains something sinister in the aspect of the scene, like the feeling of an eternal prison. Nor are the dumb waters the only prisoners here ; for on the eastern shore of the lake, amidst this barren solitude, stands the little hospice founded in the time of the Carlovingians, and restored by that Bonaparte who loved to call himself the successor of Charlemagne. He established barracks here for thousands of soldiers, and we feel oppressed as we conjure up in fancy the procession of those long columns : the weary, ragged guard, laden horses, and rolling artillery. Here they may rest an hour before descending on the battle fields of Italy : here draw breath before the final words, "Ave, Casar, morituri te salutant" Only a few squalid buildings exist here close to the hospice. There are no other inhabitants except the men charged with the maintenance of the road. Six-and-twenty houses have been erected at the most dangerous points of the road, the use of which is to provide a shelter for wanderers overtaken by the snow. The watchmen pass their lives in combating danger for themselves and others ; for fearful storms rage here when the winds from Lombardy and Savoy meet, and rush together like two howling wolves. Such is the landscape of the Mont Cenis : we have endeavoured to sketch it in slight outline. And yet what memories of great deeds hang round that dreary stony spot! Of what antiquity is the first track across these heights, — from the days of Hannibal and Constantine, of Charlemagne and the journey to Canossa! We possess a description of the latter by Padre Bresciani, and our blood boils as often as we read it. When the excommunication was pronounced against Henry the Fourth, and the princes in Tribur had resolved to drive him from the imperial throne if he were not absolved before the spring, the young man of twenty-six years — once so proud — rose up and set out on his pilgrimage, accompanied only by his noble wife, his child, and a few faithful followers. They passed through Burgundy to Geneva, and thence across the Alps to the Comte of Maurienne. It was near Christmas time, and the winter was so severe that the vines were frozen even to their roots, and the Rhine was covered with ice during four months. The particulars of this journey are calculated to make one's hair stand on end. The Emperor offered thousands for a guide to accompany him across the mountain ; but not a man could be found to accept the task. All declared the thing to be an im- possibility. And yet Henry's throne and life depended on its accomplishment. Outlawed and poor as the wretchedest man in his dominions, the Emperor climbed the rocks of the Mont Cenis. The sumpter mules, which had been furnished him by his relative, Count William, in Bcsancon, were mostly lost by falling over the precipice long before the travellers reached the summit. They endeavoured to proceed on little sledges made of pine boughs lashed together, but in a short time this mode of conveyance became THROUGH THE 3/0 NT CENTS, 3 impracticable. Then Bertha and Conrad, the little Imperial prince, were strongly stitched into huge furs and skins, which were now pulled onward, now held back, by means of two ropes attached to them. Henry walked by their side in ragged garments, with bleeding feet and a bleeding heart ! From the close of the seventeenth century, the Mont Cenis really be- longed to the French : at least in every historic sense. In all the bitter struggles that they waged with the House of Savoy, in all wars whose goal and object lay in the south, Mont Cenis was their natural highway. Up to that period it had seemed to be desired that the road should be kept almost secret, and so narrow as to be scarcely practicable for a beast of burthen. But now the object was precisely opposite. Al- ready in 1693 Marshal Catinat had widened it sufficiently to admit the passage of small vehicles and the lighter kind of artillery. But the first who transformed it into a modern military road on a grand scale, was Napo- leon, whose engineer was the inofenious Giovanni Fabrane. The history of the origin, and carrying out of the gigantic work of the Mont Cenis tunnel, is singularly remarkable. It has, like all great works in the world, its tragic story ; nay, this colossal idea has even had its martyr, who sacrified his whole life to it without ever being understood. This man was the engineer Joseph Medail, of Bar- doneche, who already in the year 1832 laid before King Charles Albert a plan for the a 2 ROAD OVER THE MONT CENIS. 4 ITALY. piercing; of the Cottian Alps, almost identical with the one at present adopted. The plan was admired, as one admires and wonders at something entirely out of one's reach, but no one dreamt of carrying it into execution. But the courageous son of the Alps was not yet daunted. Ten years later he laid his project before the Chamber of Commerce at Chambery ; it was examined, and there also was deemed in the highest degree ingenious, but its lot was the same as before ; no one dreamt of carrying it into execution. Medail died long before the great conception of his life was fulfilled. He left it as a legacy to posterity. It was long ere the fulfilment came ; but at length, under the direction of the engineers Grattoni, Grandis, and Sommeiller, the tunnel was completed after nine years' labour, and on the 17th of September, 1 871, the line was publicly opened for traffic; a new pledge of union between the nations of Europe. It was about the beginning of October when I began the journey through the Mont Cenis. Nature begins to assume a sterner, more rugged aspect as soon as we leave the south of France and enter Savoy. The mountains take bolder forms and rise to loftier heights. Instead of the soft golden colouring of the Provencal landscape, we find deeper and more sombre tones. Firwoods crown the heights, and mountain streams pour them- selves down in cool crystalline floods. Isolated huts of dark brown bark, stand by the wayside here and there ; rarely we came to a weather-stained village, more rarely to a patch of shady woodland, and tinkling herds of cattle. We are in the real bold mountain-world ; the old hunting-ground of the hardy Piedmontese. Still narrower, and more shut in grows the picture, the farther we travel. Mere straitened footpaths lead to the side valleys which seem to open and shut again as we fly past. The struggle of man's handiwork against the forces of Nature is already visible in a hundred tokens. Closer and wilder press the mountains around us, until the road is walled on either hand by colossal rocks. It is not possible to proceed further ! The locomotive whistles shrilly, the iron wheels jar and creak : this is Modane, the last station just at the foot of the Mont Cenis. Here the train halts for nearly an hour. Out of the wide opened doors of the first- class carriages pours a stream of people of many nations, Italians and Frenchmen, Englishmen and Russians, all costumes, all tongues, mixed confusedly together! As the real frontier is in the middle of the tunnel, the custom-house examination takes place here. We are motioned with courteous wavings of the hand to enter the hall, and open our trunks. " Prenez garde I "' shout the porters as they push trucks full of luggage into the D ouane. " Sangue di Cristo /" swears an Italian who has lost his wife in the crowd. A prima donna on the way to the Scala at Milan has nineteen huge trunks, and her luggage is the last to be examined ! Modane lies in a rocky basin, barely an hour's walk in circumference. Dry torrents of rubble — the talus of the mountain — descend to the very edge of the rails, and while it is yet early in the afternoon, the mountains cast their blue shadows down into the valley. Here is the entrance into the Mont Cenis. In this wilderness now stands the big railway station which forms the dividing point between France and Italy. Instead of the French train which has carried us thus far, an Italian one is now drawn up in front of the plat- form : the carriages are painted a dark colour outside, and lined with light-coloured cushions, and each compartment carries eight passengers. The lamps were already lighted ; the workmen gave a last tap to an axle here and there ; the second locomotive that was to help us on our way, came puffing up ; one jerk, and we were off! THROUGH THE MONT CENTS. 5 We were all now in a state of feverish excitement, and the more so as we were unable to discern the object of the general curiosity, for the entrance into the world- renowned tunnel lies about two hundred feet sheer above the station, and the line makes two huge curves before reaching it. The gradient is something really tremendous. The locomotive no longer rolls smoothly onward, but absolutely climbs upward, seeming to fight its way foot by foot, and soon we look down on the grey shingle roofs of Modane lying far below us. The engine gives a loud yell, like the cry of a man suddenly hurled down into the darkness ; the steam twists and writhes low down on the ground ; a moment's dim twilight, and then utter blackness. We were really rolling through the Mont Cenis tunnel, and most of us experienced a strange sensation. It was not fear, but an awe-stricken sense of being so delivered over to the powers of Nature, that no human hand could help us should any accident occur during those dark miles. We feel that we are removed out of the reach of aid. Any stone in the vault above us might be lord of our lives. And Nature sometimes is vindictive ! We opened the windows. A warm clamp air, which oppressed the respira- tion, poured in. It was impossible, on looking out, to see either the walls of the tunnel or the next carriage, so tremendous was the darkness ; we could perceive only the vaporous masses of smoke as they glided past the lighted windows. There was some- thing weird and almost diabolic in these formless apparitions-, which now were gliding under the wheels, now rising to the roof, ever melting away and being reproduced. The noise of the engine became terrible. We were conscious, as it were, of the Herculean labour that it was performing; we heard it pant and groan ; for there is an ascent of more than four hundred feet within the tunnel ! Sometimes it seemed almost as if the locomotive would come to a standstill, as if it had no more strength left in it. Then came a great impetus and the labour began again. I looked at my watch. We had been but ten minutes in this dungeon ; barely a third of the whole way had been traversed. Since there was no outlook possible, I turned my glance inward : that is to say not into my own soul, but into the interior of our compartment, and examined a little more attentively the neighbours whom fate had given us. The ladies who sat opposite to us held a handkerchief over their eyes and coughed. They did not wish it to be perceived that they were crying— so greatly did this Tartarus affect their spirits. Some Frenchmen seized on the situation with the utmost liveliness ; they were all eye and ear, and recounted all manner of details. They naturally looked upon the Mont Cenis tunnel as their own peculiar work, and felt themselves bound to do the honours in the railway carriage. Another ten minutes passed by, the air became still more sultry and oppressive, it was impossible to read or sleep, yet we felt that the highest point of the tunnel had been reached ; for suddenly the way beneath us changed, — it became level, — it sank. Then the locomotive began to rush onward with frantic speed, as though it were resolved to make up for lost time. The tiny stations — or niches rather — in the interior of the tunnel, appeared like so many will-o'-the-wisps ; for the signalmen stood there with dazzling lanterns in their hands to certify that they were at their posts. As to seeing the men themselves, that was quite out of the question. Involuntarily the thought suggested itself, " If a collision were to take place here ! If we were to run off the rails ! " So far as I know, the Mont Cenis has hitherto been exempt from serious accidents, Only once, on the 24th of May, 1873, it is said that two trains entered the tunnel at the same time, coming in opposite directions. But by a timely application of the break, they 6 ITALY. were stopped, and remained motionless fronting each other. Whether this really happened as described, I was not able to learn on official authority, and therefore I can but rely on the assertion of the travelling companion who narrated it. My only doubt of his veracity is occasioned by the circumstance that he continually declared " I was present. I saw it myself! " Nevertheless the narration did not fail to produce an effect. The Frenchmen handed about a little bottle of ether. Thirty-one minutes had elapsed, and already we began to have a far-off glimmering of the twilight which heralded the end of our captivity. The locomotive rushed on towards the opening like a wild beast seeking its freedom. As on shipboard one hears the cry " Land, land ! " so now on every countenance was written " Light, light ! " We were in the open air once more, the sunshine poured its full rays over the mountain peaks, green fir trees and slender birches were seen, we heard the torrents dashing down the rocks, everything was living around us ! Over the station were displayed the arms of Italy. " Bardonecchia ! '" shouted the guard. "Cinque minuti difermata /" And now we looked back upon the vast stone portal which forms the entrance to the tunnel;— upon this fortress of the human intellect. We saw the whole mountain range, through whose entrails we had passed, with the white cross still standing on the summit ; the white cross which marked the point at which the workmen from the two sides of the mountain were to meet at its centre underground. In truth it was not merely the sensation of being once more free which expanded our breasts at that moment, it was also a feeling of pride and satisfaction that we lived in days when such a work was possible. It may be called a miracle ; but it is a miracle wrought by our own hands, and not by invisible powers. THE VIA MALA. HICH of us has not seen some being whose beauty enchants us, and yet in whom a strain of evil is found that strikes us as diabolical ? Nature, too, has such shapes, and some of them she has placed as sentinels between the lands of the Teuton and the Italian. Even in the name some demoniac suggestion arises, every time we utter the words " Via Mala." The Via Mala is the finest portion of the Spliigen Pass : the Alpine road that leads from Coire to Chiavenna, and although certain resemblances to the St. Gothard may be found in it, yet this pass has its own different glories. As on the St. Gothard the Reuss, here it is the Rhine whose course we follow. But it is not yet that broad Rhine in whose flood minsters are mirrored, for whose shores nations contend, but the wild child of the mountains dashing through the narrow gorge, recking nothing of the world in its solitude ! No other river presents so striking a contrast between the wildness of its youth, and the dignity of its later time; and the Lake of Constance forms the mysterious alembic in which the transformation is effected. On leaving the Lake, and after taking one bold leap, the Rhine belongs to serious and active life ; but all that it leaves behind it in the mountains bears the impress of childhood's untamed glee. As we follow the ascent of the road, we meet with records of the great old Alpine passes. In the village of Felsberg we see the traces of a vast landslip. In Oberems are memories of the terrific combats by means of which the " Tricolours " forced their way VIA MALA. "LE TROU PERDU. THE VIA MALA. 7 here. On a steep height stands the castle of Rhaziins ; and at Reichcnau, a few miles further down the valley, at the spot where the " Hinter" and the " Vorder " Rhine meet, there is the residence of the Planta family. In the last-named chateau two pictures are shown, which a former tutor sent thither as a souvenir of himself. The old folks in the village speak of him to this day as Monsieur Chabaud : history calls him Louis Philippe the Citizen King. It is not long before we enter into a beautiful sunny valley, called in the Romansch dialect Val Domgiasca. It lies considerably below the true mountain region, and is pro- tected from rough winds by forests, and from flood by huge dams ; so that a rich vegeta- tion is enabled to flourish here. Numerous castles, and many villages whose houses climb the slopes, enliven the scene, on which the lofty snow-crowned Piz Beverin looks down. All around the mountains are richly wooded, and the air we breathe is full of the odours of the pine. But often enough there has been wild work in these woodlands ; for during the Thirty Years War feuds arose here ; men, and even boys, flew to arms, and many of the foreign rulers lay gasping in their blood. As is the case with most of the Alpine passes, the history of this road goes back to a remote antiquity ; and that portion of it as far as Thusis, is peculiarly rich in traditions. The noble monastery at Katzis was founded in the time of the Merovingians by (it is said) the wife of a bishop of Coire ! But the fortress of Hohenrhiitien, which overhangs the Rhine at a dizzy altitude, and whose ruins still declare its ancient might, is attributed to the sixth century before Christ. The Tuscian Prince Rhsetus is supposed to have been its builder, and the town of Thusis is said to derive its name from the same ancient nation. One may look upon the rock on which this fortress is built, and the corresponding one opposite to it, as forming together the colossal portal of the Via Mala which begins here. For immediately behind Thusis, which lies a bright smiling village in the valley, the landscape begins to become more sombre, and narrow ; its stony limbs are con- tracted, all fresh bloom disappears, the rocks are grey of hue, and as a stream of words breaks from an overcharged soul, so break the waters of the Rhine from their stony prison, — foaming, raving, irresistible ! All that usually makes a landscape attractive, is lacking here. The rocks seem to grow before our eyes, as a man's form dilates in anger. Only the naked passion of one of Nature's wrathful moods, stares full upon us. It is the wicked, demoniacal trait in the beautiful aspect of the Splugen, which now strikes us. But the spirit of Man was not cowed, he dared to affront even this wrathful mood of Nature, — and he conquered it. It is now just four hundred years since the first road was made through these rocks ; a road not more than four feet wide, however. Previous to that there was only a wild footpath across the Alpine pastures. Then in the fortieth year of the last century some stone bridges were begun, and still much later was the tunnel blasted, which now bears the name of the " Trou Perdu." On the hottest summer clays the stones here drip chill drops upon one : and the dampness and the darkness seem to repel one despite oneself. The landscape still wears a gigantic character ; the rocks on either side rise to the height of two thousand feet, and are divided by a space of little more than thirty feet in width, and, in precipitous depths below, the stream foams past. One shudders to behold the bridges thrown across this chasm, and boldly spanning it backwards and forwards, until after a long wandering we reach the end of the Via Mala. The fit of rage has spent itself, Nature grows milder before our eyes, a gentle breath s ITALY seems to soften her aspect which glared on us before like to a stony Medusa, and life and laughter revive again. Only a few paces more and we find ourselves in the sweetest valley that can be imagined, amid a whole Idyll of green meadows, and dark woods, interspersed with Alpine huts ; whilst the Rhine flows by, crystal clear, with a gentle murmur. The name of this valley is Schams. It is hard to believe that its inhabitants have ever exchanged their peaceful shepherd-life for the clash of arms ; and yet even this plot of earth has been the theatre of bloody strife. For the lords of Barenburg who ruled over the valley of Schams, were so stern and cruel as to remind us of Gessler ; they trampled down the property and the liberties of the people, and many traditions are alive to this day, which give some idea of this tyranny ; for example, that of the peasant Johannes Caldar : — his feudal lord entered his poor cottage one day, and in brutal scorn, spat into the cauldron where the mess of soup for the poor people's dinner was being prepared. The outraged peasant seized the arrogant miscreant by the throat, and shouting, " Eat thyself, what thou hast seasoned ! " held him down with an iron grasp in the seething liquor, until he was choked to death. Under Hans von Rechberg, and Heinrich von Rhaziins, the troopers of the allied nobles, pressed onward towards the valley of Schams ; it having been given out that a great hunting expedition was in progress, in order to deceive the peasants. In an ever narrowing circle the enemy surrounded the valley, until at length some herdsmen, on their way to the mountains in the early glimmering dawn, perceived the threatening peril. Swift action was now needful. Breathlessly, unrestingly, hastened the messengers by secret paths to Rheinwald, and the neighbouring valleys, and soon came well-armed allies to the rescue ; nor rested until the troops of the tyrants had succumbed to their blows, and the fortresses had been reduced by famine. One of ths leading nobles, Heinrich von Rhaziins, was condemned to death, and as he showed signs of terror at sight of the sword of justice, the executioner reassured him (!) by splitting a hair at one stroke. Nevertheless the noble's life was after all spared, on the intercession of an old servant of his ! What we have here narrated happened some four hundred years ago ; but traces of the same sturdy antique spirit may be met with to this day in Zillis, Fardiin, and Andeer. If we consider the plastic formation of the Spliigen road, it presents itself to us in a series of terrace-like steps. The Val Domgiasca is situated on the first step, and is separated from the valley of Schams by the rocky portal of the Via Mala ; which represents the next step, and this in turn is divided from the topmost step, the Rheinwald Thai, by the stony walls of the gorge of Roffla. Above these lies the village of Spliigen, and the summit of the pass : some seven thousand feet above the level of the sea. Of course, the vegetation is not so rich here, as in the two lower valleys ; but a full and healthy life breathes all around us. The blue blossoms of the flax stand in the meadows, the rye grown here ripens only in the late autumn ; but man lives at peace with nature, and his labour brings a blessing. The enormous traffic at Spltigen (for here the roads to Bellinzona and Chiavenna divide) give this pass a great air of animation. Martinure (1740) states that there is a small lakelet on the Spliigen, deep among the mountains between Rheinwald and Schams, which he calls Calandari. It is only a stone's throw wide, but of depth unfathomable. The legend of the lake recounts that it has the ACROSS THE ST. GOTHARD. 9 magic power to draw into its depths all creatures that approach it. A young woman who had lost her way, and, overcome by fatigue, lay down to sleep upon its shore, disappeared altogether and left no trace behind ; but four miles away, her girdle and her keys were found. The Rhine had cast them up upon its banks. And when some daring youth once drove seven horses into the lake, although the animals were restored living to land (after three hours) yet every beast had lost the iron shoes from its feet. Now the post carriage descends at a rapid trot past the Lira, and the foaming cataract of the Madesimo, through vast galleries which protect the road from avalanches, and at length a long distance below Campo Dolcino, we perceive the fine old town crowned with southern gardens ; the old town with its defiant walls, and its defiant name : — Chiavenna. The word is derived from clems. It is the key to that rugged pass, and the key to the golden treasures of Italy, ACROSS THE ST. GOTHARD. ADEN with a light knapsack we step along the high road which begins at the southern shore of the Lake of the Four Cantons. We pass onward through the streets of Fluelen and Altdorf, where the charm of ancient legends still lingers ; here Tell fitted his arrow in his bow ; the waves that flow beside our path and break against the rocks of the Riitli yonder, have borne his skiff upon their bosom ; we see the great monument to him which rises high above the market-place at Altdorf. No matter that the learned have banished his figure from history, we believe them not. In the hearts of the people, it will live for ever ! As soon as we have left the last houses of Altdorf behind us (the town was devastated by a fearful fire in 1 799), when the last passer-by in his old-fashioned costume, has disap- peared, the scene grows wild and solitary. The road begins to mount very soon. We are on the old world-famous St. Gothard Pass. Our eyes no longer stray across dark roofs to blue waters ; right and left the rocks press hard upon the road, and straight ahead rises the mighty Bristenstock, as though he would bar our further passage. The Reuss dashes on its way foaming through the narrow gorge. But we are not yet fully in the wilderness ;. for where the narrow valley widens out a little, green meadows and neat villages are spread, shaded by limes and maples, or hidden amongst gigantic walnut trees. Heavily laden waggons stand to rest before the doors ; playing children, and gossiping groups seated on the stone doorsteps, are the figures which animate this Idyll. From beneath the brown eaves, a maiden peeps forth and listens to what they are saying down there about her sweetheart. We have wandered thus through Amsteg and Inschi, through Wasen and Goschenen. Foaming waterfalls scatter their spray on to the road; great larches that have been carried down by an avalanche and cling with tough roots to the lower soil overhang us on the rocks ; in their shadow grow broad dock-leaves and low bushy shrubs ; all plants produced by culture become rarer and rarer, and finally disappear. Already at Wasen the finer sorts of foliage have died out. Only a few straggling cherry-trees surmount the slopes, and the last yellow fields wave in the sun- shine. In the tiny gardens surrounded by fences of heavy stone, the rough tall hemp grows, and a few poor flowers, scarcely sufficing to deck a shrine, or the grave-stone of a parent, or to make up a nosegay for a lover's hand. Beyond Goschenen the scenery grows IO ITALY. bolder, and here a gloomy valley opens on our right. It is no longer a landscape : it is a chaos of grey, splintered fragments, with the white dazzling glacier of the Galenstock high above us. It seems to have attracted every ray of light towards itself and to glare down threateningly into the dreary waste at its foot. The slight grasses which grow between the loose stones, tremble softly in the wind. Other movement there is none. A sort of dread seizes on us as we advance into this wilder- ness, and see how all life disappears, how the rocks press closer, and feel a twi- light chill around us. No wonder that the legend tells us the bridge which crosses yon dizzy chasm was the work of the Fiend. The road turns a sharp rocky angle ; the thundering voice of falling waters sounds in our ears as though it cried " Halt ! " And in the next instant we stand before the Devil's Bridge. This is the culminating point of the famous road. Not absolutely the highest as regards the level above the sea, but the highest in respect of man's skill and daring. It is truly a won- derful work ; especially when one considers that a path has been carried over this abyss for centuries back. The spot is striking and remark- able in the highest degree. The Reuss has absolutely forced its way through masses of granite. The narrowness of the channel increases the raging fury of the waters, the steep ascent of the St. tradition runs that when the Till! DEVILS BRIDGE. and this channel appears merely like Gothard. Who could dare to bridge inhabitants of the Ursener Thai were asking themselves and each other this important a deep it over ? slit in The ACROSS ^HE ST. GOTHARD. n question, the Devil appeared to then? and promised to build their bridge, on condition that the soul of the first living being who crossed it, should be devoted to him. The cunning men of the Ursener Thai accepted the condition : but no sooner was the bridge completed than they sent a dog across it, and the animal was instantly torn to pieces. So enraged was his sable Majesty at being thus cheated, that he seized vast blocks of granite from the mountain with the intention of hurling them down and destroying his own work. But even here, the Ursener s were too many for him. Just as he was in the act to throw they shouted a hearty "God bless you ! " in his face, and the Fiend let the stones fall aimless from his hand. One of them, called to this day the Teufels-stein (Devil's stone), rolled down the valley as far as Goschenen, and lies by the side of the road there. This old original devil's bridge, the subject of the legend, is still perfectly visible ; it stands in a partially ruined condition beneath the bold arch which now carries the road across the ravine. One might stand here for hours gazing down into the gulf upon the foaming waters, which now rear themselves up threateningly from the yeasty whirl, now plunge deep down into the bed of the river. With what a restless eager, resentful tone, they rave and mutter! But centuries and generations pass above them one after another, and understand nothing of what they say. This wilderness enjoys but a few bright moments daily, when the rays of the sun shine over the mountain wall, and reach the stream ; then a thousand glittering drops appear, tinted with rainbow hues ; then the noise of the flood becomes a rejoicing song, and it scatters its silvery spray high in the air. But soon again comes the shadow ; the moss on the old ruined bridge becomes blackish-green once more ; the spray of the waterfall, which was gilded but for a few brief moments, grows grey and cold, and drenches us with its fine, invisible particles. How swiftly the shadow deepens into night! How swiftly the year deepens into winter ! The pallid moon illuminates the snow-covered bridge with uncertain rays. A train of smugglers passes noiselessly along the road, with loaded guns and blackened faces ; they search slowly about for the railings at the edge of the precipice, which the storm has blown down, and lead their trembling beasts by the bridle ; the frost has made the road slippery and split the masonry ; they listen, they grope, — the foremost man falls into the torrent ! That is an appropriate crossing of the Devil's Bridge. In the year 1799, when the French, Russians, and Austrians, fought at this spot, the old bridge was partially blown up, and, though it has been said that the soldiers of Suwarrow crossed the yawning chasm upon rotten beams of timber hastily laid across it, the fact is the ancient arch is not only extant but perfectly passable. The new bridge was constructed between the years 1828- 1830; its span is shorter than that of the old one ; and it crosses the torrent at an altitude of ninety-five feet above it. Soon after the Devil's Bridge comes the " Urner-Loc/i," (literally the Uri Hole). Here again has man made his way vi et armis through barriers which Nature opposed to him : as he has bridged the abyss yonder, so here he has broken through the rocks, — and rocks of the hardest granite. Before that, there was merely a wooden gallery hanging by chains to the surface of the steep cliff. The man who undertook to pierce the rock was one Pietro Moretini, of Locarno, who began the daring work in 1707, and completed it in eleven months. To be sure it was narrower and lower than it is now, (the road through the tunnel at the present day measures more than sixteen feet in width,) but nevertheless, it was nearly two hundred feet long ; and everywhere, in those days, people were talking of the wonderful tunnel that had cost fully eight thousand gulden ! Who c 2 12 ITALY. could have guessed that, a hundred and fifty years later, seventy-five millions of francs would be expended on piercing the Mont Cenis ? Nay, that the hammer would be already sounding on the flanks of the St. Gothard ! The Urner Loch forms not only a boundary for the road, but for the landscape. When we have passed with echoing footsteps under its dark vault and out into the free daylight again, we have a new scene before us; Andermatt (On-the-meadow) is the sunny name of the village on which we enter, and its name is a reality ; a green carpet appears to be spread out before us, the Reuss, which we have just beheld raving and foaming, streams gently and silvery through the fields, the wild spectacle is changed to a smiling Idyll. This is the Ursener Thai whose wonderful contrast with the neighbouring wilderness Schiller has described in his " William Tell ; " and which appeared so strange to its ancient inhabitants themselves, that they accounted for it by saying it had arisen out of the rocky deserts at a miraculous bidding of St. Colomb. In pre-historic times there is no doubt that the Ursener Thai was a lake shut in by that granite rock which Moretini pierced. But at the time when that work was executed, the inhabitants of the valley, about four hundred in number, formed a little republic of herdsmen, who governed themselves freely and independently ; a council chosen from the whole valley carried on the government ; fifteen judges were appointed from among the inhabitants ; and only on occasions of great importance did they descend into the lower lands to take counsel with the Landrath of Uri. But even then the ultimate decision rested with themselves ; it was not until the beginning of this century that the little free state became subject to the authority of the Canton. That which makes the scenery of the Ursener Thai so peculiar, is its absolute isolation. There is rich pasture-land, but no woodland, no luxuriant foliage ; all the great mountains which surround these meadows are bare and dreary, only one dark, triangular patch of forest overhangs the village : it is the so-called "Bann Wald" which was, for generations, looked upon as especially sacred. It was forbidden on pain of death to cut down a tree here, inasmuch as these green Avails formed the only protection of the village against avalanches; but during the wars of 1799, the axe pierced this forest for the first time, and the wounds made then, are visible to this day ! Often, on digging deeply, blackened knots of wood are found, and colossal twisted roots ; confirmations of the tradition which says that the original inhabitants set fire to the forests of the whole region, —either to gain more pasture-land, or to get rid of the numerous beasts of prey. As soon as we have passed through the Ursener Thai, and left Hospenthal behind us, the landscape becomes wild and barren once more : it grows stony beneath our feet, it grows lifeless before our eyes ; this is the last huge step of the heights of the St. Gothard. The road winds along in bold curves, and at length we find ourselves in front of the famous hospice. We have reached the summit of the pass, and yet, nevertheless, still higher peaks rise all around us ; the Stella, and Monte Prosa, Fibia, and Fiento, close the prospect with their gigantic walls. The old hospice, which was already established, and served by Capuchins, in the thirteenth century, was destroyed by a terrific avalanche in 1 777. In the present building something like ten thousand strangers are refreshed and sheltered during the year ; no payment is taken, only a free gift, if it is proffered. The former stable, an octagon, around whose walls ran eight mangers, and whose roof was supported by a single pillar, was destroyed in the war at the beginning of the present century ; Suwarrow's Cossacks threw its rafters into their camp-fires. On the summits of the St. Gothard is the Lago Lucendro ; a dark, shining sheet of ACROSS THE ST. GOTH ARB. 13 water, surrounded by icy, almost perpendicular, rocks ; it reminds one of the Avernus of the ancients, at the entrance to Hades. From its depths the Reuss takes its source ; and from one of the smaller neighbouring lakes rises the Ticino, which follows the road as far as Milan. But no matter how wild and rough the scene without, we sat snugly enough in the guest-room, — men who had never met before, and probably would never meet again, who had nothing in common save the passing minute, and the spot of earth on which the sole of their foot rested. Each had something to narrate : this one of the campaign of 1 799, the other of the avalanches, which are especially frequent on the southern side of the mountain. As late as the summer of 1801, might still be seen, all along the route, the skeletons of horses and mules lying at the bottom of the precipice where they had been thrown because they were exhausted and because fodder was scarce. All around the Lago Lucendro, and the little lake of the Oberalp, the earth was strewn for many a long year with broken muskets, the butt-ends of pistols, and whitening bones ; nay not unfrequently bullets were found of which it was easy to distinguish the Austrian from the French. Two great butt-ends of muskets did duty for oars in an old boat drawn up near the shore, and near it you might see a newly-made mound, surmounted by a splendid cross. So said an old man who sat with us at table. His beard was hoary, but his eyes sparkled when he spoke of these things ; as a boy he had been an eye-witness of that bloody time. For a long period, during the Napoleonic times, you could hardly stop at an inn on the St. Gothard route without meeting with French officers; they lorded it over the company, and led the conversation, they prated of the wars of the great Emperor, of their vengeance against England, of their love-adventifres in foreign lands. Thus our chat lasted deep into the night. When the talk slackened, we heard the wind beating against the windows : — that howling mountain-wind that tears the avalanches from the rocks, and overwhelms whole villages at one swoop. The most perilous spots are La Piota, St. Antonio, and the valleys of Tremola and Bedretto ; in the latter place on the sixth of February, 1801, an avalanche fell upon Osacco, and crushed thirteen persons. Only in one house the beams of the roof fell so fortunately as to protect the dwelling from being utterly smashed : it was night, a mother and child were sleeping in the house, and it was three days before they were dug out of the ruins ; both, however, eventually recovered. At length we separated, each to his bed. How strange it seemed to be going to rest among sights and sounds so widely different from all our daily life had been accustomed to, and which seemed to have merely flitted past us dimly. I could see the climbing mules and the weary soldiers ; I heard the thundering avalanche ; but the thunder grew more distant, the words more confused, man and horse were veiled in a sort of mist, they seemed to stand still from utter weariness, and then — I fell asleep. After such a night how glorious is the morning with its dewy brightness! It brought back the strength and the desire to pursue our wanderings. Now we were going downwards, southwards, to the land where the " citrons bloom ; " now for the first time we realized that we were travelling to Italy : for on no other road does the heart beat with such longing for the goal. The road descends in sharp zig-zags through the Val Tremola, crossing numerous bridges on the way ; the landscape grows richer, more animated ; far beneath our feet yonder lies Airolo — lies Italy ! Still, however, the temperate strength of the north struggles with the lavish luxuriance of the south, the fir tree flourishes side by side with the yew, and the avalanches have made hideous furrows down the leafy slopes. But finally the sun gets the mastery. In place of the ash and J 4 ITAL Y. alder, appears the chesnut. The Ticino, which has hitherto accompanied our path in headlong haste, now begins to flow with a mild and gentle current, and not far below Airolo we meet with the first vines, although we are still two thousand five hundred feet above the sea level; but then the soil on which we stand is the soil of Italy. In the little inn at Faido we made our last halt, before setting out for the lakes and the fair city of Milan. How delicious is the flavour of the purple grape and the red wine after our pilgrimage ! and how the black eyes of the pretty Giannina sparkle as she chatters to us of all imaginable things and people ! how her small white teeth shine, and her long dark tresses ! It was almost hard to part from her, despite all the splendours towards which our journey was tending. As we set off once more on our southward way, a voice cried after us from the vine-wreathed balcony, " Addio ! " ACROSS THE BRENNER. HERE may perhaps be other and bolder roads, but the Brenner railway was the first with which the mind of man achieved a victory over the spirit of the mountains, and scaled the highest wall which nature opposes to his progress — the Alps. The Brenner railway really opened that epoch of Titanic works which now follow swiftly one upon the other, and which some day will be recognised as the distinctive mark of this century ; for if the Gothic art created churches, and the Renaissance palaces, the present epoch makes railways ; which— " they too — almost reach to Heaven!" Of course any path that climbs among the heights is more attractive than one which leads amongst the lower valleys, but the charm is here greatly increased by the fact that the wild and singular character of the road presents itself to us at the very first ; the landscape does not gradually unfold itself, but is there before our eyes in full perfection as soon as the train begins to ascend. Let us cast one glance back at the ancient city on the Inn : to the right, a splendid abbey extends its two wings ; in the background rise the blue summits of the Solstein, and the Martinswand ; then the great tunnel through the Iselberg swallows us up. It is, so to speak, the gateway through which we enter upon this daring road ; we are to feel the mighty power exerted in making it, at the very threshold. When we again emerge into the light, the glaciers of Stubai are looking down upon us. The Sill, wild child of the mountains, brawls impetuously along, and if a wider glimpse of landscape than our narrow course is opened into some side valley, we catch sight of white houses nestling under the rocks. High aloft stands a ruined castle, or a tiny chapel, the sound of whose bell is almost lost in the noise of our journey. Threateningly hang great stones over- head ; threateningly yawns the precipice underfoot ; the grey rubbly soil appears so loose, that one trembles to think of a heavily laden goods train passing over it ; we see little pebbles roll swiftly down the slope of the cutting, the soil of which is barely held together by a lattice-work of dry bushes and branches. When there is a clearing in the forest, we can see across to the old post road, which is now so quiet and deserted, and which nevertheless once counted amongst the great roads of the world ; Roman mile- stones of Caracalla and Septimius Severus have been found there ; Charles the Fifth took this road when he travelled out of Italy to the Imperial Diet at Augsburg ; Kaiser Max, the last knight of chivalry, hunted in these gorges. ACROSS THE BRENNER. i5 The longest of the twenty-seven tunnels of the Brenner railway is that of Miihlthal, (two thousand eight hundred feet long) which brings us to the station of Matrey. This was the ancient Matrejum, a permanent camp of the Roman legions, of whom its soil still covers many relics; it was a noble seat in the rude times of the German Empire, as the walls of its castle still record. The tower greets us silently from the height, and the iron rails are laid almost among its rocky foundations. It is now deserted ; the ON THE BRENNER, BELOW GOSSENSASS. Princes of Auersperg, to whom it now belongs, living far away. Amongst the great personages whom the village has received and sheltered, was Pius the Sixth, when he was on his way to Germany in 1782, and a baker on that occasion conceived the happy thought of obtaining the blessing of his Holiness on all his bread ! When Charles the Fifth came to Matrey in the year 1530, he found the whole place in flames, so that he was obliged to take shelter in an isolated house, the Grieshof. Since then the village has been seven times destroyed by fire. Stcinach turns its back on the railway, the fronts of its houses looking westward. Now it is left on one side, looking sullen and neglected; and yet it was, once upon a time, one of those flourishing old-fashioned post stations to which the last ten years have put an end for ever. In the old days the road was frequented clay and night; sixty horses i6 ITALY. stood in the stables, and the gay frescoes with which the houses were adorned witnessed to the well-to-do condition of the burghers. Max Emanuel and Andreas Hofer knew this place, but now it is all deserted ; and the great world-history has turned into other routes ! On the stretch of road between Steinach and the Brenner post, occurs one of the worst curves which the railway has to pass ; for the ascent is so steep that it was impossible to attempt it in a direct line. The line, therefore, instead of continuing its course southward, turns suddenly towards the east, returning to its old direction after a long detour. Many important tunnels mark this bit of the line, which after Gries becomes more and more picturesque, and more and more steep, until at length we reach the summit of the pass. " Brenner Station ! " cries the conductor all along the train. " Brenner ! " the traces of two thousand years of history are embedded in the word. The Leofions of Auo-ustus crossed the Brenner, and so did the world-wide traffic of the German Empire. Here too is the point at which the waters divide, flowing towards the Black Sea and the Adriatic. But the neighbourhood has no attractions for the stranger ; the few houses which make up the hamlet are insignificant and poverty stricken ; the little lake which rests upon the summit, is dark and stagnant. According to the most recent computations, the Brenner is four thousand four hundred and twenty-four feet high. It is the least elevated of all the passes which cross the Alps, and to one looking from a high mountain peak, it appears like a notch in the blue chain. Not far off is the Brennerbad ; it possesses springs which formerly burst boiling from the earth ; but which, owing to some unexplained chance, have become mingled with cold waters. Its fame is of ancient date, and numerous pilgrims sought healing here. Between Schellcnberg and Gossensass there are one or two striking points. Gossensass lies nearly in a perpendicular line below Schellenberg, at a depth of five hundred and sixty feet, and in order to accomplish the descent it was necessary to spread it over a stretch of nearly nine miles. Once more the train changes its course, and plunges deep into the Pflerschthal, until it resumes its old direction, in a tunnel that brings it out at the Gossensass station. Whilst foot travellers can go from the one place to the other in little over five minutes, the locomotive occupies nearly half an hour in doing so. Amongst the passengers who are awaiting the train on the platform, we now begin to see many inhabitants of the neighbouring valleys. To be sure they scarcely ever go farther than to the next station, but they serve to give a delightful coulcur locale which is in agreeable contrast with the cosmopolitan crowd of travellers. Who does not find it pleasant to look upon those tall stalwart figures : those dreamy, yellow-haired damsels with black bodice and broad-brimmed hat ? They were unwilling enough to admit the railway into their peaceful, remote homes ; and many of them, to this day, are not reconciled to the good fortune that was thus thrust upon them. Franzcnsfcst, which we pass soon after Sterzing, gives a warlike character to the scene. Heavily accoutred soldiers crowd into the train, and the foreign tongues they speak, seem to deepen the impression that their service is hard and compulsory. Several officers, too, get into the train at this point : mostly fine-looking fellows. Many a one is accompanied to the carriage door by a woman who looks after the departing train with wet eyes ; to Hungary, to Poland, to Trieste, they are dispersing in various directions. But not only the men, all the memories, in this locality bear a military stamp. Here, where the ways part to the Pustcrthal and the Brenner, where lies the key of the approach to Italy, much noble blood has flowed ; we have reached that part of the pass which is strategically the strongest, and forts were erected to protect it. Here, at ACROSS THE BRENNER. i7 this point which commands the gorge of Brixen, there have been bitter struggles for the mastery, nay it almost seems as though Nature herself took sides, and fought for the defence of the pass. She grows rougher and sterner than heretofore, and piles up on WANDERERS ON THE BRENNER TASS. giddy heights a store of rocky projectiles which, in the combats of 1809, crashed down upon the foe; the bloodstain of 1809 is the stamp and token, the distinctive symbol, of this road! In Mittenwald, where there is a solitary post-house, the bullets are still sticking in the walls. More than a thousand men of one German regiment were slain at a spot still called the " Sachsen Klemme," or Strait of the Saxons. The trees D 18 ITAL Y. were torn from the heights, and the stones from the rocks, to bs hurled down on the invader. The enraged people fought as in the old heroic times ; they had been disarmed, but Nature herself furnished an inexhaustible armoury ; she was their ally and their refuge ; she gave to the combat that elemental fury which we cannot think of with- out a shudder. Every People has its Thermopylae. Now, in the central point of the defile stands the threatening fortress of Franzens- fest, upon a colossal substructure of granite. Gigantic walls and gateways frown upon us, but in the background rises a mightier fortress, the mountain itself. Thirteen years (from 1833 to 1846,) elapsed between the beginning and the completion of the work. Once past the gorge of Brixen, the valley widens, the road descends rapidly, the air grows milder and the vegetation richer. Brixen is our next halting-place ; here we have one more specimen of the genuine little Tyrolese town, with all the qualities and defects involved in the phrase. Botzen is touched with a breath of the south ; but here the antique hostelry of the Elephant, the narrow streets adorned with oriel windows and glimpses of foliage, the wide spaces that suddenly open out before the numerous churches, the priests, who breviary in hand walk surrounded by a swarm of children, these things are characteristic of the German Tyrol. Brixen is a town belonging to the Church ; it has for centuries been the seat of a Prince Bishop ; and this fact has stamped itself on every detail. Monks and nuns are met with everywhere, piety absolutely lives in the streets, even trade is imbued with it ; for the only manufactory that Brixen pos- sesses makes cowls for Capuchin friars. Even after the railway was opened, the stage coach from Brixen to Botzen journeyed daily alongside of the rails, and was daily well-, filled. But our readers will probably rather remain true to the iron road, which now carries us onward through Klausen and Atzwang. Many a remembrance of song and story greets us from the mountains ; we see the gables of the convent where Haspinger once dwelt ; the long white walls of Seben, where the Romans had built a fortress, and, crowning a rocky eminence, the castle in which Oswald von Wolkenstein the Minnesinger, was born. But near Atzwang there is yet more work to be done to subjugate this untrained nature ; for here, not only earth and rock, but the river offers its opposition to the great attempt. In several places the course of the Eisack was turned, and the rails run in the former bed of the stream ; or it was imprisoned in the so-called water tunnels, between whose walls of masonry it rushes darkly. Atzwang is the last pretty village that we see before entering the wide flat valley in which Botzen stands. Already the chestnut tree flourishes on either side of us, and an air of greater industry and cultivation announces the neighbourhood of an important city. One more struggle has to be made ; once more the stormy Eisack must be bridged over ; once more a lowering rock must be pierced, that stands as the last portal guarding the way, and then we speed out into freedom, into a very Paradise. The gigantic wall of the Dolomite mountains stands before us in all its vastness and majesty crowned with a thousand airy pinnacles ; the train runs among vineyards where the ripe grapes are hanging ; crowds of slender gables and flat roofs meet our view. " Bolzano ! " shouts a voice. Everywhere we hear Italian accents. Can this be Italy, the southern land with its magical colouring, we ask ourselves with a start? But we are as yet hardly on the threshold of those delightful plains now opening before us. It is not Bolzano, it is only Botzen. \ THE CASTLE OF TRENT. IN THE TRENTINO. HE Adige is one of the rivers that are consecrated by the legends and the love of the people, around whose shores the great militant figures of history group themselves, in whose bed lies a treasure of golden memories. The Adige seems to have impressed somewhat of its own character upon the country it traverses ; even as the river foams down from the mountains in wild impetuous windings, so is the land cleft into bold ravines in its upper portions ; and when the stream begins to flow with a broader, calmer current, the valley spreads itself out into wide plains laden with wine and oil, with corn and silk. And all this bounty, these rich gifts, are in a manner expressed by the habitual phrase used by the people in speaking of the river. The inhabitants of these parts talk of the " Padre Adige," just as the Germans speak of " Father Rhine." The most interesting district in the course of the Adige is undoubtedly the so-called Trentino ; for if at Botzen the river is still a thoroughly Tyrolese mountain stream, yet by the time it flows through Verona, its waters are completely Italian. But just at the point where it reaches Trent the transition from one character to the other is completed. One feels at once that two contrasted forces are merged in one another in the waves of the Adige ; its surface seems to reflect a singular double image. If this species of psychological and national conflict, amid which the inhabitants exist, is peculiarly interesting, the natural phenomena are not less worthy of notice ; since the mild south which predominates in the valley changes through varied gradations to the roughness of the north which crowns the topmost heights. Nature does not spread out her treasures D 2 20 ITALY. one beside the other, but one above the other, up to the last and highest stages of all, which bear only a coarse kind of corn and gran turco, (Indian maize). The tree which certainly contributes most to the Italian character of the landscape, is the olive ; but the wide, silver-grey olive woods which clothe the slopes of the Lago di Garda, never reach a higher altitude than seven hundred feet above the sea-level. The fig ripens at fifteen hundred feet, and the grape at two thousand feet above the sea : although, to be sure the vines are stunted, and by no means the finest of the twenty-six different kinds which the Trentino produces. But then the south suddenly shuts her lavish hand. Upon the highest cultivated platforms, (four thousand four hundred feet above the sea-level) are golden fields of rye, and all that is above them, is rock and wood : — a thoroughly Alpine country. Wild creatures haunt its depths ; it is scarcely thirty years ago, since the trace of bears was found in the Val di Sarca, and the last wolf killed, and to this clay the eagle builds his eyrie on the top of the rocks. Looked at, not with regard to finer details, but as a mass, the whole country may be roughly divided into three constituent parts, nearly equal in extent. The first division is covered with forest ; the second consists of rock and water ; the third, and smallest, is cultivated, fertile land. This last division is moreover limited in extent, in consequence of the opposition, which has endured for centuries, between free proprietors and those peasants who cultivate another man's acres, and receive in return only a small fraction of the net produce. In this struggle for existence, — in which the one party is endeavouring to obtain immediate returns regardless of consequences, and the other is anxious to preserve for the future, — the Agro Trentino has suffered severely. Important tracts of country have been nearly destroyed by this ruthless system, and the woods, too, have been much injured : so much so that the consequences of the devastation committed are already felt in sharp changes of climate, although the law now does its utmost to protect the woods. Books are distributed in the schools, setting forth the evil of such reckless destruction, but printed words influence the peasant much less than spoken ones ; and at all times destruction moves faster than enlightenment. Any res litigiosa (if I may be allowed to use that ugly word) is interesting beforehand, from the very fact that there is a contest about it, and, for this reason, the little land that is called the Trentino, and in which, for centuries, two powerful national elements have been struggling against each other, has attracted the attention of observers to the singular conditions of its existence. The following numbers, which we take from statistics, do battle on one side or the other. Every figure is an armed combatant : The population of the Trentino amounts at the present day to about three hundred and forty thousand souls. It has increased since 1810 (when the first trustworthy census took place) exactly one hundred thousand. The " circle " of Roveredo, to which the Val di Sarca, and the northern shores of the Lago di Garda belong, is the most populous. The number of schools is about five hundred ; of churches three hundred and fifty ; of priests more than a thousand, The spiritual supremacy is exercised by the Chapter of the Cathedral at Trent. If we run through the list of Prince Bishops, the changes of the times are, as it were, reflected in them ; in the beginning we find antique, powerful types : Gerhard and Burkard, Atto and Udalrich, thorough Germans ; then come a few Italian sounding names here and there; and finally the famous names of the Austrian nobility predominate, — the Harrachs, Thuns, and Wolkensteins. The Bishop was assisted by a council of five Doctors, and the Capitano of the city, named by the Counts of Tyrol. Matters of supreme importance were referred to — Wetzlar ! IN THE TRENT/NO. So at every point German history is intermingled with the Italian annals of the country. It seems to us like a myth when we consider that in the beginning of the nine- teenth century Trent and Riva were Bavarian cities, and that Val di Non and Val di Sole sent their representatives to the Parliament at Frankfurt ! The Trentino lies before us like a great vestibule of Italy; the outlines of the country, and the architec- ture of the towns, the atmosphere and the colouring, are impregnated with the breath of the south ; we begin to feel that we are foreigners here. This is the broad strip of land that lies between Germany and Italy, divided from the former by the Alps, from the latter by the mountains of the Veronese ; — the spot where Nature pauses after having taken leave of the chaste severity of the Alps, and, before assuming the fulness of southern beauty, she stands still at the parting of the ways. A few steps further, and she becomes the idol of millions, the spoiled darling that bears the enchanted name of Italia ! The rocky summits which surround the Trentino in a wide semi-circle are steep and rugged ; their forms are frequently harsh, but the air which streams through the valleys below them is mild and caressing ; and though the waves of the Adige be stormy at times, yet they run between trellised vines and sunny terraces, and flow with the soft swell of an ancient melody. As we have said, Nature here seems to be a creature struggling between two conflicting feelings ; but, in truth, it is scarcely a struggle, for the definitive choice has in reality been made. It is the same with the inhabitants. They seem to fluctuate between Germany and Italy; but they, too, have made their choice ; it is the blue south that they mean when they speak proudly of " la patria." Such is the Trentino. And in the midst of it stands the ancient Roman city of Trent. The best view of its wide-spread walls is obtained by mounting to the Dos Trento ; half way up the hill, even, you see far into the valley and over the rushing Adige ; near to the present bed of the river lies the ancient one, now dry and deserted ; that grey wall, which is now cut in two by the railway, was built by Theodoric, king of the Goths ; the rugged towers which rise above the level of the dwellings, have witnessed the passage of twenty centuries. The memories of old, old times overlie this place, even as geological strata are superimposed one upon the other in the earth ; but men pass by, and see only the sod on which their own feet rest. " Veda ! II Buon Consiglio ! " said a man who had accompanied us unasked, pointing with his hand towards the mighty castle which bears this name ; its battlements, which masterfully dominate the city, were glowing in the evening light. High above them the mountains stretched in noble outlines. The castle was built in days when every palace was a fortress, and all power manifested itself defiantly. Here dwelt the Prince Bishop with his Chapter ; the latter claimed the privilege of having only nobles or the most renowned men of learning among its members. Above the long ranges of windows rises the battlemented masonry wherein hawks make their nests. The whole building is surrounded with a warlike-looking rampart, and at present it does indeed belong to Mars. " E una caserma," said our man, with lowered voice and an air of mortified pride. And then he began to tell of the ruined glories of the great saloon ; — of the noble staircases, of the majolica, and the frescoes of Giorgione and Giulio Romano. " E una caserma ! " " And that building " we asked, " whose cupola is seen above the house-tops, close to the two slender towers ? " " II duomo," he answered, with a kind of pathos. It seemed to him incomprehensible 22 ITALY. that any one could be ignorant of things so important ; for here lie the bones of the famous martyr Vigilius, who once upon a time, built the first church in Trent, and was murdered by the heathens because he attacked the worship of Neptune to which god the city once was dedicated. Many derive the name Trent from Neptune's trident, and the trident was found engraved on a Roman boundary stone which is carefully preserved to the present day ; but others think that the town derives its name from the confluence of three rivers which meet near it. Pliny and Strabo are both of this latter opinion. The builder of the duomo, or cathedral, is said to have been Adamo di Arogno. Its reddish squares of marble have been black- ened by time ; at a consi- derable height the wall is broken by airy arcades where pigeons flutter in and out, and the long nave is divided from the side aisles by pillars. Much simpler, but with more of historic interest, is Santa Maria Maggiore where the Council of Trent was opened in the year 1545. The pre- dominant colouring of the church is of white and red marble. There are statuettes in the niches and delicate bas- reliefs on the walls. The magnificent organ of the church, which was celebrated for its rich tone, was destroyed by a thunder-bolt on the 13th June, 1 8 19. A huge fresco painting in the choir of the church perpetuates the me- mory of the Council, and contains numerous portraits of those who took part in it. The Virgin with her child floats above the disputants and mitigates the asperity of their words. It is well known that the sittings of this assembly continued at Trent fully eighteen years. Twenty-nine ambassadors from secular princes attended it, nay there was even a special " Physician to the Council," the famous Fracastoro. It was already twilight before we descended, and took a turn or two in the streets which were filled with a motley crowd, as is nearly always the case in Southern cities in the evening, but the population had little to recommend it to the sympathies of a foreigner. Among the lower classes we saw plenty of examples of the squalor of outward appearance and the mobility of gesture, which are so characteristic of the South ; but without that FOUNTAIN IN THE CATHEDKAL SQUARE AT TRENT. IN THE TRENT! NO. 23 grandezza with which a poor man in Italy accosts a foreigner ; and even the more cultivated classes are puzzled to find a middle term between their sympathies, which draw them southward, and the experience which teaches them how much solid good FRUIT-SELLERS IN TRENT. comes to them from the North. But this latter view appears to have acquired strength latterly. My volunteer guide assured me that it was worth while to pause a moment in front of the Palazzo Galasso, since it was one of the finest private buildings that Trent could 24 ITAL Y. boast of. " Who built it ? " asked I, in astonishment. " George Fugger of Augsburg," was the answer. After Fugger, it came into the hands of the Counts Thun and Gallas, until at last the Zambelli became the proprietors of it. We passed on, crossing the Cathedral Square. The heavens were gradually decking themselves with sparkling stars ; the water in the great marble fountain standing in the middle of the piazza, murmured and plashed over the god Neptune with his trident and PEASANT WOMAN FROM TKE NEIGHBOURHOOD OF TRENT. sirens. In the suburb on the other side of the Adige we saw the dark cypresses that surround the old garden of the Franciscan monastery. " Trent, tco, has its Saints," said my companion, " and one of them may be counted amongst the youngest in the calendar, for it was a child barely two years old, named Simon, whom the Pope canonised to make amends for his sufferings." People will still tell you that he was stolen and tortured by the Jews. The corpse, which is buried in San Pietro, was fished out of a stream ; and thirty-nine inhabitants of the old Ghetto (Jews' quarter) who were accused of having been accessory to the child's murder, were punished with death. The increase in material prosperity which has come to the " Agro Trentino " of recent times has been essentially due to the railway ; but the direction of its commerce is towards IN THE TRENTINO. 25 Germany. There, and not in the sunny South, Trent lays up her treasures of fruit, and silk, and wine, and if among the articles she receives in exchange a little German morality should slip in, she will be no loser by the bargain. After Trent, Roveredo is the most important town of the Italian Tyrol ; but here in- dustry already preponderates over agriculture. There are more than fifty manufactories devoted to silk-spinning alone. The founders of Roveredo, which was called " Rovereith" in the language of the Middle Ages, were the Counts of Castelbarco. The name of the town, which now sounds so soft and southern, was formerly harsh and German ; and the symbol of the town, which is still seen in its coat of arms and whose trace we find in the name itself, was the oak. From robur, from the oak-wood which once grew in Val Lagarina, Roveredo is named. Here, too, Nature has left traces of her destructive powers in the great chaos of rocky fragments not far from San Marco, which formerly was called the " Stony Sea." The landslip which strewed the huge fragments here, took place in the time of the Carlovingians in 883 ; and it presented, even in 131 9 so fearful a picture that Dante introduced it into his Divina Commedia. He had come to this neighbourhood on being exiled by the Florentines, to enjoy the hospitality of the Counts of Castelbarco. For a brief period Roveredo belonged to the Republic of Venice, until it was united to Tyrol by Kaiser Max. The characteristics of the south are more striking here than at Trent, dazzling white walls meet our eyes on every side, cypresses and fig-trees become more numerous, in the gardens blooms a more varied and gaily coloured Flora; and even the abundant waters which sparkle everywhere in wells and fountains furnish a symptom of southern proclivities. It makes the heart beat quicker when we see the women of Roveredo, who enjoy the reputation of being pecu- liarly beautiful, moving along the Corso Nuovo towards the long avenue which is the general promenade on cool evenings. They glide along chatting and whispering, draped in black silk, their brilliant eyes half concealed behind their fans ; and the beggar who implores them for a trifling alms, calls them " Madonna." Near Pacco a ferry crosses the Adige. From this point we cast a last look back at the pretty town ; then our road lies far away ; the next evening we are looking at blue murmuring waters, as the moon rises slowly behind Monte Baldo. These are the waters of the Lago di Garda. E RIVA. ON THE LAGO DI GARDA. WO roads lead through the Trentino to the Lake of Garda. The one (known to thousands of tourists) branches off from Mori to Riva : the other much less betravelled but finer and bolder, leads from Trent through the Val di Sarca. Not long after leaving Trent we enter a gigantic rocky gorge called Buco di Vela. Above its rugged walls only a strip of blue sky is visible, and the trembling aspen clings to the clefts of the rock : here and there a mountain-stream murmurs over a stony bed, and turns a solitary mill-wheel in the valley. We emerge from the ravine close to the little lake of Terlago, whose waters reflect a world of stone all around it. There are many similar lonely mountain tarns in the Val di Sarca ; they form indeed a characteristic feature of it and, as it were, prepare us to approach the vast basin in which the ebb of prehistoric centuries has left behind the Lago di Garda. Scarcely has Terlago disappeared, when we come to Lago Toblino, out of whose silent depths an ancient castle rises, built by the Romans, and on whose shores all the luxuriant vegetation of the south unfolds itself. But soon Nature resumes her stony and defiant aspect, when we reach the Lago di Cavedine passing Pietramurata by a high winding road. A rocky eminence crowned by a fortress shows itself in clear colours as we look to- ON THE LA GO DI GARDA. 27 wards the south : that is the castle of the old powerful Counts of Arco, and the last great milestone on our way. When we have left it behind us, we have reached our goal and stand on the shores of the shining Lake of Garda. # * * * * * The flood spreads itself out before our eyes in apparently limitless extent, its deep blue colour seeming to give a foretaste of the charm of the still distant Adriatic. We sit upon a little terrace built up high above the lake, and watch the boys playing on the shore, and the slight barks whose sails melt away into vapoury distance. We are in CASTLE OF ARCO IN THE VAL DI SARCA. Riva ; in the very sound of the name one feels some subtle enchantment of the South. The Lago di Garda, which we purpose exploring from this point, is the largest of all the Italian lakes ; with its circumference of a hundred and twenty-four kilometres, it sur- passes the extent of Lago Maggiore by one third. Three great provinces meet on its shores, the Trentino, Venetia, and Lombardy : and though the streams which feed it come mostly from the high mountains, from Val di Sarca, Ledro, and Tavolo, the river which flows out of it is the broad bright Mincio, whose name has a warlike sound in the ears of the men of this generation. It is one of the important lines along which we trace the course of history, the great " Quadrilateral " was intrenched behind it, and its waters nourish the marshy lands that surround Mantua. How much blood had to be shed before these regions heard the victorious cry " Viva 1' Italia! " The shape of the country around the Lago di Garda, when we look down upon the huge basin from a height, is uncommonly picturesque and varied. At the northern end of the lake the shores are steep ; the threatening rocks of Tyrol still tower here, and, as it were, oppose themselves to all that is foreign and strange : Monte Baldo and Monte Adamo arc designed in bold outlines against the blue sky, little creeks and inlets sharply cut into the banks, and the surface of the lake is narrow. But the farther we advance towards the E 2 28 ITALY. south, the more does the picture change. It seems to grow before our eyes, the waters spread themselves out in all directions, softly swelling hills stretch on either hand, until at length the landscape becomes flat and tame and the waters predominate over the whole scene. The Lago di Garda has now entirely lost all the characteristics of a mountain lake. We appear to be gliding over a Lombard plain covered with water. It is not difficult to believe, here, that the lake is barely sixty-four metres (about two hundred feet) above the level of the sea, and the tradition which declares its basin to be the ancient bed of the Adige. The islands, which rise here and there, are not high, and have none of those jagged forms by which so many an island declares the struggel it has had for existence. P1ETRAMURATA IN THE VAL DI SARCA. Even Sermione, the long peninsula at the southern border of the lake, is covered with thick olive woods, more gentle than majestic in their aspect, and rythmic as the waves that ripple past them. Here begins the history of the lake ; — not a history in the dry and compressed style of the ancient chroniclers, but a history in sweet sounding song ; for^Catullus lived here. Two thousand years ago the conquerors of the world had found in their path the azure jewel that we call the Lago di Garda ; and though the stormy spirit of the Caesars passed on unmoved towards Gaul and the Germanic forests, the spirit of the poet paused here in silent ecstasy, and asked for nothing more. The little city which stood here at that period, and of which some remains of walls are still extant, was called Sirmio. It was Sirmio that Catullus greeted in exulting verses, when after a long absence he returned to tarry there, and to exclaim : u O quid solutis est beatius curis ? " And whoso knows the songs written by that wondrous hand can feel in them even to-day the light pulsing of the waves which gave them their form and spirit. It is a picture from the antique world with which we begin : — the great poet in the midst of this smiling Idyl, his eyes lovingly beholding every detail which the beauty of 3H1 jo ON THE LA GO DI GARDA. 29 Nature presents to them, with no ambition but to comprehend them ; with no wish but to sing them. The Lago di Garda is mentioned also in the poems of Virgil and in the Divina Commedia. But the hands of many powerful personages were rudely stretched to grasp this jewel, and fought for its possession. The most noble families of Verona and of Venice met here in arms ; the Kaiser and the Church, Guelph and Ghibelline contended for it, and not seldom the history of the beautiful lake is as stormy as its EAKE OF CAVEDINE IN THE VAL DI SARCA. waters. The peaceful times of which Catullus sang here soon came to an end. Upon the Monte Rocca, whose double summit rises above Garda, the ruins of a grey old tower are still to be seen, where Adelaide, the widow of Lothair, was imprisoned. Barbarossa gave and Henry sold away the land ; until again new races came whose better right was but their better sword. But the conflict raged highest in the period during which the power of Venice brooked no opposition ; when cities, great and small, made war upon one another, and when every noble was a free lance. It was in the year 1439 that the Duke of Milan, Filippo Maria Visconti, was at war with the Venetians ; — he the more powerful on land, they on the sea. He had occupied nearly the whole territory of Garda with his soldiery, and was already master of the district, when the Venetians, commanded by Gattamelata, conceived the bold idea of sending a portion of their fleet to the lake ! The difficulty of surmounting the heights that lie between Garda and the country of the Adige, and of bridging over the chasms which yawn amid that stony mountain wilder- ness was enormous ; but Venice was then all-powerful. The project was jeered at, at first, but soon thousands of busy hands were at work to make a way for the squadron, which consisted of more than thirty ships. The fleet was towed down the Adige as far as 3Q ITALY. Ravazzone, and from thence was brought by land to the lake of Loppio ; two thousand draught animals being employed to move the tremendous weight. The water-shed was reached : from Monte Baldo they came down on the Lago di Garda like a migration of prodigious monsters. It was a " moving wood " that advanced towards the foe; — but a wood of masts and flapping sails. The inhabitants of the shores were terror-stricken at MILL IN THE BUCO DI VELA. the aspect of these huge forms which all at once appeared upon their lake. But the audacious armada was soon completely destroyed ; and the Venetians were not victorious over Milan until they had prepared a second fleet, built on the spot. But this was not the last blood shed here, nor the last fleet that fought here. We are speaking of Italy ; and Italy is not a peaceful heroine. Not only did the wars of the first Napoleon, and those of '49, rage on these shores, but later, towards the beginning of i860, daring little steamers cruised about these waters, manned by volunteers, and carrying the flag of Italy. Their guns, which commanded nearly the whole of the lake, frequently put a stop to the communication between Riva and Peschiera. From many a silent boat gliding peacefully through the blue waters, would come suddenly the shrill ON THE LA GO DI CARD A. 3i shout of " Viva V Italia ! " " Viva Garibaldi ! " The young fellows who leant against the mast, wore the red shirt, and it was then that I heard for the first time the well-known song " Camicia rossa ! " We may speak openly of these things now ; they are forgotten and forgiven, but in that day they weighed heavy on men's spirits and even the stranger perceived the smouldering agitation. In penetrating a little into the streets of Riva, we soon feel that Nature has clone much better for the place than man. The streets are a narrow labyrinth of angles, for the most part ; although it is true that every neglected corner, every coloured rag that flutters upon the roofs, every lazy vagabond sleeping under a doorway, bears the stamp of the picturesque. At a few points the streets widen out into stately Piazzas, of which the finest is without doubt, the Piazza looking on the port. Here the daily life of the place is seen in a motley crowd, and the houses are adorned with long rows of pillars ; here too the artistic unity of the town with the landscape is best perceived. All the lines are distinct and firm ; the ruinous walls seem to have grown out of the stony soil rather than to be built upon it. The gigantic rocks of Monte Giumella, the blue distance of the lake, the fine old olive trees which seem to press around the city in serried ranks, all harmonise wonderfully together in form and colour. The picture is complete, and it is so new and exciting, that one's heart begins to beat with the delightful sensation of roaming freely in foreign lands. And if now and then our ears are pierced by the shrill yells of the urchins who struggle for a stray lemon that has fallen to the ground ; if occasionally we are splashed by the spray from a dirty boat full of red-capped rowers, we cannot be angry with them. Nay, even the Italian dandies, who give themselves great airs in front of the Caffe Risatti, excite only an indulgent smile. There must be fellows like these ! Certainly we already perceive the difference (noticeable throughout Italy) between the impression produced by the upper and lower classes of the people. That the latter gain, and the former lose, our sympathy the closer our acquaintance with them becomes, is an observation continually confirmed on our progress, from Verona to Naples. The frank, frequently noble, air of the common people, contrasts very favourably with the blasdf frivolous manners so often met with among the " Signori " of the great cities. Of all the roads leading out of Riva, that which is called the Via Ponal, is the most beautiful ; it is named from the fine waterfall which it passes before reaching the Val di Ledro. Here, as so often in the high country around Benaco, we find a small dark green mountain tarn, whose steep rocky walls hint of the neighbouring Alps, whilst the vegetation on its shores luxuriates in Southern exuberance. How willingly we loiter here, and dream away one more day in this solitude, before returning to noisy little Riva ! The steamboat which traverses the lake from end to end, four times a week, stops at the most important stations on either bank, and many a smiling Idyl, many a glorious memory rises before us on the voyage. As we reach the middle of the lake, we realize for the first time the luxuriant fertility of the country. On the sunny slopes we see carefully cultivated lemon gardens ; we see vineyards richly enough laden to adorn a procession of Bacchus with their fruit ; and between these again, groves of olive trees with their delicate, tender, silver-grey foliage. Few trees are so noble. From Limone to Gargnano the banks are steep, the rocks rise almost perpendicularly from the water, which is here of considerable depth ; but from Gargnano to Desenzano, stretches the long, fruitful shore, which the Italians call the "Riviera." Gardens and elegant villas alternate with arable land. Many of the houses have the lintels of the doors and the window-sills of marble from the quarries of Tremosine. The nobles of Verona and Brescia have their country houses 32 ITALY. here ; but besides that, there is frequently a gathering of the populace, gaily dressed and merry folks, on market days at Gargnano, when the fishing-boats run into the harbour of Salo to take refuge from bad weather. The most important point on the eastern shore is Torbole, sheltered by a snug little port around which the angry winds contend with each other. Two winds chiefly pre- dominate on the Lago di Garda : the north wind which comes across the Alps and is here DEPARTURE OF A STEAMBOAT FROM PESCHIERA. called " il Sover," and the " Ora," which blows from the south. Their alternations, and the brilliant calms which succeed them, give to this lake that inexhaustible richness of colouring which makes it quite unique. When the smooth surface displays a fathomless blue tint, with the sky like a tender veil above it, it will change on a sudden as by the stroke of a magic wand to dark steel-colour directly a storm begins to agitate its depths ; until this too, abruptly disappears to make way for a pale green, with white, foam-crested waves. Then the black tempestuous sky will grow lighter, a rosy evening gleam will steal over the wide waters that rock themselves slowly to rest whilst the moon appears amid the torn wrack of clouds and pours forth a stream of silver. It is like a human countenance on which anger and joy succeed each other ; which is now full of rage, now pale with terror, until at length silent peace overspreads its features. ON THE LA GO DI GARDA. 33 The two islands which we come upon soon after Malcesine, are the only steep ones in the lake, and their fortress-like appearance is heightened by the bold ruins of ancient castles, which take us back to the days of the Scaligers. But in a brief while the soft blue waters wash away these rugged memories, and we are held by the charm of the delightful present. We steam on past Garda, the little hamlet of the ancient countship, which gives its name to the lake. Here too, stand a few ruined towers, but their sternness is subdued DESENZANO. and hidden beneath a heap of odorous flowers and leaves; camellias and oleanders, wine and oil, adorn the terraces. The legend runs that here was the site of the ancient town of Benacus, of which the inscriptions tell that have been dug out of the rubbish. Many a charming village seems to rise out of the waters, and sink down into them, as we glide quickly past ;— usually built in semicircular form round a bay, like Bardolino, or girdled with antique walls like Lazise whose salutary springs were known to the ancients. Then, when we have lost sight of Sermione, we are near to the southern shore of the lake. Those white houses, shining there in the west, belong to the village of Desenzano ; the blackened walls beneath which we walk, bear the proud name of Peschiera; this is the limit of the lake. Let us cast one look back over its blue surface before we go. A light fishing bark rocks on the waves ; the white sail swells in the evening breeze ; the crew is going in the twilight to fish. The spot at which the Mincio runs out of the lake, is a good fishing ground. They cast their nets, leaning far over the boat's side F 34 ITALY. and singing at their work. Their dark bright eyes, full of that enthusiasm which dwells only in the south, look attentively at the clouds rising above Monte Baldo, and at the evening star breaking through them. The wind carries their song to the distant shore, so that wife and children can hear it. Which are the happier here, they or we ? We feel the charm that surrounds us, with conscious self-investigation : but in their hearts it has grown up unconsciously. We gaze perplexed on these foreign wonders : but to them all this beauty is home ! We cannot understand the words they sing ; they are carried away by the wind and the waters, — but perhaps that is the very soul of their song ! TOK130LK. OF THE SANTA ANASTASIA, VERONA. VERONA. ROM Santa Lucia, where the railways into Verona meet, the eye can already embrace the enchanting prospect of the city. In the foreground stand the threatening fortifications with their sharp strong angles surmounted by dark cypresses between which you catch glimpses of little white villas scattered on the heights. Amid the rattle of the train and the rush of the Adige we are carried swiftly nearer to the goal ; and our hearts beat high with expectation. For, though the Italian landscape that we have hitherto seen, captivated us, Verona is the first real Italian city that we have greeted. And what memories awake as we draw near to her gates, — those gates behind which stands one of the finest monuments of antiquity, — behind which Dietrich von Bern and Alboin intrenched themselves, — where Dante lived an exile, and where Romeo grew pale beside Juliet's coffin. But soon the dreamy past fades away, for the train rushes with a shrill whistle into the station at Porta Nuova, and gives us back to the present. Out of the throng in the lofty arched station, out of sound of the shouts of facchini and railway guards who are showing the way to the stream of passengers, we push our way to where "Uscita"is F 2 36 ITALY. written above a door ; and then, when we have reached the free space without, we begin to breathe freely. " Torre di Londra ! " " Aquila nera ! " " Colomba d'oro ! " resound on all hands in a sing-song tone. The porter who stands at the door of each omnibus with a brass badge on his cap, seizes not only on one's travelling bag but on one's person, and we find our- selves thrust bodily into an omnibus ! Verily it was a true saying of Stephen the German postmaster-general ; " In these days people don't travel, they are travelled!' FONTANA DI FERRO, NEAR VERONA. The trunks are hauled on to the roof, " Avanti ! " cries the porter to the driver, and then off we go along wide interminable streets leading from Porta Nuova into the interior of the town. The pace is that peculiar hurried trot which all Italian nags have. We fly along carelessly over stocks and stones ; if the bay stumbles now and then, it is hardly noticed amidst the rattle of the pavement and the tinkle of the bells on the harness. A man, standing at a street corner, and who has barely time to jump aside out of reach of our wheels, shouts after us " Canaglia ! " But the word sounds as melodious as if it were a compliment. We soon come out of the hot, dusty road to the railway, into the narrower, cooler streets of the town, turn several sharp corners, and finally roll under the wide open portal of the hotel. The airy staircase, the marble floors, and the great oleanders in the entrance-hall show us already that we are in an Italian household. The guests seated at table who dispute with lively gestures about politics, bear the same stamp, as we take out- places among them refreshed and comforted after having got rid of the dust of travel. VERONA. 37 We soon feel at home, and after strolling about here and there, making pause before 1 some sudden street picture, we find ourselves on the Piazza d'Erbe : the point where the city life flows in the most varied stream. In the time of the Romans, this was the Forum. Now the Piazza is surrounded by fine mediaeval architecture, under whose open arcades the crowd throngs. A marble foun- tain murmurs in the centre ; the figure surmounting the basin is an- cient, and represents the city of Verona with an open roll in her hand setting forth the immemorial renown of her citizens. A pillar, hewn from a single stone, stands here, but its summit is empty ; and the remarkableness of the column consists in the fact that it is empty. For here in old times stood the Venetian lion of St. Mark, and looked down arrogantly upon the oppressed populace below, until it was destroyed in the battles of the Revolution (1797.) So stormy his- tory and every-day life take hands here ; an every-day life that seems to belong to the trivialities of the hour. Hundreds of buyers and sellers swarm beneath the white awnings over the stalls. Fruit and vege- tables are piled up on the low boards ; a load of the most splendid flowers fills the heavy baskets ; numberless voices rise one above another. The moving crowd di- vides itself everywhere into distinct groups. On this side we hear " Piselli, fagiuolini, cavolfiori ! " On the other re-echoes the cry " fragole, uva, limoni ! " " Scusi, Signore ! " cries a third, who has pushed against us by a sudden movement. Under the arcades of the Casa dei Mercanti, the younger generation of Merchants is assembled : each one with a flower in his button-hole and a Cavour cigar in his mouth. On the walls over their heads you may read gigantic placards ; and here and there political watchwords scrawled — such as, indeed, are seldom wanting on walls in Italy. Every one is bargaining — this one for thousands, that other for twenty ccntcsimi; but the smaller the sum, the bigger the noise ! Only look at that pedlar, with what contemptuous glances he measures from head to foot the customer who offers him ten coitcsimi whilst he demands twelve! He steps back in inexpressible indignation, but almost immediately reason gets the upper hand, and with persuasive gestures he cries out once more " Dodici ! " "Dieci!" replies the other as quick as lightning. And now begins a dialogue, which PIAZZA D ERBE. 38 TTaLY. consist of but two words truly, but is conducted with such a wealth of tone and action, that one could see nothing better acted on the stage. " Dieci ! " — " Dodici ! " — " Dieci ! " • — " Dodici ! " — " Dieci ! " roars one against the other, as though they were dealing sword- thrusts ; until at length the seller suddenly cries " Va bene ! " and flings his wares into the buyer's hand. Meanwhile a new group appears from the Via Pellicciai, accompanying a street singer with shouts of laughter. Where the throng is thickest, the fellow takes his stand, makes a circle, and begins to burlesque with admirable mimicry a new prima donna who has lately succeeded at the opera. Hideous grimaces accompany the pianissimo to which he slowly lets his voice sink. The people keep running to him from all quarters, and laughing faces show themselves at the high, arched windows, until the whole train disappears into a neighbouring street. But we hasten through the picturesque gate of the Volto Barbaro, to the Piazza dei Signori, where the spirit of the old days of the city, and the power of her later rulers, are petrified in wonderful shapes. Without doubt there can be but few towns in which the great epochs of history are embodied in such noble architectural memorials as here ; for in the arena, classical antiquity has bequeathed to us a monument scarcely surpassed in beauty by the Roman Coliseum. And although only a few striking memorials of Gothic times remain, yet these become richer as soon as the rule of the Scaligers begins, and the struggle between Guelph and Ghibelline. From that epoch date the mighty castles, and the houses defended by towers which still to this day mark the physiognomy of Verona. And then came the Renaissance, and gave to the town two such men as Sanmichele and Fra Giocondo, to whom some wondrous palaces, and a few of the most beautiful churches, owe their origin. But the warlike character of the town, which is the central point of the famous Quadri- lateral, soon resumed the upper hand, and the battles at the close of last century, and the later conflict between Austria and Italy, are betokened by the fortifications of to-day, with their staring cannon. So the past of Verona reveals itself to our eyes. The Piazza dei Signori, however, on which we stand, belongs exclusively to the Middle Ages: here dwelt the rulers of the city, Mastino and Alberto of the race of Scaliger; here stands the Palazzo del Consiglio, where the Council of Five Hundred sat, and in front of whose hall are ranged the statues of five worthies of antiquity who called Verona their home. These are Pliny, Catullus, Cornelius Nepos, Macer /Emilius, and Vitruvius. The pure forms of the noble building juliet's house. VERONA. 39 are very attractive. Not without awe do we stand before the monument of Dante, which adorns the middle of the Piazza , for the sublime singer dwelt four years within these walls as the guest of Can Grande. He himself was a Ghibelline who held immoveably by the Emperor, and the Scaligers also followed the same side. The eagle which rises on their coat of arms above the ladder, was the Imperial eagle. Wheresoever in Verona you come upon noble historic monuments, they are almost sure to be connected with the name of this family, — with their lives or their death; but the finest of all is their tomb. It is hard by the Piazza dei Signori, and may be considered as an appurtenance of the church of Santa Maria Antica, in whose courtyard it stands surrounded by iron railings ; not hidden in a dark gloomy vault, but rising high and free in the midst of life. According to Villani, the Scaligers had their origin from a petty tradesman of Montagua, who dealt in ladders, (in Italian, scala ; hence the name, Scaligeri) and were simple citizens when they settled in Verona. But those happened to be the times in which the burghers of the cities were involved in bitter strife with the nobles, and the influence which the Scaligers acquired was such that it led the populace to elect their Poclesta from among that family, in the year 1260. This was Mastino ; and when an assassin's dagger destroyed his life, he was succeeded in power by his brother Alberto. The latter soon made himself an independent prince, and was succeeded in turn by three sons, of whom the most im- portant bore the name of Can Grande. With him really began a brilliant period, such as fell to the lot of many small Italian states after the time of the Hohenstaufens. His fame as a soldier, his encouragement of science, the liberal way in which he cherished the arts, contributed to raise the Veronese (the district around Verona) to the highest pitch of prosperity. The best people in the land reposed their hopes on Can Grande ; Dante sang of him that he would make the Ghibelline cause triumphant ; but the higher the flight, the deeper the fall. As in most of the great Italian families, the passions of certain individuals were fatal to the rest. Murder and lust raged unchecked among the members of this race ; three times, brother was slain by brother, until at length the thirst for undivided power led to the extinction of the family. Antonio was the last of his race. After one hundred and thirty years of brilliancy, the star of the Scaligers set at last :— one of the brightest that Italy has ever seen. Even their tomb bears witness that it was so. The monument of Can Grande is placed above the portal of the church ; a heroic equestrian figure. On either side of him are the sarcophagi of Mastino and Giovanni. Over another sarcophagus rises a Gothic spire, enriched with numberless pinnacles and DRAW-WELL. 4 o ITALY. figures, and surmounted by a horse and rider, all so magnificent that one almost overlooks the exquisite little sarcophagi niched in among them. It is perhaps the finest tomb that any Italian ruler ever had ; but the activity of life, and not the peace of death, reigns here ; in their graves they are still lords of the city, and their corpses are throned high above the heads of the living generation. No other church of the city, therefore, is so rich in historical associations as Santa Maria Antica. Still in many of the others are to be found traces of an eloquent past — as indeed is the case with nearly every inch of Verona's soil. There is a tradition that the old cathedral was erected on the ruins of a temple to Minerva, and the figures which adorn the great door date from the time of the Carlo vingians. Among them stand Roland the Brave, and Queen Bertha the mother of Charlemagne. But he who passes through the long cloister to the learned halls wherein are preserved the archives and the library of the cathedral chapter, plunges still deeper into the past. The most precious works of the Roman classic authors, manuscripts of the time of the Emperor Constantine, were found here ; and there are few towns to which European erudition is more indebted. In San Zeno Maggiore there are many artistic treasures ; the nave of the church was built before the days of the Hohenstaufens, and the reliefs in brass on the doors, the pillars resting on the backs of strange monsters, even the frescoes, indicate a remote antiquity. The chapel of the Pellegrini is renowned for its architecture ; San Giorgio possesses a masterpiece of Paolo Veronese ; but the oldest church of all is said to be San Siro, where to this day you may read an inscription purporting that here the first mass ever said in Verona was performed. Tradition says that it was built by permission of King Berenger, with the stones taken from the ancient theatre. From thence we proceed to the ruins which the world of antiquity has left to us in Verona — that world in which Catullus and Pliny lived. But little remains of the theatre, situated on the left bank of the Adige, beneath the rocky fortress of Castel San Pietro. It was a meritorious work — begun in the last century — to remove and dig out the enormous masses of rubbish, and reveal the theatre to the eyes of the present day. At all events in the open space of the stage, and the fragments of seats, we gain an in- teresting picture, which is enhanced by the surrounding landscape ; for the theatre lies just between the river and the rock of San Pietro, so that the latter forms a background to the scene. If the impression made by the theatre is incomplete, and requiring to be filled up by knowledge or imagination, on the other hand the aspect of the mighty arena produces a most powerful impression. In order to reach it we cross the Piazza Bra (now Vittorio Emanuele), one of those vast squares whose wide space makes the surrounding buildings appear almost stunted, except where a tower rises here and there above the red roofs. But the Piazza itself is dwarfed, nay disappears, before the huge colossus which we now behold, — before this remnant of the universal power of the Caesars. Who built the amphitheatre is unknown to this day; and no stone has yet been discovered bearing any elucidation of the mystery. It is a mere supposition that the building dates from the reign of Trajan. It is constructed, for the most part, of the reddish marble found in the quarries of the Veronese and brought down on the Adige : so that no other amphitheatre can be compared with this for costliness of material. Mafifei, the renowned historian of the city, dedicates a copious examination to the arena, and leads us with an experienced hand amid all the changes which the wondrous work VERONA. 4i has passed through in the course of ages. From its inexhaustible masses were taken the stones for the building of the city walls, when Verona was threatened by the barbarians ; during civil conflicts it became the fortress in which rival parties entrenched themselves ; ordeals and executions took place here, and women of notoriously bad character lodged at one time in the deserted walls. But during all, there was something dark and mysterious THE AMPHITHEATRE. in the immense space, with its cages for wild beasts and slaves. People felt themselves to be in a ''Labyrinth," as the arena was called in the days of King Pepin; until finally the idea began to dawn that this was a wondrous work of antiquity that ought to be pre- served. Thereupon it was forbidden, as early as the sixteenth century, to remove any stones from the arena, the inhabitants who had taken up their abode in the arched corridors were strictly watched, and at length there was even a public tax imposed to pay for the repair of dilapidations. In this way alone has it been possible to preserve the famous monument — at all events as a whole — although but few of the marble benches are the original ones, and although the external wall has been broken away, all but four mighty arches. The lead and iron which formerly bound the huge blocks 4 2 ITALY. of stone together, continued still to be pilfered by thievish hands, and were changed under the hammer into weapons with which new generations were to destroy each other. How the 'architectural form of the amphitheatre arose is declared by its name, and ancient authors add numerous explanations of it ; the semicircles of two theatres were merely joined together, so as to form a complete circle. Nearly all the important cities of Italy built similar theatres, at first of wood, but afterwards of stone ; and the size of COURT-YARD OF A HOUSE IN VERONA. them gives one a surprising glimpse of the population and traffic of the provinces in those days. According to Maffei's measurements the arena of Verona is four hundred and fifty feet long, and three hundred and sixty feet wide, and the forty-four rows of seats which rise step by step one above another, could accommodate more than forty thousand spectators. The seats were divided by passages which spread like rays from the centre of the arena to the topmost gallery, so that the crowd, which entered by no fewer than seventy arched doorways, could easily disperse itself over the enormous space. As a protection from sun and rain, a colossal awning of sail-cloth was spread over the spectators ; and under its shelter the many-headed public could sit at ease, listening breathlessly to the growl of the panther as it crouched beneath the feet of the elephant ; or watching the sword of the gladiator as he gave his adversary the coup-de-grace. Ilabet ! habet ! What a frightful picture is conjured up by these recollections ! We see the blood- thirsty masses, intoxicated with excitement, who once sat upon these marble steps ; now watching the games in the strong tension of expectation, now bursting into shouts of VERONA. 43 exultation. Praetors and yEdiles, men in flowing togas, and women with golden ornaments in their hair ; and above these, pressed in a closer throng, the wild populace ragged, hungry, rough, but insatiable in their thirst for blood ! They cower together, each in himself a beast of prey. Pattern ct circenscs is their threatening watchword. Hecatombs of noble animals have already fallen, the most renowned gladiators of the schools, which existed in Imperial times all over Italy, have already displayed their BRIDGE OF BORGHETTO, NEAR VALEGOIO. prowess in the arena, but still there has not been slaughter enough. Like the shout of a storming army, like the Evoel of a bacchanalian orgie, a cry goes through the thousands and thousands of spectators, until the last Herculean champion sinks upon the earth. We shudder ! But when we, as it were, awake, and look around us, everything is silent and empty ; the seats deserted, the blood dried up from the earth, and the generations who exulted here buried beneath the ruins of a thousand years ! Only the artizan who has fixed his workshop under the shelter of the great arches, hammers with assiduous hand. The little day-theatre erected in the midst of the vast space, looks, with its painted boards, like a toy put there by a child's hand to serve for the exhibition of its puppets. No man, save the stranger gazing curiously about him, enters this deadly silent circle; but the sun with his eternal calm passes slowly through it, gliding from step to step, and like a gigantic dial that marks, not hours but centuries, the shadow of them falls upon this sepulchre of Roman greatness. But we hasten from the spot where the power of the human race displayed itself in a feverish squandering of force, where even to think on those burnt out passions excites G 2 44 ITALY. us. The charm of Nature works upon us with soothing silent power, when we take refuge with her in a wondrous garden of Verona. It is the Giardino Giusti, of which I am speaking : that fine symbol of the city itself, where Art and Nature are singularly blended. The ground, flat at first, rises gently for a space until at length it terminates in sudden heights, and here, amid broad pathways and narrower twilight ways, stand the oldest spires of Verona : — more than two hundred cypresses ! They rise high as the towers of the city, and older than the oldest palaces, whilst among them flourish laurels and myrtles, oleander and acanthus. The marble statues in the thicket stand veiled with a dreamy shadow ; fallen gods who have taken refuge in this fair asylum which shelters them with its eternal green. Eighteen of the statues are said to be antiques, and to have come from the Museo Molin ; and there are also many Roman inscriptions, let into the rocks and grottoes. A perfect flood of flowers fills the garden beds ; every green alley is over- grown with roses, which seem striving to hold us back as we advance, but the finest point of the Giardino Giusti, is the terrace at the end of the garden, which we reach by means of a winding staircase. There lies before us an immeasurable circuit, whose edge at the horizon disappears in mist, — the delicate chain of the Apennines, and, to the north, the Alps ; then, somewhat nearer to the eye, spreads the great Lombard plain. The golden fields, which shine in the evening light, are full of maize ; the mulberry trees stretch in long rows, bound together by garlands of vine, and those dark lines are the little ditches which serve to irrigate the plain. The cupola of SantAndrea in Mantua rises above the flat surface, and yonder we see the Euganean Hills, that still keep their old classic name, where the ashes of Petrarch repose. The more the eye withdraws itself from the distance to the nearer foreground, the thicker grow the villas, until the gaze is fixed by the central point of the panorama — the city at our feet. From hence the peculiar and individual character of the construction of Verona is best observed. One sees how the river and the protecting rocks marked out, as it were, the limits of the site for the ancient city, and how the building of it went on under the hand of Roman, Goth, and Ghibelline ; in the spirit of servitude, or of freedom ! High above the roofs rise elegant towers,- — not only those with which the churches point heavenward, but those erected by the chiefs of powerful families in days when every house was a fortress. Many of them, to be sure, have perished with the necessities of the time which created them ; the memory of them remains in a poem of the eighth century, which enumerates forty-eight of such towers. Scarcely any other place in Verona is so adapted to plunge us into historical reminiscences as the Giardino Giusti : — the tranquil grove under whose trees perhaps Dante wandered, whose cypresses rise above the graves of a thousand perished years, whose silence divides us from the noise and bustle of the outer world. Here we can appreciate the rightfulness of the appellation "Verona la degna" (Verona the worshipful) ; here one should loiter at the evening hour when the wide sea of dwellings is swimming in light, when every wave of the Adige is like molten gold, when under the bowery foliage the nightingales begin to stir in the twilight. No rough foot- step, no stranger's eye, disturbs us. Only a pair of lovers passes slowly along, pressed close together, side by side, and touching with dreamy hands the boughs as they go. Laurel and myrtle! It was in Verona that the deepest of all love tragedies began and ended ; — where Romeo and Juliet loved. The material remains, truly, do not consecrate these memories in our minds ; but what are they compared with the ineffaceable associa- tions connected with this spot for three centuries ? It is not the ruinous house which VIEW FROM THE GIARDINO GIUSTI, VERONA. OF THE VERONA. 45 awakens in us the love-charm of those images ; it is not the broken sarcophagus which makes that death-scene present to our minds. All these things have long been a perfect picture in our souls, and haunt us with a secret spell wherever we see a long range of lighted palace windows. These recollections belong to the whole town of Verona, and not alone to the deserted street to which tradition has banislled them. The house which is now said to be the palace of the Capulets stands in the Via San Sebastiano, and a hat (capcllo) hewn out of stone is said to be the confirmation of the VALSTAGNA. legend. But the wild noises that resound from within, and the utensils piled pell-mell in the courtyard, show that the place is now a tavern. It is in bad repute even among the inhabitants, and we gladly turn our backs on it. " La tomba di Giulietta/'" the coffin which once contained the bodies of both the lovers, stands in the former courtyard of the convent of Franciscan nuns; it is of red granite, and the edges of it are much crumbled away. The cover, on which the names were once to be read, has disappeared years ago ; for during a long time the empty sarcophagus served as a trough for water, and strangers' hands were at liberty to break off fragments of the stone as relics. At the present day a sharper watch is kept, and a couple of withered wreaths, placed there by unknown hands, lie upon the cracked edge of the coffin. The first time I saw Verona, — before 1866, — it was still in the possession of the Austrians ; and if one did not feel oneself to be precisely in a fortress, for which the extent of the town is too wide, yet the military element was noticeably predominant. 4 6 HAL V. The place was garrisoned by Croat regiments, and whoever crossed the Piazza Bra. of an evening was sure to see the white-coated soldiery strolling about in numerous groups ; smart Uhlan officers sat in front of the cafes, sipping their sherbet, and listening to the regimental band, playing — Radetzky's march, and the Emperor's hymn ! But the Signora who passed by in black silk with a long black veil, turned her head aside without smile or greeting, for " Verona la degna " languished in the grasp of the foreigner. Now the eagle has freely loosed his talons from the city, after holding her for two thousand years : — the eagle of the Roman legions, and of the German Empire, the eagle which soars above the ladder in the arms of the Scaligers, the double-headed eagle which fell from his proud height at Magenta and Solferino ! The caffe where the officers of the Imperial cavalry once caroused, is now called by the name of Victor Emanuel ; and the citizen reeling home under the delightful influence of vino dclla riviera, may shout with impunity " Viva 1' Italia ! " The neighbourhood of Verona is rich in associations, and in fine landscape scenery; although the latter is more remarkable for large grandiose outlines, than for charm. Many of the names one meets here are written with blood in the page of History, — Custozza, Solferino, Novara, Montebello ; and any one who has travelled this way in company with soldiers, must have perceived the gloomy effect which these names produce on their spirits. I have seen them — the weather-beaten heavy-laden figures, — crowding to the windows of the railway carriage, pointing to the hot fields, and then to the old scars on their foreheads. The sun was scorching, when under his fierce rays they trudged along uphill, with fixed bayonets, half hidden in a cloud of dust ; marching on towards death. How many thousands of their comrades lie under those mounds, — how many thousands more will fall there if there should come another war ! One could read all that in the glittering eyes and knit brows of the rough, tired soldiers. They looked wistfully into the distance, as though they could see the threatening cloud on the horizon, as though they felt the unquiet blood that was then beating in the heart of Europe ; — it was just before 1866. Towards Mantua lies Villafranca, the little town where, on the nth of July, 1859, the two Emperors met together, to arrange the conditions of peace ; whilst the French fleet was already before Venice, and the Quadrilateral was being prepared to sustain a long siege with all the terrors of Sebastopol. The lightning flash from that cloud which had lowered over the plains of Lombardy had penetrated far and wide ; and boundless was the amazement when, on a sudden, Peace was given to Europe ! It was cradled in the walls of the old castle which commands the town from a distance, and was erected by the Scaligers to threaten Mantua. The towers rise boldly with sharply cut battlements, into the blue sky ; a veritable falcon's eyry. The soil, although frequently stony, is intersected by ditches and canals, often dating from the days of the Hohenstaufens ; Arrigo d'Egna, the great Podesta, caused one such "Fossa" to be made which runs as far as Somma Campagna. Although Villafranca owes its name to free commerce, yet it was always one of the best fortified townlets in the Veronese Province. But it was renowned especially for its " Muraglia," a fortress wall which extended to Valeggio, a distance of six kilometres. This, too, was erected by the Scaligers in the fourteenth century, and defended by battlements, turrets, and gateways. Borghetto is famous for the ruined bridge which spans the Mincio; Gian Galeazzo Visconti built it to defy the princely house of the Gonzagas, and to turn aside the waters of the Mincio which defended Mantua. He did not succeed in this aim, VERONA, 47 although he expended more than a hundred thousand zeccJiini on the work. The whole of the deep valley which divides Borghetto from the castle of Valeggio, was bridged across; the length of the erection was five hundred metres, the breadth, twenty-five and a half ; and fourteen great towers rose threateningly above it. The conflict which these battlements appeared designed to call forth was not wanting ; but battles raged fiercest here in the time of Bonaparte, — not the great, taciturn, soldier-Emperor, but that fiery CASTLE OF VILLAFRANCA. youth who crossed the Alps as General of the Republic, and stood on the bridge at Areola with flying banner and flying hair ! On examining closely the crumbling masonry of the bridge at Borghetto, fragments were found precisely similar to the Roman buildings at Sirmio, and in the neighbourhood of the Lake of Garda ; deep down amongst the rubbish of the embankment, coins were found bearing the image of Consuls and Emperors ; in a word, it can scarcely be doubted that the bridge is erected on the ruins of an ancient Roman viaduct. Long before Bonaparte led his legions into battle, " Ave, Caesar ! " had been uttered here by Roman lips. " Ave, Caesar ! " Word of evil omen which has drenched the soil of Verona with blood ! BASSANO. FROM VERONA TO THE MOUNTAINS OF VENETIA. HE great railroad which now runs from Trent to Venice, has attracted all the traffic of Venetia to itself, like a mighty river, for it, alone, possesses that magic quality which enchants the present generation, — namely, speed ; and therefore it obtains the preference. All the millions of hasty pilgrims, and precious freights which go from Germany to Italy, follow this route. The Venetian mountains are half forgotten and deserted, with their bold fortress of Covolo, their rivers, Brenta and Cordevole, their defiant Citadella, their fragrant valleys, Val Stagna, Carpane, and Val Sugana. On their steep rocky heights lies that singular Island, as it were, of the German language, called "I Sette Comuni " {i.e., The Seven Com- munes); ancient German settlements which stand like outposts of the Empire, in Italy. Formerly, before the railway had marked out the present path for travellers, a curious enquirer would make his appearance now and then among the lonely hill-farms ; and the inhabitants were enchanted to hear his greeting in the familiar tongue, like a message from their distant fatherland. But now that has nearly ceased ; father and sons have yielded to the foreign language, and only an old woman may be heard here and there singing a German lullaby over the cradle of her grandchild. Whoever climbs now into the villages of the "Sette Comuni," visits "the death-bed of the German tongue." FROM VFRONA TO THE MOUNTAIAS OF VENETIA. 49 But before mounting- thither, we will take a look around the remarkable district which divides Venetia from the Trentino. PORTA RUSTERI, FELT RE. Nearly all the towns in it have an air of hoary antiquity, and in their history we find the traces of the destroying hordes of Attila, the hand of Alboin, Odoacer, and Theodoric. " Ho, Marcoman and Vandal, Swabian, Colli ! Up, Attila, up gloomy scourge of God ! Hurl down this half-dead city in thy wrath ! Her cup is full, she sinks beneath the sod." — H. LlNGG. These lines occur to us here, and yet a new life has arisen out of the ruins. 11 50 ITAL Y. There is Feltre with her turretted battlements ; squeezed together on a hill-side, with her ancient Porta Imperiale, which recalls the Roman processions of the German Emperors, her Casa Guarnieri, a specimen of the finest Gothic architecture, and the little Byzantine church erected up aloft there on Miesna, by the Crusaders. The situation of Belluno is almost the same : — on a delightful slope, half hidden among the Alps, with its gigantic stone gateway, and slender campanile (bell-tower). The Gothic Palazzo Municipale has a dignified ancient look ; so has the Palace of the Bishops, which was founded in the time of Barbarossa. Legends hang themselves about these walls like garlands of creeping plants. One legend goes back to the age of Pliny and Ptolemy, and informs us how a wild boar ravaged the mountains all around, until a warrior of Celtic race overcame him ; and then for the first time the city began to enjoy uninterrupted prosperity. Bassano is a much more quiet place ; it lies on the bank of the Brenta at the point where the stream leaves the mountain for the plain. The Arts and Sciences have adorned the little town of which the Da Pontes (the painters more generally known under the name of Bassano) were natives ; whilst Canova was born in the immediate neighbourhood. With that proud reverence which Italians have for their great Masters, the citizens have collected all the treasures of the above-named artists, that they could lay hands on. Every fleeting sketch, every incomplete design, has been held sacred by them. And in the same way almost all the little towns of the Venetian Alps, possess a hidden interior attraction, notwithstanding their rough and solitary outside. They are like certain persons whose harsh appearance repulses us, and who only allow us to find out by degrees, how many beautiful thoughts, how many weighty memories, their souls contain. But still the fairest of all is still Nature ; the noble landscape spreading silently around us,, that tells us nothing of its wonders, but only lets us dimly guess them. Loiteringly we follow the course of the dark Brenta, and hear Tasso's song : " Corre la Brenta al mar, tacita e bruna." We are upon the limits that divide the Trentino from Venetia. Val Stagna still smiles Upon us clear and free ; but soon the landscape narrows to a frowning mountain-pass, and when we come to Primolano, the ruins of a castle of the Scaligers look down on us, and presently we enter that terrible rocky gorge, once commanded by the threatening little fortress of Covolo. The old main road from Germany to Venice passes by here. The castle is niched into a sort of rocky cavern ; eagles and hawks built in it and swooped down on any prey that chanced to fall from the road bordering the precipice, into the depths below ; until man displaced them, and built an eyry of his own wherein to wait for his enemy. We find Covolo mentioned for the first time in the year 1004, when Arduino Duke of Ivrea entrenched himself in the .pass to bar the way against the Emperor Henry. Later the Scaligers became lords of the place, (as a ladder carved in the rock still testifies) until finally the Carraras came. But the mastery did not remain with them, either ; for all the power- ful families of Italy whose names fill the Middle Ages with a clash of arms, vied with each other for the fine bold eagles' nest —the Viscontis of Milan, and the Doges of Venice, and even Kaiser Max himself, the latter of whom conquered it in 1509, and united it permanently with Tyrol. Dal Pozzo, who visited the fortress at the end of last century, has given us a lively picture of it. At that time the only means of entrance within its lofty walls was a rope, to the end of which a broad girdle was attached, and which was wound up by a cog-wheel, FROM VERONA TO THE MOUNTAINS OF VENETIA. 51 Every chamber was hewn out of the solid rock : — the armoury and the casemates, the little chapel, and the dungeon for prisoners. Deep, dark corridors lead into the interior of the cavern, where two springs of water spurt out from the rock, and arc received into NEAR PRIMOLANO IN THE VAL SUGANA. stone reservoirs. In the chapel, dedicated to St. John the Baptist, the holy sacrament is kept ; and when we leave it, we come upon a double door — the outer of oak, the inner of iron — behind which powder and lead are stored ! Muskets and carronades, old field- pieces that once stood in the loop-holes, and thousands of grenades lie piled up here. In one corner is a chaos of sharp-cornered stones, which were to be used for throwing down h 2 52 ITALY, on the besieging foe. The number of the garrison must always have been but small, for the casemates could accommodate but a few hundred men. At the time of which Dal Pozzo writes there were sixteen habitable chambers. ON THE CORDEVOLE. In the days when Covolo belonged to Venice, the defence of the fortress was confided to that spirited little mountain people whom the Doge spoke of as " I nostri fedelissimi Sette Comuni " (our most faithful Seven Communes). It was German faithfulness that had earned this epithet ; for the Seven Communes that linger on high up among the Venetian mountains are sprung from an ancient German stock, although how they came there is a riddle to enquirers. C1TTADELLA. Already, in the earliest times in which we have any record of them, the " homines Tciiionici" arc mentioned as dwelling in the Seven Communes among the mountains of the Vicentino ; and they were then held to be the descendants of those blonde Cimbri whom Marius defeated near Verona. In the last century, the answer of these people to any enquiry as to their race and name would be " Ich pin an Cimbro " (" I am a Cimber"). The .Seven Communes which embrace a population of about thirty thousand souls in their scattered farmsteads, and the central point of which is the hamlet of Asiago, had early FROM VERONA TO THE MOUNTAINS OF VENETIA. formed themselves into a brave little republic, which existed rather under the protection, than the rule, of Venice. They had their own constitution, founded upon certain ancient special rights, the compilation of which reaches back to the time of Ludwig of Bavaria; and they were always looked upon by the sur- rounding populations as something peculiar, foreign, and mysterious. The name of the chief place in the Seven Communes is in their own dialect " Sleghe," and thence the inhabitants of the whole district were called " Sleghers," or, with an Ita- lian turn of pronunciation, "Slaperi." That some ironi- cal meaning should have slipped into this word could scarcely have been avoided ; it was the old conflict be- tween the German and Ita- lian spirits. But the little republic held unshakeably by its Germanism, no matter how temptingly the South assailed its constancy. It was the women, above all, who most faithfully pre- served the old traditions ; and church and school-house worked with them in this sense for a long time. Only German was allowed to be spoken in the pulpits of the Seven Communes, and if there were no priests forth- coming from among them- selves, they sent for them from Silesia and the Rhine. Nay, in the Church register is written after the names of most of them the addition " d'Allemagna." But the Curia soon adopted another system : whenever the Communes asked for a German priest the Canons sent them an Italian one, who forbade the children to talk their mother tongue. Indeed it soon came to refusing absolution to those who wished to confess in German. Hence it is not surprising that the enquirers who visited the " Sette Comuni " about thirty years ago found only scattered, erratic traces of the MOUNTAIN FORTRESS OF COVOLO. 54 ITALY. old energetic speech. They drew their picture from a few poor fragments, not from the full and living reality. For the rest, all the investigations into the peculiarities of this singular little country, and, especially, into the origin of its inhabitants, are not of recent date. Leibnitz mentions these strange "islands of language " with amazement ; and the King of Denmark who COTTAGE IN THE VALLEY OF THE BRENTA. visited Italy in 1709, himself climbed up into the Seven Communes to hear and investigate their speech. At that time many held the polite opinion that the inhabitants were of Danish origin ! Some think that they are descended from the Huns ; others from the " Longobards." Some incline to the opinion that their dialect approaches that of the Alemanni, — others think it resembles Low German. But, although we are unable to settle these disputes, thus much is clear, that the people that greet us here with blue eyes and golden hair, is of German race. Truly these characteristics are almost all that remain to testify to their ancient origin, and in another ten years or so, it is probable that even this trace may have disappeared. It was with a strange feeling that I climbed slowly up to the Seven little Communes in a green solitude of pine woods. There came into my head the fairy tale of the seven dwarfs who watch over a glass coffin in a lonely forest. In the glass coffin sleeps a fair maiden with closed lips. All clay long the dwarfs go out to labour in the forest, and in the silent evening hour they return and wait and watch to see if her eyelash does not quiver, and the breath come from her lips. But all is still, sleeping, dead ; — and this " Little Snow-white " is the German speech ! VILLA GIUSTINIANI, PADUA. FROM VERONA TO THE ADRIATIC. OURN EYING from Verona towards Venice, the traveller finds the hills of Monte Berico almost stopping the way ; and at the foot of the said hills, a city somewhat mean and straitened in its outward aspect, and yet rich within, in artistic treasures. This is Vicenza, the " City of Palladio." She, too, pos- sessed a great master whose pride it was to adorn his native place with his best works, and for whose sake many a visitor seeks her walls. Palladio, born in Vicenza in the year 1518, was originally a sculptor; until being impressed by the grandeur of ancient architecture in Rome, he was won over to that art. Among the plans for the completion of St. Peter's, one by Palladio still exists ; and it 56 ITAL Y. was on its final rejection that he returned home, and erected there the pillared edifices which have become models for Europe. In the construction of Vicenza we still find distinct traces of antiquity ; but on the gigantic Piazza which was once the Forum, now stand the town hall, and the famous " Basilica," the Palace of the Prefect, and the " Loggia del Delegato," and the marble statue of Palladio reminds us who it was that created all this beauty. When we use the word " basilica " now-a-days, it suggests to most persons a splendid ecclesiastical building, but such was not the most ancient meaning of the word. The oblong halls used for the assembling of the public, bore this title ; and Greek philoso- phers and Roman judges were wont to meet in similar places, long before the Church used them for her worship. In this antique sense the Basilica of Palladio must be un- derstood. It is the real public palace of the city, the centre of her public life, and the apex of her public pride. The wide halls with their double row of columns were in- tended to express these thoughts and senti- ments, and the artist's mastery is shown in the brilliant manner in which that intention is carried out. Vicenza is but a small town, with a population of barely forty thousand inhabitants, yet how powerfully the sense of conscious strength, and the sentiment of freedom, strikes us here ! A sentiment which may be sometimes overpowered, but never humbled. The same impression is produced on visiting the Museo Civico (Civic Museum) which contains many curiosities ; or the Olympic theatre, founded in the middle of the sixteenth century, to reproduce the antique stage. But the same artistic spirit has reached beyond the immediate limits of the city ; for example there is the Villa named " La Rotonda," of which Goethe says in his " Italian Journey," that architecture has never reached a higher point of luxury. The noble building was not intended for a permanent dwelling, but merely for temporary occupation, and the important point was not so much the interior accommodation, as the external effect of the edifice which shows on all sides the magnificence of a classic temple. The great saloon, roofed by a cupola, is lighted from above ; unfortunately the bullets of the Italian war have clone much mischief to it. The proud Vicenza, once able to cope with Venice, and the Viscontis, is now but a quiet provincial town, and her chronicles record rather " being " and " suffering " than " doing." Only the old memories still survive. May they be fruitful in the minds of the young generation ! i* # # # * 4 THE OLD SEMINARY, VICENZA. PIAZZA DEI SIGNORI IN VICENZA. LIBRARY OF THE IJ.MMfCPO'77 n~ •> FROM VERONA TO THE ADRIATIC. 57 We are in Padua, in a town whose narrow nooks and alleys are surmounted by gigantic domes and towers. Presently we come out of the neglected ways into great solitary Piazzas and wide streets, added by later times to the original city ; but these, too, lose themselves in deserted gardens, and then all around becomes still and lonely. A priest in a broad-brimmed hat reproving some children, itinerant vendors shouting their wares with loud echoing voices, and an artizan hammering at his work under an open door- way, were the first living figures we saw. Frequently the doors are replaced by a torn curtain, through whose rents we can look into the life going on in the dwelling, where a greenfinch twitters in a cage suspended from the ceiling. At the corners of the -walls you may still read the relics of the ''demonstrations of '66." " Vogliamo Vittorio Emanuele ! Vogliamo £ Italia Una ! " &c. &c. Then again we wander further past long rows of dusky houses close by the water's edge, and connected with each other by old fashioned bridges ; for the old town, which was formerly a fortress, is intersected by canals of the Brenta, and shows frequent traces of its ancient origin. Indeed it is this antiquity which chiefly strikes us at first, and we are uncertain whether reverence for its dignity, or disgust at its squalor, predominates in our minds. At length after some further wanderings we reach the Piazza dei Signori, where stands the Loggia del Consiglio, and where the Past still meets us in all its ancient pride. Let us pause here, and think of the famous names connected with these walls, which Antenor founded, which Livy called his home, and which in Roman times could send out (as Strabo assures us) an army of two hundred thousand men. It is not to be wondered at that one's thoughts involuntarily recur to the history of the past, in these Italian cities ; for the secret of their attractiveness consists partly in the consciousness that these cities are connected with the earliest development of European society ; — that there was scarcely any great epoch in the history of human culture, but found here its theatre and its heroes. And however frivolous the Italians may be, yet they are all penetrated with this sentiment of historic continuity. The pious worship of past greatness, is a noble trait in the character of the modern Italian. How proud is Mantua of her Virgil, Verona of Catullus, and Padua of Livy ! Certainly, however, Padua was no exception to the curse which rested on the whole history of Italy in the Middle Ages. Civil wars, and noble feuds, devastated her territory, power was won and lost by treachery, and her Princes used the policy of Macchiavelli long before Macchiavelli had written his " Principe^ But Padua did not belong to these princelings only : there was yet another Master here, who bears the sounding title " II Santo ! " and whose name is inextricably connected with that of the city. The colossal temple dedicated to his honour, is almost the symbol of Padua; streets, Piazzas, and schools, are named after him, and the name of Saint Anthony is on every tongue. Thus we have here before our eyes the three great factors which have principally prevailed in the building of all these cities ;— in the splendid palaces dwells the pugnacious spirit of the old Republics : in the temples filled with master-pieces of Art, and all manner of treasures, the ostentatious magnificence of the Church early exhibited itself : and in the crowd of dusky houses, thickly pressed together to make room for the expansion of these two powers,— in the squalid alleys along the canals of the Brenta, swarms the People, — the weary care-laden masses, who live for centuries under an oppressive yoke, until all at once they, too, leap into power, and prove themselves a more formidable force than any other! Nearly all Italian cities, and Padua not the least, have experienced this in times of blood. i 5 S ITALY. Amongst the palaces which belong to the public life of the Commonwealth, the Palazzo della Ragione is remarkable. It was built about the time of the Lombard League, and has a wonderful hall with a wooden roof, which is said to be the largest in Europe. Its colossal dimensions may be conceived when we state the fact that the CHURCH OF ST. ANTHONY, PADUA. paintings in it contain more than three hundred separate subjects, and the extent of the floor is reckoned at 16,500 square feet. On the whole, although this huge space contains several curious objects (as the " Horse of Troy," some Egyptian statues, and tolerable pictures), yet the striking thing is undoubtedly the external architecture. But even in this respect the Loggia del Consiglio, with its noble rows of columns, far surpasses it ; nor is the Palazzo Giustiniani inferior, a palace which recalls to us classic names, for Ealconcllo was its builder, and its owners were the Cornaro family, who had come hither FROM VERONA TO THE ADRIATIC. 59 after Padua had acknowledged the supremacy of Venice in 1405. The courtyard of the Palazzo Giustiniani is charming ; but still more charming is the garden in the midst of which delightful wilderness stands a lonely villa. Now we approach the "Santo;" we are near to the famous church of Saint Anthony. The surprising impression which this colossal edifice produces, is due rather to the enormity of its masses, than the skill with which they are combined ; for the seven cupolas which overarch the nave and transepts, are rather oppressive than elevating in their effect. Opposite to us rises the splendid brazen equestrian statue of Gattamelata, erected by the Venetians in honour of their hero ; a master-piece of Donatello. And then we enter the interior of the church by the great main doorway. Some veiled figures are praying, indistinct in the dim light which softens the hard outlines of the bronze bas-reliefs, and the crude tints of the pictures. The length of the nave appears to stretch away almost immeasurable before us, while on the other hand the side chapels seem too narrow and limited to contain the fulness of their treasures. The richest of these is, of course, the " Capella del Santo " — the chapel of Sant' Antonio himself. Here the bones of the saint are preserved in a consecrated shrine, and marble bas-reliefs represent the miracles which he worked ; heavy silver candlesticks, and hanging lamps, in which a never-extinguished flame is burning, gilt carvings, and statues of saints in the niches, all unite to form a grand expression of religious pomp, especially as we see almost everywhere the work of some master hand. Master hands have left their impress also in other parts of the church : for instance in the chapel of San Felice, or in the chancel, with its fine bronze works by Riccio and Donatello. The chapel of San Giorgio which belongs to the church of the " Santo," but is divided from it by a certain space, was discovered to be precious in an artistic sense only in the year 1837, in which year Ernest Forster, celebrated for his Italian researches, released its paintings from their tomb of dust. Amongst the other churches of Padua, the chief are the Duomo (cathedral), the church of the " Eremitani," and the Carmine ; but in point of Art, the Madonna dell' Arena is undoubtedly the most important. Its singular name is due to the fact that it was erected on the ruins of a Roman amphitheatre : its value to artists lies in the precious frescoes by Giotto, which fill nearly the whole oblong space. To the fame of arms which Padua enjoyed, there soon was added the fame of letters. The high school, founded by the Emperor Frederick the Second in 1222, assembled the studious youth of all European countries. One is astonished on entering the splendid courtyard with its colonnades, to behold the shields of red marble which bear the arms of many noble families, and to see amongst the statues which adorn the university- buildings that of a woman. It is the portrait of Lucretia Cornaro Piscopia, who died in the year 1684, and who received academical honours in Padua. Hers is not the lowest among the famous names which Padua has handed down to us ; but Padua has had but one Livy ! RIVA DEGLI SCHIAVONI, VENICE. VENICE. 'IDNIGHT is past; a boat glides through the narrow canals, the figure of the gondolier shows like a black shadow, and a sepulchral cry " Giae, giae ! " sounds as the gondola shoots past the sharp corners. The moon is high in the heavens, but her light reaches not to these narrow watery ways. Only a few twinkling stars peep between the tall houses, and now and then a tardy light glimmers behind some barred window. Hark ! Who goes there ? Behind a half- opened door that is nearly on a level with the water, a girl peeps forth, and then hurriedly scuds away ; ours is not the gondola she was waiting for. On the marble steps that lead down from noble doorways to the water, sleepers are lying stretched. From time to time a boat glides past us, so close that the sides almost graze each other ; the gondoliers greet each other with secret signs, and we peer curiously at the masked figures reclining on the cushions. Then all is still again, and we hear nothing save the lapping of the water against the keel, and the splash of the oar. We listen, and now strange sounds meet our ears. Far away there, beyond the Lido, murmurs the sea in which the Doge was wont to throw his golden ring in token of betrothal ; it is the hour of flood, and the tide slowly rising, fills the Lagoons and flows into the Canal Grande among the palaces of the proud old names. VENICIi. 61 " All is still ; the sea breathes only. Sighing deep, lamenting sore, Knocks the Doge's bride deserted At each lordly palace door."' And that, really, is what we seem to hear ; we feel the power of the great deep, but we do not see it ; we are imprisoned in a labyrinth of narrow watery paths, which cross, and are tangled endlessly in one another, and lead, — who knows whither ? VENETIAN FISHING-BOAT. Some such impression as that above described, is felt by a traveller arriving at night by the train from Mestre, and then rowing from the station into the city. No horse, no carriage, is to be seen ; nothing but the dark throng of gondolas which thread their way in and out with snake-like agility. All firm foundations seem to sink away from one's feet, and we see only the black pliant waters, from which the weather-stained houses rise up perpendicularly. The sad gloomy hues which they display even in broad daylight, become mere dreary darkness by night, and the long intricate voyage has, in truth, something Stygian about it ! Disappointment makes us dumb. 62 ITAL Y. We went in the boat to the hotel of the Luna, where we were to take up our quarters, and that dark journey I shall never forget. We were a curiously mixed party ; — a German Professor with a long intelligent face, a stout old lady (an Italian from the Provinces), and a young married couple on their wedding tour. At first there was plenty of chatting ; but as the minutes seemed to grow longer and the ways narrower, a sort of oppression settled down on us. I gazed at the face of the pleasant young wife, framed in golden curls, but I could only catch a glimpse of it at ARRIVAL OF A MILK-BOAT. intervals when a stray beam of light from a window fell upon her. What charming features, noble and beautiful as the countenance of a Madonna, and yet still retaining the unconscious enchantment of a childlike soul. She drew her cloak tighter about her, and pressed closer to her husband, whilst her large bright eyes glanced timidly around. " Why is it all so black here ? " she asked, half aloud. " The walls, and the gon- dolas, and the water ! Only look at those long trunks there under the cloth. They are just like coffins ! " Her husband comforted her smilingly and unloosed the little white hand with which she had grasped him. We saw her fingers move uneasily, and then again she gazed about her, up at the walls of the houses, and down at the canal. " Fiesco and the Moor were in Genoa, were they not ? Ah ! but there was a Moor of Venice, too. And — and the Bravo, hidden behind the door with his dagger ! " The Professor grinned. The husband answered quietly, " I almost believe you are frightened ! Ah Maria ! " The Italian matron from the provinces began to feel uneasy. Fear is infectious, and she rolled her black eyes anxiously. It might, perhaps, have been better if her husband — whom in general she could very well dispense with, — had been with her ; and OF VENICE. 63 catching- the last words of the young bridegroom's sentence, she nodded her head and ejaculated, " Ave Maria ! " At length a full stream of light poured out upon us from a doorway, and the boat stopped at the Albergo della Luna, With the agile strength common to Italian Facchini, the trunks were unloaded from the boat ; we mounted the handsome staircase adorned with green plants, and found no Bravo waiting for us behind the door ; in a word, all was well again. Even the stout matron was satisfied that her husband had not accompanied her after all, and she called out a smiling " Felice notte ! " to the young couple. The May sun was shining brilliantly when we entered the Piazza of St Mark the next day. Who has not felt the enchantment of such sunshine, breathing of spring and morning, penetrating the soul with an awakening power ? Now the dark veil was lifted that lay last evening over Venice ; now the sea was blue, and the old grey blocks of stone of which the palaces are built looked bright and strong, and the delicate open-work of the facades glittered in the light. She is still alive, the silent city of the Doges ! With full hands she pours out her treasures ; with wondering eyes we contemplate her marvellous form ; but St. Mark's is the very heart of her. The Piazza di San Marco is closed in on all four sides ; and although the Piazzetta adjoins it on the north-east, the unity of the picture is not destroyed by it. On the right and left stretch out the huge rows of buildings called the pi-ocuratic. The lower stories consist of open arcades under which the crowd throngs ; the upper have rows of columns whose structure combines grace and vigour. The prociiratic are joined by a cross wing, (the edifice called the Ala Nuova) which terminates the Piazza, on the west. At the opposite end there lies before us St. Mark's church with its great cupolas and porches, its marble minarets, and mythic figures, — the wonder of Venice! Immediately in front of it stands the colossal mast, or flag-staff, from which once floated the banners of conquered kingdoms ; and the Campanile, where the bells of St. Mark's sound. Here for the first time we realize the wide-spread power of Venice : that fairy city which sprang not from the earth, but the sea ; still touched with the glamour of the East, and yet mistress of all Western culture — so rich in arts and arms in loves and hatreds! Venice is a sphinx whose enigma we never wholly penetrate. In vain we strive to find an image that shall express her mysterious essence. The Unique brooks no comparisons. As in the old times, even so to-day, the centre of life and movement is the Piazza of St. Mark's, although it offers but a pale shadow of the life of former days. Here, on sunny mornings, all the foreigners assemble ; here lounge the ciceroni, and on the neigh- bouring Piazzetta, the gondoliers. Itinerant vendors of all kinds push their way amongst the chairs that are set out in front of the cafes under the open arcade. But the most brilliant spectacle is at night, when hundreds of gas-jets are alight in the huge bronze candelabra — when the gold sparkles in the jewellers' windows, and the sound of gay music is borne across the Piazza. Then the crowd gathers from all sides. Here come the nobili with their wives. The gondolas throng to the Piazzetta, and the Merceria seems far too narrow for the press of people. But the Piazza di San Marco seems almost to grow and widen in the blue moonlight that peeps down into the dazzle of gas, and then hides coyly behind the pillars of the Procuratie. It seems as if its rays had touched the faces of the lair women, whose delicate pallor is renowned. They trail their rustling garments over the marble pavement, leaning carelessly on their husbands' arms, whilst their glowing glances stray far and wide above the rim of the black fan they carry, 6 4 ITAL J The noise and the passion which run through the publicity of Italian life, continue deep into the night ; then last hasty words are spoken, yet one more stolen glance is shot from beautiful eyes, and the happy individual for whom it is intended understands the farewell. Around the steps of the Piazzetta — all of white marble, so that you cannot miss them even at night — the gondolas gather again, and then separate on their different ways through the dark and dead-silent canals. On the great Piazza the lights are extin- guished in the candelabra, the music ceases, and stray boatmen stretch themselves to sleep on the bases of the columns. Further and further the moonlight advances into the centre of the Piazza, the echo of the last footstep dies away in San Moise, and then all is silent throughout the vast space. And now we hear again the murmur of the sea upon the Lido yonder. Venice SAN PIETRO, CASTELLO. Queen of the Seas, is alone in her forsaken beauty ; all her children are sleeping, weary of noisy revelry and trivial mirth, but she sits like a musing widow, looking away beyond the cradle that she rocks. What is this present generation ? These, the youngest of her sons, preserve no memory of the former glories of their race— of the beauty of their mother, of the passions that thrilled through her when the great ones of the earth were vying with each other for her favour. They are like children who sport artlessly amid the ruined splendours of their ancestral home. It was thus that the city appeared to me one solitary night; the setting moon hung low in the heavens like a lamp that faintly illuminates a sleeping chamber ; the rocking cradle was the sea, and a faint movement in the air seemed to be the sighs of the beautiful widowed Venice. But morning succeeds to night. At an early hour next day, when everything was full of life and sunshine, we stepped beneath the portal of the church of St. Mark, which stands alone amidst all temples of the world. Although age, and the moist sea air, have spread their veil over these walls, yet the brilliant colouring and the mighty outlines shine through all the grey dimness of the past. The bronze horses above the great door arc VENICE. 65 rearing : the cupolas and arches stretch their great curves in intensity of power : each portion of the huge building seems alive and animated, yet in the whole, reigns the pro- found and noble peace proper to the house of God. It is difficult to shake off the grand impression of this whole, sufficiently to examine the rich abundance of details which are displayed before us — almost every one of deep historical interest, almost every one of perfect beauty. It is now exactly eight hundred years ago since the building of St. Mark's was completed ; its ecclesiastical sanctity is bestowed on it by the relics of the great Evangelist ; its historical sanctity consists in its ON THE ISLAND OF TORCELLO. intimate connection with the fortunes of the city and of her rulers. It was the theatre of their triumphs and the refuge for their cares ; all that she has achieved and suffered, Venice has clone under the protecting wing of St. Mark. On looking towards the main facade we are overpowered by the mass which has been piled up by the wealth of the city, and the fertility of her creative power. Five mighty arches, supported on noble columns, form the entrance to the outer vestibule, and the bronze doors leading into the interior, the mosaics upon a back-ground of gold, the many-coloured marbles — all these make so profound an impression on us, that we stand still and gaze upward in bewilderment. Each by itself is a wonder! It is known that the famous group of four horses, which stands above the main portal, is of the antique Roman period, and was for a long time in Byzantium, the capital of the Empire of the West. The Doge Dandolo, at the age of ninety-five, led on the Venetians to the storming of Constantinople (1203). He was nearly blind, but a fiery life still glowed in his veins ; his name indicates the apex of the K 66 ITALY. Venetian military power ; his monument consists of the noblest architectural treasures of the city. The church of St. Mark contains trophies from all parts of the world : every stone has a history. Those two great pillars at the entrance to the Baptistery, were part of the booty of Acre. The bronze folding doors were once in the church of St. Sophia at Stamboul. The marble columns, which stand right and left of the main portal are said to have been taken from the Temple in Jerusalem. The broad flag-stones on which we stand — three squares of red marble — still narrate to us how Barbarossa once prostrated himself before Pope Alexander : " Non tibi, scd Pctro." " Et Petro et mihi ! " In examining the mosaics which fill the vaulted roof, we find ourselves in the midst of the Old Testament history ; among forms which, with all their hardness, are yet not devoid of fervent expression, and with all their Byzantine stiffness, have still much earnest dignity ; Paradise, the First Blessings, and the First Sorrows of Man, are the subjects of them. But let us pass beyond this outer vestibule into the interior of the church, in whose half-twilight a richer depth of colour glows. All is covered with a mass of mosaics and sombre marbles. On the parapet which divides the choir from the nave, stand figures of the Apostles in blackened bronze, and above the high altar, where the bones ot St. Mark repose, rises a baldaquin upon twisted columns. How wondrous is the effect of the whole when the sunshine streams through the windows ; when the organ fills every corner of the church with its invisible flood ; when we seem to realize the fervour of all the past generations who have knelt here in prayer and praise — offering them up with different minds from ours of to-day, but with hearts so like to our hearts ! What St. Mark's is as the expression of the religious spirit, that the Ducal Palace is for the secular power, of Venice ; it has scarcely a rival even in Italy. The Doge's palace, as it stands before us now, was begun in the 14th century, and completed in the 15 th after a long interruption, for the earlier building, which dated from Carlovingian times, fell a prey to the flames. Two mighty ranges of columns, one above another support the broad massive upper buildings — a huge, clear, flat surface, whose peaceful unity is only broken by the gothic arched windows which admit light into the noble halls within. Here every line is classic. The very position of the palace, its relation to the church of St. Mark, its two fronts — one commanding the Piazzetta and the other the sea — declare the inner significance of the building ; it is the foundation, the very corner-stone, of all Venetian splendours. The court, into which the Porta della Carta leads, is princely, and has something colossal about it even before we perceive the Scala dei Giganti ; — that marble staircase, with the figures of Mars and Neptune, on whose topmost step the Doge was wont to be crowned. And now let us mount by the Scala d'Oro to the wide, echoing, gold-encrusted halls, where the Great Council held its sittings, where are the statues of the famous men who have sprung from the Republic, and the portraits of the Doges who ruled over it. But yet a little shadow rests on these splendours. A slight shudder mars the enchantment, for the hands of Venice are stained with blood — much noble blood sacrificed to unworthy passions. There is the Bocca di Leone, into which Envy threw its secret accusations. We pass by the door that leads to the prisons and the Bridge of Sighs ; we see amidst the line of Doges, the black space from whence Marino Faliero's portrait was effaced when his head had fallen beneath the axe of the executioner. In the Sala del Maggi'or Consiglio, the Great Council held its sittings. All the members wore scarlet robes. Here the die was cast for war or peace, for honour or disgrace ; and the pride Of THE UNIVERSITY OF HLINOJS VENICE 67 way, was that uplifted their hearts is, as it were, embodied in the masterpieces which adorn walls and roof. Everywhere Victories, coronations, gods, — nay, Tintoret who produced in this hall the largest painting known in the history of art, chose no meaner subject than the World of the Blessed ! Venice dreamt only of Paradise. We pass on through a long series of saloons. Here the Doge was elected by the Nobili ; there he received ambassadors from foreign lands ; yonder was his bedchamber ; and here the guards paced to and fro watch- ing over the most precious jewel of Venice — the Doge's life. The triumphal arch through which we entered, was erected for Morosini, the hero who subjugated the Morea, the barbarian whose cannon Wk destroyed the Parthenon, burying hundreds of Athe- nians under the most mag- nificent ruin that the earth has ever seen. We come to a little chapel on our in which the Doge accustomed to hear mass every morning. He was accompanied during the ceremony by the Council of Ten, and in the last room which we enter, this council held its bloody tribunal. " Consiglio de Died /" That was a word of terror to all citizens of Venice ; and whatsoever pains her de- fenders may take to prove the contrary, it must be allowed that though the Republic might be free in other respects, yet in this tribunal she had a power which could only be com- pared with that of Robes- pierre or the bloodthirsty Marat. All crimes against the security of the state — (and, therefore all crimes !) — were subject to their jurisdiction. The Doge himself, was liable to feel their mysterious power. In secresy and silence the witnesses were examined ; in secresy and silence the sentence was carried out ; and, in order still further to simplify their proceedings, three Inquisitors were moreover named of whom no one was allowed to know the persons or the residence. But they existed ; and their invisible omnipresence lay like a dark ban upon men's spirits. The complete truth about Venice cannot be learned in the lofty Ducal Palace where the ceilings are full of gold, and where art, free and untrammelled, created her masterpieces. We must go down even as far as the Pozzi, into the dungeons below the level of the BRIDGE OF SIGHS. K 2 68 ITAL Y. water ; or we must mount into the hot leaden cells (the Piombi) ; then we begin to conceive what was the secret canker gnawing at the root of all this beauty — then we feel with unspeakable horror what is the shadow on the conscience of the proud Queen of the Adriatic. But this shadow is necessary to the perfect portrait. Who does not know whence the Bridge of Sighs derives its name ? that wondrously elegant arch which spans the Rio del Palazzo, leading from the noblest beauty to the deepest misery ! And who could see the fearful Piombi unmoved ? It was a smiling May morning when we first visited them ; first the prisons, and then the tor- ture chamber, on whose ceiling the hook may still be seen to which the un- fortunate wretches were hoisted up ; and whose floor is paved with smooth stones in order that the blood should easily be wiped from it. We shud- dered. I thought of the times of Dandolo and Morosini. I pictured to myself the last nieht of one condemned to death here, and the tor- tures of those from whom a confession of guilt was wrung. The Piazza of St. Mark is almost at our feet, we can hear in the evening the swell of the music and the murmur of the crowd of masquers. It is a Festa night, and up there be- neath the leaden roof, a man lies brooding, whom to-morrow the executioner will awaken. Perhaps the friend who betrayed him is in the merry throng, and that moon whose rays glimmer through the bars, perhaps is shining on the gondola wherein his beautiful wife receives the', homage of a strangers love. He groans, he strikes his forehead with his hand — "nessun maggior dolore die ricordarsi del tempo felice, nella miseria" (Dante, Divina Commedia.) And that, too, was Venice ! With a sensation of relief we return to the open air, to the grand Piazzetta where the sea-breeze blows, where the " Zecca " opens its pillared halls ; that ancient mint, which as early as the year 1280, coined gold sequins. And what a press of gondolas ! On every side is heard the cry " La barca, Signore ! " " Commanda la barca ? " The gondolier GHETTO. COFFEE-HOUSE ON THE RIVA DEGLI SCHIAVONI. UNIVERSITY Or ILLINOIS VENICE. 69 greets us, his oar in his left hand, his right raised with a slight gesture of salutation; the blue shirt bound at the waist by a red sash, reveals his open breast, and his sunburnt face looks frankly at us. A moment, and the picturesque, sinewy figure is in full movement ; the oar dips deep into the wave, and the bark shoots like an arrow along the Grand Canal. It is the largest of the four hundred watery ways which intersect Venice. Nearly four miles in length stretches the broad stream from Santa Chiara to the Giudecca. Along the Canal Grande rise the noblest palaces of those great old families whose names were written in the " Libro d'Oro" — the Golden Book — of the Republic. That book was burned on the open Piazza in 1797, when the Western Tempest broke over Venice : it was a hurricane such as even those children of the ocean had never yet witnessed, and its name was — Egaliti ! On the narrow point of land exactly opposite to the steps of the Piazzetta, are the Dogana di Mare (Sea Custom House) and the Seminary of the Patriarch, both dominated by the fine church of Santa Maria della Salute. This church was built as a votive offering by the Venetians in the time of the plague, after more than 40,000 persons had fallen victims to the pestilence, and has come to be one of the great landmarks of the city, with its gigantic cupola, and white mass of building shimmering in the morning light. In almost every pictorial representation of Venice you see Santa Maria della Salute. We glide onwards until we come opposite to the Palazzo Contarini Fasan, and here the gondolier pauses. It is one of the finest facades in Venice : the marble balconies are as delicate and slender as if worked in precious metals, tall and narrow rise the arched windows with their columns opening on to the balcony ; and yet amidst all this elegance there is a strength which shows us that mighty times and mighty men once reigned here. Now great names throng upon us. Here is the Palazzo Corner ; and there are the houses of the Foscari, the Balbi, Mocenigo, Grimani, and Loredan. Before each princely door are white marble steps leading down into the water, and great wooden posts — painted with the colours of the family — which serve to moor the gondolas to. We pursue our voyage, and a splendid arch is suddenly seen spanning the Canal Grande ; it is the Bridge of the Rialto, for a long time the only one which crossed the Grand Canal, and still by far the most interesting of all the bridges that Venice possesses. A busy tide of life flows hitherward, for it is the central point for retail dealers. Here the fishermen bring their wares to market ; here the laws of the old Republic were published at a column which bears the name of the " Gobbo di Rialto" (the hunchback of the Rialto), and on the bridge itself stands a double row of little bottcghe (shops) built of marble and roofed with lead. As the story goes the first of them were erected because it was feared that the bridge might be forced upwards in the centre, and Da Ponte, whose opinion was asked, advised in his last moments that the two ends of the bridge should be weighted in this manner. Thus the Ponte di Rialto obtained the upper buildings which give it almost an inhabited air, but deprive it of the imposing boldness which once distinguished the unencumbered arch. It is nearly one hundred and fifty feet wide, and its foundations under water rest upon a platform of twelve thousand piles. In the same manner, as is well known, all the houses and palaces in Venice have arisen out of the sea ; the whole city is the most colossal edifice upon piles, that the world has ever seen. In order to support the enormous weight put upon them, it was necessary to choose only the mightiest trunks, and the finest sorts of wood, which were brought from foreign lands by the enormous sea commerce of Venice ; and it happened in the last century that a noble family resolved to pull down their splendid palace on the 7o ITALY. Canal Grande in order to get at the precious cedar stems on which it is built, and thus rescue themselves from a slough of debt. But the Republic forbade this desperate measure. Amongst the palaces on the Grand Canal two have an international importance. That is to say, they reveal to us not only the enchantment of beauty, and the luxury, to which Venice attained at home, but the world-wide commerce which the city of the Lagoon once commanded. The Fondaco dei Tedeschi, close to the Rialto Bridge, was the chief place of meeting for the German merchants, and the central point of their commerce. The whole traffic of the Levant with the north passed through Venice, and the Turks, as well as the Germans, had their national house on the Canal Grande : the Fondaco dei Turchi. This house too was the property of the Re- public, and was by its hospitality dedi- cated to the use of the Mussulmen. Here the Koran was read, and the praises of Allah recited ; it was the focus of Oriental life in Venice. The building is tolerably well preserved (it has now, in the year 1875, been entirely and carefully restored) ; but it shares the fate of all the palaces on the Grand Canal, it has fallen into the hands of strangers. When the gondola has glided on beneath the Ponte di Rialto, we come upon yet more beautiful palaces ; — the Ca' d'Oro, with its wonderfully richly sculptured facade, and the Palazzo Pesaro, with its heavy, massive walls ; but the finest of all is the Vendramin-Calergi. The gondola silently pauses before the marble steps ; we enter the colossal doorway and a porter shows us the way, and greets us in the most undeniable French. This is the palace of the Duchess de Berri, — now the property of the Count de Chambord. No other of the splendid buildings of Venice which I visited produces so deep an impres- sion of decay, — of the mixture of a glorious past with a squalid present. We walked onward through corridors and saloons, past noble statues and muffled pictures. Here a splendid mirror showed a long crack ; there the yellow damask was all moth-eaten ; and even our guide looked as grumpy and regretful as though all the fine things decaying before our eyes had been his own. The lilies show proudly on the golden cradle that we pass by in our progress, but the ancient race of its owners is desolate ; all sorts of utensils and articles for the performance of religious ceremonies lie about in the little chapel, but no bell sounds there, and no taper is lighted. Impotence and stagnation MONUMENT OF GENERAL FARNESE IN THE JESUITS CHURCH. VENICE. 7i declare themselves painfully in the midst of this splendour. It would be foolish to calcu- late the worth of such a building- by the price that it fetches ; but to show the deep fall from its glories of former days which Venice has experienced, I know no more striking comparison than that furnished by the figures concerning the Palazzo Vendramin. This pa- lace, which was sold three hun- dred years ago for sixty thou- sand ducats, came into the pos- session of the Duchess de Berri in recent times, for six thousand ducats ! And so we hasten onward between the long rows of palaces, to the end of the Grand Canal, to the island of Santa Chiara, where the Lagoon opens out and the sea begins. Great red buoys, which serve to mark the way for navigators, balance them- selves on the waves, and the arches of the huge railway bridsfe reach across to where Terra firma shows dimly in the distance. It is the longest bridge in the world, for it measures nearly twelve thousand feet in length, and has more than two hundred arches. Xerxes' idea of bridging over the Hellespont has been, as it were, realised by modern Venice ; for we roll on iron rails over the waters right into the interior of the town. Nearly all that we have hitherto seen shows us but the traces of past greatness ; princely buildings silently decaying, and princely families sharing the fate of their palaces. We have been passing through a worn-out world, whose pulse has ceased to beat for generations, where Life scarcely defends itself against Death. But a very different aspect of Venice reveals itself to us when on leaving the Piazza of St. Mark, — always the point of departure, — we plunge into the commercial parts of the town. We pass through an archway in the clock-tower, that forms so characteristic a feature of the north side of the Piazza, with STREET IN VENICE. 72 ITAL Y. its great bronze figures that strike the hours, and get into the Merceria leading to the Ponte di Rial to. Here we are in the midst of the Present, with its manifold require- ments and feverish haste. The watchword here is not " to be," but "to have" ; not the dignity, but the keenness of the old Venetians predominates here. It is well known that ON THE GIUDECCA.. the first idea of great financial transactions originated in Italy, but in this field of commerce also Venice ranked foremost ; she had the oldest bank in Europe, which dates back to the days of Barbarossa, and the development of which is a considerable factor in the city laws. All enactments having reference to this bank were proclaimed from the steps of the Rialto ; here was the Exchange ; here the great commerce in the treasures of the East was carried on ; here Venice bartered the wealth of her industry for the wealth of natural products, before England and Holland became the mistresses of the trade of the world. CANOVA'S TOMB IN SAN'JA MARIA GLORIOSA DEI FRARI. VENICE. Of THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS VENICE. 73 Not far from the Rialto stands the oldest church in Venice, San Giacomo, erected in the sixth century, if we may believe an inscription over the doorway. Nearly every church in Venice (and there are one hundred and two of them) is rich in art treasures, but we are unable to do more than indicate a few of them here. The church of the Frari produces a great impression, both by the amplitude of the space which surrounds it, and the largeness of its dimensions. Its interior contains the proud monument to Titian, and the imposing pyramid beneath which Canova rests. The religious order to whom the church belongs is that of the Franciscans. The church of Saints Giovanni e Paolo (called, in the vernacular of the Venetian populace, " Zanipolo ") belongs to the Dominicans, and STREET SCENE. has, like the Frari and San Marco, an official character ; for the victory of Venice over Cyprus was annually celebrated in this church ; the funeral mass for the Doge was always performed there ; and many Doges chose it for their last resting-place. We may cite Morosini and Mocenigo, Giustiniani and Loredan ; but the finest tomb of all is that of Andrea Vendramin. The sarcophagus is placed in a lofty arched niche, adorned with columns supported by eagles ; a sleeping figure of the mighty Doge lies on it, and the Virtues, whose figures surround him, watch over his eternal repose. Of the other churches we may name San Rocco with its famous "Scuola;" II Redentore on the Giudecca is a master-work of Palladio, who also built St. Giorgio Maggiore. Where it is possible, the churches are surrounded by a free space, but some of them are in the narrowest corners of lanes and alleys. Nay, behind the Scalzi, the Ghetto stretches out. It may be now some seven hundred years ago since the Ghetto was populated with its present inhabitants ; for formerly the Jews were banished to the island of the Giudecca, and even in the time of Charles the Fifth, they were compelled to distinguish themselves by a red sign on the hat. At the present day they are not inter- fered with. Numerous chattering groups line the narrow streets of the Ghetto, which on 74 ITALY. the great festival days of Israel are changed into real gardens of greenery. The leafy garlands reach from one window to the other, and red carpets and hangings adorn the balconies, and many a Shylock may be seen wandering amongst the throng of laughing girls. Rich as Venice is in beauty, however, one thing is wanting to her, — Nature. Whoso- ever wishes to enjoy nature must take refuge in the Giardini Pubblici, on the Lido, or on the little islands of Chioggia and Torcello, where the fishermen's huts stand, built out of the beams of wrecked ships. The public gardens of Venice are the creation of Napoleon, who pulled down hundreds of buildings, even consecrated buildings, in order to give this space for recreation to the Venetians : making them thus the most rare and singular of presents, a solid piece of dry land, a promenade amongst trees ! You go along the Riva de' Schiavoni, which leads from the Piazzetta in the direction of the Lido. This Riva is a noble quay paved with broad flag-stones, over which throngs of people move, and in front of which are anchored rows of ships. Some have their flags flying ; the star- spangled banner of the United States, or the proud colours of the German Empire. Others are having their sides newly pitched, while the idle sailors lie sleeping on the decks. Every now and 'then we come upon a bridge with shallow broad steps, crossing a street in Venice. canal. To the left lies the Arsenal, with its huge docks and magazines, watched over by the stone lions which were brought from Athens by Morosini. Centuries long this arsenal enjoyed a great European reputation, and no other in the world was considered comparable to it. The superintendence of it was entrusted to three " Patroni," who were chosen from the ranks of the nobles, and were changed every night at the same time with the sentinels on guard. The Ammiraglio delV Arsenate had to watch over and protect the ducal palace during the election of the Doge ; he commanded the Bucentaur on which the newly- elected Doge put out to sea to drop his ring into the Adriatic ; a swarm of workmen was under his orders. During the time when the Republic was at the height of its power, ten thousand noble oak stems lay constantly steeping in the water, to serve for the con- struction of new ships. Every rope and every pulley had its private mark, and the theft of even a nail was punished with five years of the galleys. Here too lay the world- renowned " Bucentaur " at anchor — the pompous vessel of the Doge, all overhung with gold and red velvet, and with a deck inlaid with ebony and mother-of-pearl. Eighty-four golden oars propelled the bark over the blue waters ; and the shouts of an exultant multitude accompanied her course ! The collection of arms in the arsenal had formerly a great reputation, and offered a rich fund for historical observations. But the hand of the foreigner has in all times been busy amongst its treasures, and every victor helped himself from these trophies. But in a short time we step out of this iron circle into the fresh green of the gardens, which chiefly charm us by the exquisite view to be seen thence. One should gaze from this spot at the roofs and towers of the wondrous sea-city, when they are gilded by the VENICE. 75 evening light, or when the twilight throws its veil around Santa Maria della Salute. The Lagoons open out widely before us, often crested with foaming waves ; and the figures we meet slowly pacing the broad alley, have frequently something of the stateliness of the old " Nobili." In all Venice there is not a single horse. Only here on a soft road running parallel with the main path, a rider is occasionally seen, and the street boys leave off their games to stare at the wonderful animal. The Gardini Pubblici are situated at the extreme point of Venice, on that sharp promontory which stretches out into the Lagoons. If you proceed beyond this point in a boat, you reach the Lido, a long stretch of sandy shore which divides the Lagoons from the open sea ; and beyond that again are the " Murazzi/' the A GONDOLA. tremendous sea-walls which protect the town against the Adriatic. From hence is obtained the best idea of the extraordinary position of Venice ; how that shallow flood which goes by the name of Lagnna morta and Lagnna viva, stretches between the sea and the dry land, and how from its surface arose the most marvellous city in the world. The Lagoon is divided from the moving sea, as well as from the solid land, by sand-dunes, like gigantic dams. But there are great portals opened seawards by which ships can reach the free Adriatic. Poi'to di Lido, Malamocco, Porto dei tre Porti are the names of these three outlets. The Lagoons cover a superficies of more than a hundred and seventy square miles ; the ?mirazzi alone which are erected to ward off the sea close to Palestrina, are over eighteen thousand feet long, and more than forty feet thick, and thirty feet high. At Porto di Lido the soft sands are covered with stunted shrubs, and little trembling grasses grow close to the edge of the sea that washes over them with its encroaching waves. The waters are dark as blue steel ; the great steamer disappears on the misty L 2 76 ITAL V. horizon, and the light bark returns homeward with its sail fluttering in the wind. We gaze out into the boundless expanse. Far away a white-winged seagull is circling, but at length it too is lost to sight in the infinite distance. In front of the little osteria (tavern) FROM THE LAGOONS. which stands on the Lido, and under the green acacias bedecked with coloured lanterns, revelry goes on deep into the night. There the merry boatmen drink and laugh until the last bark pushes off from the Lido and returns homeward across the flowing Lagoon which, at flood-tide, rises nearly six feet. A distant music enchants our ears as we land at the Piazzetta. It is the gondoliers upon the Canal Grande, singing their old songs — songs which have never yet been written down by a stranger's hand, but which live in the memories of the people. ON THE ROOFS. But at length the hour of departure approaches. Our last walk leads us to the same goal as our first ; that is to say, to the Piazza di San Marco. In front of the gilded church stands the proud campanile, the bell-tower, which we mount by a steep winding way. SCENE IN CHIOGGIA. Of THE r * -T Y OF "H VENICE. 77 From the low chamber of the guardian of the tower, from among the beams where the bells hang — (formerly these bells sounded only in accordance with the commands of the Doge) — we step into the open air, and, as by enchantment, we behold land and sea stretched out before our eyes. The mountains of Verona, and the far mists of the Adriatic ; the spires of palaces, and the points of masts ; a sea of houses and waters lies before us ! Now again it is flood-tide, and, as it rises, the city seems to sink into the advancing waves. We might almost fancy that she must sink on for ever, down, down, deeper and deeper — into her grave. TO TRIESTE AND MIRAMAR. E looked after the steamer which was putting out to sea through the Porto di Lido, one moonlight night. Already we can scarcely see the long pillar of smoke which marks her track, nor the red light at her masthead. She plunges onward through the foaming waves, and her destination is Trieste. Nearly every night one of the splendid steamboats of the Austrian Lloyd makes this voyage, and it is an enchanting scene that one contemplates leaning against the mast, looking forth, feeling, hearing, seeing, the Infinite all around one : the limitless vault of Heaven, the immeasurable waters, the great solitude of the sea ! In the sunny morning hours, when the fresh early breeze is blowing over the deck, the steamboat enters the harbour of Trieste, whose colossal buildings declare, even at the first glance, what a world-wide traffic meets here. Ships bearing the flags of countries in high northern latitudes, and the " vapori" bound for the Levant, lie side by side. The number of vessels bound on long voyages that cast anchor off Trieste, is calculated at more than thirteen thousand annually. What Venice was for the sea commerce of old times, that is Trieste to the modern world. The enterprising spirit of the present day, the riches accumulated by ceaseless toil, the easy inter-communication of all imaginable nations (brought together by self-interest, not sympathy), are the principal constituent elements in the present condition of the city. More than four hundred millions of francs pass through the hands of its inhabitants every year. Well may they be proud and lavish, well may they build and display their wealth ! Despite its modern character, Trieste is really of very ancient origin, and was the battle-ground of Illyrian and Celtic tribes long before the Romans completely subdued it, one hundred and seventy-seven years before Christ. It was then called Tergeste, and was Romanised with incredible rapidity. The old city, situated on the heights (not close to the sea), was rebuilt in a square form and fortified with towers, so as to keep in check the refractory races between the Alps and the Adriatic. From the hands of Attila and Alboin, Trieste passed into those of Charlemagne, until, at length, all-powerful Venice became supreme over all her neighbours. Trieste had to pay a yearly tribute, and for centuries the jealous Doges endeavoured to destroy her commerce. But presently the Kaiser came fonvard in opposition to the Venetians — for Trieste was a town of the German Empire. In the year 1508, Maximillian the First expelled the enemy that was pressing around her, and the liberties of Trieste were repeatedly made the subject of discussion in the " Reichstag." The Imperial supremacy changed by degrees into a purely Austrian supremacy, until at length the double-headed eagle obtained the mastery altogether. Its commercial prosperity, which Venice looked upon with deadly hatred, Trieste owes to the great Maria Theresa. Her laws liberated trade from its shackles, and it was she who opened to the traffic of foreign nations that free path which, previously (owing & 416 TO TRIESTE AND MIRAMAR. 79 partly to religious intolerance), had been closed to them. The stream of Greeks and Mussulmen from the Levant, now pours in unchecked, and the temples of all confessions stand peacefully near to one another. The chief point of interest in the town is, of course, the port, from whence is obtained the best view of the singular situation of Trieste. Here one seems to see the confluence of those many streams which bring riches to it, and here begins the wonderful Canal Grande, which carries ships of heavy burden right into the centre of the town. The origin of the harbour dates from shortly after the beginning of the Thirty Years' War, although at first it was merely a basin fit to receive small barks. The present colossal erections belong to this century. The lighthouse, which stands on the extreme point of Santa Teresa, was built in 1834. Without doubt, the finest point in the interior of the town is the Piazza della Borsa, and that is characteristic of Trieste : for her commercial interests evidently predominate everywhere, — her architecture, her Corso, even her churches, are made subservient to these. Close to the Borsa (Exchange) stands the Tergesteum, a gigantic palace erected in 1840 on the site of the old Custom House, and destined to be the gathering point of all the commerce of the South. It contains the offices of the Austrian Lloyd, splendid reading-rooms, and printing-offices, and in the glass-covered galleries which run through the building and serve for public promenades, it is easy to recognise the southern ten- dency towards publicity and living under the eyes of all beholders. Certainly, however, the Austrian Lloyd is by far the most important of all the great institutions which have been created here. And the history of its origin is in some sort the prototype of those great creations of public utility in which Europe is now so rich. Baron Bruck, afterwards Austrian Finance Minister, was one of the founders and promoters of it. At the com- mencement, its action was confined to matters connected with insurance (1831), until the necessity was felt of systematically arranging and publishing the important news about trade and shipping which constantly reached the company. Thus arose a second under- taking, — the " Giornale del Lloyd Austriaco," which soon appeared also in the German language, and was the beginning of that colossal literary activity which the " Lloyd " now displays. Magnificent geographical works, maps, woodcuts, engravings, as well as numerous periodical publications, appear from its offices. But the third, and most important branch of its undertakings, began with the esta- blishment of those great lines of steamers which now command the whole traffic of the East, when it was perceived that not only the rapid diffusion, but the rapid acquisition of news was important ; when, in a word, it was acknowledged that the possibility of utilizing any commercial facts depended on the facilities of communication. Once the idea was conceived, the means of carrying it out were not difficult to find. The vessels were built in London, and on the 16th of May, 1837, the first Lloyd's steamer started for Con- stantinople. That was the turning-point. It is almost impossible for the uninitiated to form an idea of the enormous power of expansion which the company at once developed, of the sharp-sightedness with which it increased its range of business, and of its wide- spread connection with other great commercial institutions. The Levant, and the west coast of the Black Sea, the lower Danube and the Po, have now regular communication with Trieste. The original capital, which amounted but to a million and a half, had increased tenfold in 1870 ; the number of steamers was close upon seventy, and the material used for heating their engines alone, cost over two millions of gulden per annum. To understand these facts one must be acquainted with the particulars of the service — one must consider that in the course of a single year, more than one million one hundred and 8o ITALY. eighteen thousand miles were traversed, more than three hundred thousand passengers conveyed, and that the goods transport reached nearly to six million centners (hundred- weight). " Avanti " is the proud device of the company, and with good right is it borne. The Tergesteum strikes us with a sense of the active intelligence and brain-power GROTTO OF SAN SERVOLO NEAR TRIESTE. which guides the undertaking. But in the Arsenal of Lloyd's — completed in 1857, and valued at four million nine hundred thousand gulden — we see, in the thousands of busy hands at work there, the evidences of external and physical force. One thing more — whence comes the singular name of the company ? What is meant by that word " Lloyd" ? It is not known to every one that Mr. Lloyd was originally the keeper of the Exchange Coffee-house in London, where brokers and agents were in the habit of TO TRIESTE AND MIRAMAR. 81 meeting together to discuss business and strike bargains. As early as the beginning of the eighteenth century, the place passed into the hands of a commercial company, which used it as a regular place of meeting, and soon had representatives in all parts of the winckelmann's monument. world. The advices received from these various quarters were posted up at Lloyd's, and, later on, published in "Lloyd's List," a journal which has appeared daily since the year 1800. In this manner arose the world-renowned English institution, and the Austrian Lloyd was modelled on it. M 82 ITALY. From the Tergesteum, the Corso leads into the old town, where are very strong fortifications, and many traces of antiquity. There is little to be said about the churches of Trieste ; but one grave we must visit, which every German looks upon with veneration. It is the sepulchre of Winckelmann, the great man who gave new light to the study of antiquity, and who was murdered in Trieste, in 1 768, at the moment when he was showing to his guide Arcangeli, a collection of ancient gold coins. (Arcangeli was himself the murderer. — Translator's Note.) Lessing, although he had frequent disputes with Winckelmann, nevertheless declared that he would willingly have given two years of his own life to save that of Winckelmann, so highly did he esteem his merit. But the ghost of yet another man rises up before us as we explore Trieste and its neighbourhood. Not far from Grignano, a castle stretches out into the sea : it is Miramar, the knightly citadel, the Tusculum of Maximilian before he met his tragic fate at Queretaro. The battlements of the castle are sheltered from the sea by huge dams built of Istrian stone ; broad flights of steps lead down beneath alleys over-arched with green foliage to the soft, sandy shore, whence you look over marble balustrades across the wide expanse of the blue Adriatic. Even the stranger who wanders beneath these leafy shades, and listens to the nightingales that ever haunt them, feels his heart drawn towards the place ; how dear then must it have been to the ill-starred Prince who passed his happy youth there ! He has fallen by the bullets of an enemy whom he tried to combat with the higher weapons of intellect ; his wife, the noble king's daughter, is sunk in madness, and desolate by the sea-shore stands the Castle of Miramar. VIEW OF MANTUA FROM THE BRIDGE OF SAN GIORGIO. MANTUA. N the winter of 1809 a hero was executed by the muskets of French soldiers in the fortress of Mantua, and we may almost say that the sound of those shots still echoes in the memory of the people. The bloody deed then accom- plished, so outraged the feelings of contemporaries, that it left, as it were, an ineffaceable stain upon the town itself, for whosoever now speaks of Mantua, another name immediately rises to his lips, — the name of the patriot Andreas Hofer. So entirely does the world of to-day sympathise with the feelings of those who indignantly beheld Hofer's cruel fate, that we run some risk of forgetting, in the contemplation of this heroic man, who belongs so entirely to our modern history, how many other great names are at home in Mantua. This town shares in full measure the peculiarity we have pointed out as belonging to most of the Italian cities : namely, that its civic records are more important than the history of many states. Almost each one of them counts great families which treated as equals with the rulers of Europe ; almost each one has its heroes of antiquity, who still live in the popular imagination. As in Verona we met with the traces of Catullus, and in Padua with those of Livy, so here we find Virgil, the great singer of the yEneid, who M 2 S 4 ITALY. celebrates the reed-crowned Mincio in his " Georgics," and longs for the Muses to lead him back once more to his native home. But Mantua, too, had her full share in all the storms that followed the destruction of the Roman Empire, and in the stirring events which marked the Middle Ages in Italy. Here it was that Alboin and Autharis swayed the sceptre ; here the German Emperors were wont to halt for a day of rest on their Imperial progress through Lombardy ; here Henry the Fourth and the Countess Matilda, Hildebrand's powerful patroness, contended bitterly for the possession of the city ; and the great nobles, who all were striving for mastery, waged bloody warfare in her streets until at length Gonzaga obtained the supremacy. His race continued to rule over Mantua for more than three hundred years. It was strong and valiant ; ever ready for the fray when war knocked at the city gates, and liberal in encouraging the fine arts whenever there was an opportunity of beauti- fying the city and ministering to the patriotic pride of the citizens. All that Giulio Romano painted in the fine old castle, all that Alberti has built, arose under the princely patronage of some Gonzaga Maecenas. It was not Florence only who could boast of her Medici. Mantua is built on two islands of the Mincio, which here widens out considerably and surrounds the town like a lake. Five great gates lead out on to five high roads to north and south ; a huge mill-dam forms a pathway from the town to the citadel, and in Porto Catena, there lie at anchor numerous black sailing-ships deeply laden, that ply to the shores of the Adriatic. The town and its tremendous fortifications rise up out of the waters with a grim and defiant aspect. The spirit of the golden Renaissance has fled from it long ago, and is replaced by a spirit of warlike sternness. Strength, and not beauty, is the key-note of its modern development ; and in truth Mantua is at the present day one of the most formidable fortresses in Europe : for whilst the town itself counts scarcely more than twenty-eight thousand inhabitants, the casemates can accommodate an army of forty thousand men ! Strong bastions are built deep down into the water, which is crossed by clanking iron draw-bridges, and every gate is armed to the teeth. All approaches to the city are commanded from hence for a long distance. The French besieged the place fruitlessly in July, 1796, and the enemy had to make tremendous sacrifices in 1797, 1799, and 18 14, before Mantua yielded. Indeed, those years have ploughed the stern furrows into the physiognomy of the town which strike us to-day ; and as in 1809, it was the scene of a tyrannous injustice, when the courier from Milan came riding in with the death-sentence of the noble-hearted Tyrolese Hofer ; so in the sad years which followed 1848, it was again the theatre of those dark political trials wherein not individual transgressions but the liberty of nations was ruthlessly condemned. The gloomy impression made by these reminiscences, is increased by the heavy and unhealthy atmosphere of the surrounding marshes, whose exhalations become the terrible allies of the garrison against a besieging — especially a foreign — foe. But we soon forget such dispiriting sensations, when, turning our backs on Mantua the fortress, we enter Mantua the town, and pass through her streets before palaces and theatres, and masterpieces of another time, that are almost unequalled. Here we are led onward by the creative hand of Art instead of the destructive hand of War. The Piazza San Pietro may be looked on as the principal point in the city, containing as it does the Duomo, and the old Palazzo Ducale. From hence, as far as the Via della Croce Verde and the Teatro Sociale, flows the thickest traffic ; and the original and singular aspect of the scene is enhanced by the fact that one of those lakes, formed by the broadening out of MANTUA. 85 RIFLEMEN WAITING FOR A TRAIN. the Mincio, reaches nearly to the Piazza, and is crossed by a single bridge leading to the Lunetta. Giulio Romano is the presiding genius in the old Castle of the Dukes of Mantua. S6 ITALY. He completed the artistic significance of Bonaccolti's building, and has made its internal walls renowned for all time by his Trojan frescoes. The Palazzo del Te is still richer in works of this master ; it contains eight rooms, adorned by his hand, inexhaustible in fulness of details, and incomparable for grace as well as grandeur. The former quality is especially remarkable in the so-called Hall of Psyche, the second in the Sala dei Giganti, or Hall of Giants, where the heaven-storming Titans appear almost terrible in their might. The enormous power of growth and expansion which that period (the Renaissance) possessed is best evidenced by the choice of artistic subjects which were taken by pre- ference from the antique world of gods and goddesses. Every little Prince in duodecimo would have his gallery full of Olympians, and his halls full of giants. Perhaps this mania might appear laughable to us, were it not that the carrying of it out fell into the hands of artists who put all their own artistic greatness at the service of this striving after political greatness, and thus surrounded these little courts with an eternal halo. That which a great minister or a great general has done for other dynasties, was accomplished for the Italian Princes of the sixteenth century by the great artists whose names are linked imperishably with theirs. And this was felt by a people who have so keen a sense of public honour and public disgrace as the Italians have. The position which Giulio Romano held with relation to the Court of the Gonzagas and the citizens of Mantua was a brilliant one ; for not only the nobles by birth, but the aristocracy of intellect, attained to a certain sovereignty in those " Republics." Giulio Romano was not the servant but the friend of the Duke who employed him ; his house was honoured by the people almost as a sacred place ; his death was mourned as a national calamity. " We have lost our Giulio Romano, our right hand," writes Hercules Gonzaga in the year 1546. And in truth the artistic life of the city ceased almost simultaneously with that of the inimitable Master. The last of the line of Gonzaga died in 1 707, amid the decadence and degradation which is the heritage of the closing generations of such a line, and left behind him as an apple of discord the mighty citadel for whose possession Germany and France, Austria and Savoy, contended. The contest endured for more than a century ; but now the tricolour of a United Italy waves over the spot where Andreas Hofer shouted his last Hurrah ! " for Kaiser Franz before giving the fatal word — " Fire ! " MILAN. T is not by its external aspect but in virtue of its intrinsic worth that Milan counts among the most important cities of Italy. Its sobriqiiet of the " moral capital of the country " is more than a mere phrase. What deeds had to be done, what sufferings to be endured, before the nation was united ! And although enthusiasm for this aim was diffused throughout the whole country, yet the lion's share of the labotir fell to Northern Italy. Here principally, in Piedmont and Lombardy reigned that strong and sober spirit which adds action to will, and which shrinks intimidated from no endurance ; and in power of endurance at all events no other Italian city can be compared with Milan. It has been besieged forty-eight times, and stormed twenty-eight times. As often as the stormy flood of war poured over the Lombard plains, it beat its angry waves against the walls of this city. Milan rises out of the tempestuous history of the Middle Ages like a rock out of the ocean. But together with all these warlike surroundings, and the manly boldness which was the distinguishing characteristic of the city, arts and sciences, wealth and love, continued to flourish. Two thousand years have passed over the capital of Lombardy, and we can hardly realise to ourselves that this same city, in which we have seen Radetzky's white-coated soldiery, and heard in 1859 the enthusiastic shout of "Viva Vittorio Emanuele!" was besieged by the Romans 200 years B.C., that Theodosius held his court here, and Attila wasted it with fire and sword. But most terrible of all was the chastisement inflicted by Barbarossa, who, angered by the repeated revolts of Milan against his authority, swore to level the city to the earth, and in fact caused all the public buildings, with the exception of one or two churches, to be pulled down with great iron hooks, and the woodwork of them set on fire. Two hundred years later we find the Visconti in full possession of the town ; the means by which they established and maintained their power being the same that were then used by all the rulers of Italy, the same that are set forth by Macchiavelli in the " Principe," with the sole difference that some were able to apply them more boldly than others. Cruel times of bloodshed and tyranny had to pass by before the Sforzas won the Dukedom of Milan. This family was of low, nay peasant, origin, but the founder of its dignities possessed at least personal valour, and showed what could be accomplished by belief in a high destiny, but his descendants finally sank into degradation beneath the curse of worn-out traditions. But Milan first felt the real yoke of despotism, when Charles the Fifth gave her into the hands of the Spaniards, in whose clutches she remained until the beginning of the eighteenth century. How she felt under the rule of Austria, is known to all contemporaries ; in vain were German savants and German artists summoned to give new glory to the city, Milan would not be German, she would be nothing but a portion of United Italy ! And terrible years had to be lived through before there finally came the Peace of Villafranca, and the King entered Milan amid universal and joyful enthusiasm. It is singular enough that a town which has ever been so constant to the national 88 ITAL Y. cause, should show so little that is nationally characteristic in its external aspect. Every- one who knows Italy will admit that the Italian element is less visible in Milan than else- where. The life, the whole physiognomy of the town, has much more of the cosmo- MONUMENT TO LEONARDO DA VINCI. politan air which belongs to every large capital ; and, indeed, several of the streets might be in Paris for all one can see to the contrary. The newer streets (above all the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele) are those which bear a more southern stamp. The desire for vast, brilliant spaces, which is expressed in these, is an essential characteristic of the Italian, MILAN. 89 whose whole life tends to external show. One should arrive in the Lombard capital on the evening of a Festa, and walk through this arcade where thousands of people throng, and thousands of gas-lights flare, to understand what night means in Italy, and to realize that we are on Italian soil. The foundation stone of the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele — a building perhaps unequalled in Europe in its way — was laid on the 4th of March, 1865. In the centre of COLUMNS OF SAN LORENZO. the huge cross formed by the building, rises a dome of glass, and the octagon which is overarched by this dome is richly adorned with frescoes and caryatides, and the statues of famous Italians. Here are Raphael and Dante, Savonarola and Arnold of Brescia. Here too Macchiavel has his monument, and opposite to him — his equal in political wisdom, and his superior in political liberality — stands Cavour. The whole arcade, lighted by twelve hundred jets of gas, wears the aspect of a southern bazaar, and contains ninety-six magnifi- cent shops full of all manner of luxuries ; sparkling ornaments, rich carpets, statues, and pictures. The doors of the cafes are wide open, displaying crimson velvet divans, and huge mirrors, and the sellers of newspapers push their way among the chattering groups within, calling out " Persevej'anza, Nazione, Fanfulla, cinque ccntesimi !" Everything combines to make the Ga//eria the brilliant focus of public life : the massive grandeur of the building, and the careless ease of intercourse, busy diligence, and leisurely finery. In the tympanum of the dome are frescoes representing the four quarters of the world, Europe, Asia, and the rest ; but the solid ground we tread on, and from which this master- N go ITALY. piece has arisen, is the soil of ancient, historic Milan. In no other town of Italy is civic patriotism combined with the cosmopolitan spirit as it is here. "When you visit the offices, the shops, the banks, and manufactories of Milan, you find everywhere serious busy men, carrying on their occupations with almost northern earnest- ness ; and it is only in the evening when working hours are over; and the population flocks out on to the Corso, or into the Galleria, that the Milanese appear to us as Italians in the full sense of the word. Rapid talk flows freely, the characteristic black veil hangs in graceful folds round fair faces and throats, gay silks trail and rustle. Even among the women of Milan is to be found an energetic spirit that interests itself in public affairs, and Aleardi spoke from his heart when he addressed to them his poem entitled " Le Donne Veneziane alle Milanesi " (The Women of Venice to those of Milan). Milan, at the date of this poem, already made part of a united Italy, but Venice still languished in the power of the foreigner, and sighed in plaintive tones for the star of Italy to shine on her lagoons. The key-note running through all life in Milan is modcrnness: despite the memories of a great Past which surround us on every side, the spell of the Present is omnipotent. Even when expressed by antiquated forms, modern life is triumphantly dominant. The Piazza dei Mercanti, from whence the draconian edicts of the Podesta were formerly issued, now echoes with the tumult of the Exchange : and in the Loggie where theological disputa- tions once resounded, the Chamber of Commerce sits in council, and notwithstanding that the foundation of the Ospedale Maggiore (Great Hospital) is of ancient date, yet the full development of its original purpose, the absolute equality of all sufferers within its walls, is in truth the work of modern progress. Such results may have been foreboded and aimed at in former centuries, but it was reserved for the present day to work them out in conscious freedom and completeness. About the year 1784 all the charitable institutions which Milan possessed were combined in one fund, on which all the necessitous had a claim, — from the impoverished widow of a princely house, to the beggar rocking her child on her care-laden breast. Besides this fund, there are three thousand beds at the disposition of the sick poor, and all these large means are administered in a spirit of the noblest benevo- lence, under the ceaseless supervision of the patrons, and in accordance with the wishes of the benevolent donors, whose portraits are exhibited every two years in the hall of the Ospedale. The extent and importance of this institution may be judged from the fact that it possesses more than forty-seven millions, and that about one and twenty thousand sick persons and ten thousand little children (these latter chiefly in the country), are yearly relieved by it. If we cast a glance on the realm of politics, we shall find at once innumerable remi- niscences of the Bonapartes, — but this too is a trait of entirely modern history. With no other Italian city had the Bonapartes such intimate personal relations, as with Milan : here it was that the man who had stood with waving banner on the bridge of Areola, placed the iron crown upon his own head ; here the viceroy Eugene kept a luxurious court ; and here the third Napoleon made a triumphal entry after the battle of Magenta, and received homage as the Saviour of Italy. Such recollections have an indescribable power over the genera- tions who have witnessed the circumstances ; for it is action not reflection which influences the masses, and it is the concrete fact which appeals to them as they look upon the proud Arco della Pace. To this is added a certain sentiment of gratitude ; — for nothing is falser than to deny to Italians the possession of this good trait, — since the people feel that the foundation stone of their Unity was laid by the French Emperor at a period when no other but himself could have laid it. These considerations may serve to excuse the MILAN. 9i Napoleon-worship, the traces of which we meet with here : it may have had something repulsive about it when it was addressed to the all-powerful Emperor, but its aspect is changed and ennobled when it is dedicated to fallen greatness. But everywhere we find a hundred instances of the warmth with which the Italians cling to all the names of those who have played a friendly part in the history of their country ; SANTA MARIA DELLE GRAZIE. and with what liveliness they nourish the memory of all the men who have contributed their own renown to the glory of Italy. In every large town the streets and squares are named after the chief citizens whose monuments have been erected by posterity ; and the children playing at their base learn unconsciously that patriotic pride which they retain in manhood. Everywhere the sense of kindred with the national heroes is enthusiastically cherished; and as a type of all, we may name one, — the great Cavour. In Milan he has a noble monument, but his popularity is evidenced even in the smallest trifles ; on the N 2 9 2 ITAL Y. bank-notes that pass through the citizens' hands is engraved the portrait of the famous minister, looking statesmanlike and sage through his spectacles ; the favourite cigar which the cabmen smoke, and the gentlemen by no means disdain, is called the ' Cavour.' We saunter onward through the Contrada di Brera, and enter a pillared courtyard with fine statues in it. The scientific treasures of Milan are collected here ; and the pic- ture gallery in the same building contains some fine specimens of the old masters. Who that has ever seen Raphael's ' Sposalizio ' (the marriage of the Virgin) can ever forget it ? or who could attempt to describe it as he saw it ? We feel indeed that in a series of slight sketches such as the present it is impossible to do any sort of justice to artistic things ; for it were too presumptuous to emit a trenchant judgment in a few words, and to give to the subject all the attention it ought to claim, would require, not pages but volumes. On the way towards the Porta Ticinese, — one of the twelve city gates — we are held fast by a strange spectacle, that transports us suddenly from this modern world into the antique : these are the Colonne di San Lorenzo, sixteen Corinthian columns of wonderful beauty, which belonged to some Roman Thermae, and are mentioned in the poems of Ausonius. Yonder is the Duomo — the Cathedral, — with its white marble pinnacles, its cool twilight aisles, its world-wide historical reminiscences. For a long time poor squalid houses pressed close around its marble walls, and greatly injured the effect of the whole ; but now a wide space has been opened all around the cathedral, and the view of it is unimpeded. The huge building rises before us, gigantic in its massive whole, yet of almost fairy lightness in its manifold details. We were standing at the corner of the Via Capellari gazing upward in dumb admiration, when an Italian, who had been watching us for some time, seized my arm and pointing with an enthusiastic gesture to the Duomo, exclaimed, Ecco cio che poteva il 1386 ! " " Behold what the year 1386 could accomplish ! " It was indeed in that year that the Cathedral of Milan was commenced by Gian Galeazzo Visconti, and although there needed years, nay centuries, for its completion, and although the hands of many nations have co-operated in the production of this masterpiece of man's art, yet the glory of the original conception belongs to that remote epoch. We mount the broad marble steps that give access to the five portals in the main facade, and a blind man leaning against a pillar murmurs in a hollow voice, " Misericordia per mi cieco ; " neglected children playing on the steps cry after us, " Un soldo, sigiwre, un soldo ! " and stretch their hands eagerly ; a guide who has followed us from the corner of the street comes slily up and whispers in our ear "La caltedralc, signor, una guida per la catledrale." Such annoyances meet you on every threshold in Italy, but you can easily shake them off by the expenditure of a few centesimi and the use of a persuasively expressive fore- finger ; but above all use few words or you will infallibly be worsted. The main entrance is closed, not by a jarring door, but by a huge curtain, and pushing this aside we stand within the enormous nave with its solemn twilight and its columns rising upward in lofty sublimity. A little silver bell tinkles from a distant side- chapel, and women sink devoutly on their knees whilst a priest in rich vestments, who has just stepped forth from the sacristy followed by two acolytes, pauses and beats his breast reverently. In a niche yonder beside a confessional box kneels a girl in black garments; her cheeks arc flushed, her eyes raised to heaven ; she has forgotten the world around her, she sees and hears nothing, she knows not that she is murmuring her confession half aloud — acknowledging a transgression like that of the fair Francesca da Rimini — "Al THE CATHEDRAL OF MILAN. OF THE UNIVERSITY OF ELUNOB MILAN. 93 tempo del dolci sospiri. " Somewhat further on sits an aged woman on a bench, her grey hair showing beneath her black veil, and she too is absorbed in her own thoughts, she too has her heartache. A glance at the handsome, care-laden old face reveals its story. She has lost a beloved child for whom she has murmured a daily petition in this spot for years past — " Miser ic or dia !" A wondrous and almost inexplicable sensation of awe and reverence overpowers those who enter these sacred aisles ; even the careless stranger, even the frivolous and irreligious, are affected by it. It is not merely the vastness of the space and the beauty of the proportions ; it is not merely the lofty pillars and the " dim religious light" which have this mystic power ; no, it is some spiritual force whose current carries us away, something soulfiil that speaks to the soul ! In the consciousness that millions have wept and worshipped here, that as they kneel and pray now before our eyes so they have knelt and prayed here for centuries, lies the secret of this mysterious influence. This is the true consecration of the Duomo; this is its invisible wealth, more precious than silver lamps and golden chalices; this it is that speaks in the flood of sound from the mighty organ ! The ground plan of the church marks a cross ; the length of the nave is about four hundred and fifty feet, and it has two aisles on either side. The whole of the floor com- prises more than a hundred and ten thousand square feet, so that it is quite a long excursion to traverse it from end to end. An extremely ancient church formerly stood on the site of the present Duomo ; but no fragment of its materials was used in the construction of the newer temple. For there was an inexhaustible supply of marble from the quarries of Condoglio, and the gifts which flowed in for the splendid building were at first almost embarrassing in their richness and number. Galeazzo Visconti himself sacrificed a great portion of his booty and jewels to it, Marco Carelli offered a gift of thirty-five thousand ducats, and Pope Boniface the Ninth promised to all Lombards who should make a pilgrimage to Milan, the same indulgences as those promised to a pilgrimage to Rome, on condition that they should devote one-third of the sum thus saved to the building of the Duomo. Certainly the original plan of the church was simpler than its development in subsequent times ; the five great portals and the fifty-two octagon columns were already begun, it is true, but it was intended to have only one altar, according to the Ambrosian rite. All the side-altars now in the church date from the time of San Carlo Borromeo, and were for the most part designed by Pellegrini, who also constructed the subterranean passage to the Archbishop's palace. After passing between two pillars of red granite which majestically adorn the main entrance, we step at once on to the meridian which runs through the church, and was inserted into the marble pavement in 1 786. Then further on we perceive many proud monuments such as the Popes and their nephews were wont to enrich Italian temples with. Statues and pictures crowd every altar ; among the former a repulsively anatomical St. Bartholomew carrying his own skin over his shoulders ! And to this aesthetic enormity the " artist " has had the good taste to add an inscription setting forth that the figure is not by Praxiteles, but by himself, " Marcus Agrates " ! The seven-armed candelabrum which has belonged to the Cathedral of Milan since the middle of the sixteenth century, is world-renowned ; but its origin is still a mystery. Its arms come out from the huge stem like the twisted branches of a tree, on which strange figures of animals are climbing. Near at hand stands the statue of the Madonna dell' Albero, and at her feet sleeps Cardinal Borromeo, whom Manzoni has immortalized in the " Promessi 94 ITALY. Sposi." The tomb of his great ancestor, St. Charles himself, is beneath the choir ; the coffin that contains his remains was made at the cost of King Philip the Fourth of Spain ; CORSO VITTORIO EMANUELE. it is of pure gold, and if Ignazio Cantu is to be trusted, the chapel of San Carlo contains the value of more than four millions of francs. But noble and solemn as is the interior of the Duomo, we receive perhaps an even more striking impression when, after having climbed the hundreds of steps, we emerge into the open air on the roof of the huge building. The thousands of marble statues surmounting MILAN. 95 airy pinnacles, seem to be the work of enchantment ; and, fairy-like in the distance, we see the blue chain of the Alps with Mont Blanc shining whitely aloft, and with the great passes, which serve for the intercourse of nations, in their shadowy depths. The MONK AT THE WELL IN THE CERTOSA. number of statues on the exterior of the Duomo is reckoned at two thousand ; among which a statue of Eve is very celebrated. Canova too has contributed three master-pieces ; Rebecca, St. Dasius, and Napoleon the First. The latter is, without doubt, the finest ; of colossal size, and bold as a hero of antiquity, the Caesar of our century stands there holding in his clenched hand the lance with which he overthrew Europe. Motionless and 9 6 ITALY. marble cold, he looks down upon the city which he once ruled over, and where his stepson Eugene held a brilliant Court. But the Fates have made him serve as a symbol of their irony ; for there are fourteen lightning conductors intended to protect the roof from thunder-bolts, and — in order not to spoil the artistic harmony of the whole — these wires are so arranged as to be held in the hands of figures armed with lance and shield, among them the great Corsican. He who caused his warlike lightnings to devastate whole nations, is now become the dumb instrument to disarm the lightnings that glide harmless through his hands. One may spend hours on the broad platform of the roof wandering among the grove of marble figures that rise on every hand, and still find something new : — wreathed flowers and foliage, dragons' heads, from whose mouths the water pours in the rainy season, all of dazzling marble, all so dumb and yet so eloquent ! The walls are scribbled over in all languages in the world, and although the scribblings mostly consist of ill -written names, yet here and there you come upon a sentence showing what strong emotions have been awakened by the influence of the place. There are quotations from Byron and Dante, Rousseau and Goethe; and patriotism expresses itself in numberless " Evvivas" for United Italy. There is undoubtedly a certain exaltation of spirit felt on this airy height ; but prosaic handicraft intrudes itself into the midst of the poetry. In that smoking metal pan yonder they are melting lead to repair the roof, and when the mid-day hour of rest arrives, the sun-burnt workmen crowd together in a circle and pull the dice and the copper " soldi " out of their pockets. I saw them sitting cross-legged at their ease, gambling away with eager, flashing eyes : "Cinque — sei — died!" " Accidente /" (Palsy seize ye !), cried one who had lost. I turned away and leant for a long long time over the marble balustrade, gazing at the distant Alps, or down upon the red-brown roofs of the town ; the spirit revels in the view of yonder immeasurable horizon ! Amongst the other churches of Milan, the most worthy of notice is the basilica of Saint Ambrogio, which dates from the fourth century, and owes its origin to that great Father of the Church, St. Ambrose, founder also of the so-called Ambrosian rite. St. Ambrose seems to have impressed some of the noble simplicity of his own character upon the church ; for the whole building bears this stamp, notwithstanding the alterations made in it by later times. Without being specially beautiful, it is full of dignity, and of that solemnity which belongs to a great past. Before the high altar in this church took place the conversion of St. Augustine, and the coronation of the Italian Kings Berengar and Otho the Great, and the two emperors, afterwards excommunicated by Rome, Henry the Fourth and Louis of Bavaria. The church contains valuable objects in gold and silver, and many interesting antiquities, but its most precious treasure is the history that belongs to it. The fame of Santa Maria delle Grazie rests chiefly on its possession of Leonardo da Vinci's Last Supper : which, however, is not in the church itself, but in the refectory of the convent belonging to it. The story of the vicissitudes this great fresco has undergone, and the noble figures which fill it, are known to everybody, even to those who have never visited Italy. But despite all the injuries it has sustained, the original makes an impression which no copy can approach. Barbarous generations, whether clothed in coat of mail or monkish cowl, have cruelly assailed it ; but the traces of a sacred genius have not been utterly effaced, nor will they be, so long as but one outline of the great design remains visible. In the evening hours, when noise and movement awake throughout all Italy, the MILAXE.SE lady. 6. '•it Of i MILAN. 97 pulse of life begins to beat quicker in Milan also; and then a phenomenon, which we have scarcely named hitherto, but which is of high importance in Italy, — I mean the Theatre, — presses itself on our attention. It must be owned that people do not so much go thither with an idea of seriously enjoying art, as attracted by the excitement of a crowd; but how- ever this may be, actors and singers are an indispensable element among these people. And the artists themselves are more sensitive to this fact, than to the supercilious indifference LAKE OF COMO. VIEW OF MALGRATE FROM LECCO. with which the public chatters throughout their performances ; they do not place their pride in being attentively listened to, but in the consciousness that the public cannot do without them. During the time when Venice was the only city excluded from United Italy, her chief theatre, " La Fenice," was closed and silent ; and this circumstance was the most eloquent possible protest against the state of things then prevailing. This sense of their own importance runs through all circles of the Italian stage, and the meanest supernumerary shares it with the first artists. I shall never forget once meeting with a couple of singular-looking figures in the railway station of a small town ; they were promenading up and down the platform attracting much curious attention by their pantomimic gestures. The man's garments were ragged and squalid, but those of his wife were still more so, and her grey hair, unacquainted with the comb, fell in tangled locks about her forehead ; she reminded me of Hecuba. My hand was already in my pocket, and I was just about to say, " You are street-singers, I presume ; " when the man anticipated my question with the words " Siamo arlisti drammatici" accompanied by a o 98 ITAL Y. gesture worthy of Talma. As to Hecuba, she measured me with a look that I have never seen surpassed by Ristori herself! The Eldorado of Italian artists, the high object of their ambition, is the Scala in Milan. Whoever has won laurels here, is welcome on any foreign stage ; whoever has been able to fill this vast space with his voice, is certain of triumphs everywhere. The Scala is incontestably the first opera-house in Italy ; so that in this respect also, Milan remains the "moral capital." The singular name, La Scala, is derived from a church that bore the same title, and on the site of which the present theatre is erected : after San Carlo in Naples, the largest theatre in Europe. There are five rows of boxes, which, together with the pit, are capable of containing nearly four thousand spectators. All the decorations are in the costly and lavish style of the first empire ; Napoleon and Josephine, Eugene and his marshals, have sat here surrounded by a brilliant court. Those were days of heavy oppression for Italy ; but she was forced to wear an appearance of gaiety and prosperity, for such has ever been the will of all Caesars ! But after all the sights and sounds of brilliant gas-lighted Milan, I could not repress a yearning for a glimpse of nature. This yearning sent me forth out of the noisy city, and was not stilled even by a visit to the exquisite Certosa, which lies barely fifteen miles from Milan, and rises solitary and majestic out of the Lombard plain. We must devote a few words — they can be but few — to this masterwork. The Certosa di Pavia was erected almost contemporaneously with the Duomo of Milan ; it contains a church and cloister, and numerous conventual buildings. But these are all designed in the same style, and offer a perfection of artistic unity such as scarcely another edifice in Italy can boast of. We stand dumb with admiring astonishment before the exquisite facade. A spirit of holiness seems to breathe through these halls, through these solitary alleys, to whose influence we involuntarily resign ourselves. There does not reign here that empty idleness, weary of existence itself, which we find in so many monasteries : but on the contrary, a dignity and strength which concentrates life into silent reflection instead of squandering it in the bustle of the outer world. It is fulness of thought, and not poverty of intellect, which characterizes this solitude, and glorious works of art exalt the spirits of the pilgrims who approach these gates. That, too, is a kind of worship. We lingered nearly a whole clay in the classic halls of the Certosa, and then returned to Milan. To-morrow we start from thence for the beautiful Lake of Como, where the bustle of the capital changes softly into a moonlit Idyll ! OF THE BELLAGGIO, SEEN FROM VILLA GIULIA. THREE LAKES. LAGO DI COMO. EAR Cadenabbia there is a road winding along beneath green arches of the vine, or under the blue canopy of heaven, now hidden from a view of the landscape, now opening out so as to allow the mountains mirrored in the soft waters to be seen. The natives call this road " Via del Paradiso," — The road of Paradise ; and the words linger in our memory all the while we tarry here, for truly the whole enchanting district of the three lakes is a Paradise. We have seen many a masterpiece of man's handiwork during our pilgrimage, but here nature has set her masterpiece ; and as we see certain stars that surpass all the others in their lustre, so shines pre-eminent in beauty this triple star of the Three Lakes, amid the heaven of Italy. How exquisitely refreshing is this soft air to one coming from the crowded town ! As we wander by steep ways through the little villages perched high above the shore, the peasant who passes us with his laden mule, and the children peeping over a O 2 IOO ITALY. crumbling wall, grin and nod and look at us with great dark eyes ; — the very beggar by the way-side has fallen asleep in the soft spring afternoon, and is dreaming, perhaps, that he is a king ! And what a balsam is this air, how we feel the coolness it has stolen from the waters in its flight, and rejoice as we hear it soughing and surging amid the clefts of the rocks ! The heart expands, the soul exults, and we feel inclined to cry aloud and joyfully, " Via del Paradiso / " Such are the impressions offered to one who clambers actively amongst the heights above the three lakes ; but also to him who keeps to the more level high-ways along the margin is offered a delightful series of pictures by the alternations of pretty townlets, with solitary landscape. Nowhere do you find villas combining in so high a degree rustic peace, with classic elegance ; nowhere else do you so easily forget the world, nor find it again so easily when you need it. We make halt first at the Lake of Como, which is a long deep basin measuring more than forty miles in circumference, and divided into two arms, called respectively, Lecco and Como, from the towns upon their shores. The latter, Como, whose northernmost houses are washed by the waves of the lake, is the very ideal of a little Lombard town ; with a certain sternness about its architecture, rich in beauty and warlike reminiscences, full of life and movement. The citizens possess a neat little theatre, and a Lyceum, which recalls the great men who called Como their home : — the two Plinys, Pope Innocent the Eleventh, and Pope Clement the Thirteenth, Jovius, and Rezzonico. Volta also was of Comascan origin. The Duomo is amongst the finest cathedrals of Northern Italy ; perhaps, indeed, it may be said to be the finest of all after Milan. It is distinguished by severe Gothic architecture, and by a singular air of dignity and solemnity, only alloyed here and there by a touch of the Renaissance, as in the facade (which is of later date than the rest) and portions of the choir. The great round-arched portal is surrounded by exceedingly rich ornamentation, full of figures of saints framed in carved stone-work, and mellowed into that rich tone of colouring which the breath of centuries alone can give to a building. But mingled with the freedom of artistic power is the sense of an intellectual freedom which does not insist on compressing all that is noble within the limits of one form of faith ; for amidst the saints you may see German Emperors and antique heroes, and, one on each side of the portal, stand two men who were in their way apostles of light — I mean the elder Pliny, who lost his life in the service of science, and his nephew, the author of those wonderful letters which still delight us ! Their residence was the Villa Pliniana, which is situated among peaceful groves upon the heights near Torno. In the courtyard the spring still murmurs, of which the younger Pliny writes to his friend that it rises and falls three times a day, with a regular ebb and flow. Pliny carefully relates how a ring which he laid on the dry ground there was first slightly sprinkled over, and then entirely concealed by the waters, until on their sinking again it was once more brought to light. The sage loved to rest beside this fountain, whose eternal rising and falling offers a profound symbol of our existence ; and he wrote some of his finest pages here. His heart was at ease, although his brain might be struggling with hard problems ; for he says in his first book, " Here I am assailed neither by hopes nor fears ; I regret no word that meets my ear, nor any that issues from my lips ; and I hear no bitter invectives against mankind." The landing-place in Como is the head-quarters of all the varied traffic of the lake, which the steamboat daily traverses throughout its entire length, and offers a busy and lively spectacle, with its noise, and crowd, and bustle of coming and going. How pretty, LA GO DI CO MO. 101 too, it is to see the little boat put off from some village on the shore at which the steamer does not stop, and dance along on the foaming waters until it reaches the side of the big ship, and a ladder is lowered to enable passengers to descend into the wavering bark ! The steamer has paused, but every one on board is in a state of restless bustle. "Asprtti, aspetti ! " "Partenza Signoril " " Corpo di Dacco I " we hear resounding from every side, and the next moment the machine begins to puff and pant, the paddle-wheels churn the waters into foam, and the steamer is off again. Meanwhile the little boat is being slowly rowed towards the shore, where a retired Ostcria peeps invitingly from a green nest of vines and olives ; a pair of sweet- hearts sit side by side in the boat, and their friends on board the steamer smilingly wave hats and handkerchiefs to them as they are rowed away, but they see only each other, and the light breeze car- ries their voices away out of hearing. Long after the boat with its freight of happy lovers has disappeared in the distance, we con- tinue to see spread out before us all the enchant- ment of an Italian shore. Villa after villa rises from the midst of dark green foliage, cool grottoes are seen laved by the blue waters, a little white chapel glitters on the heights, and the road turns sharply round the threatening angle of the rock. The most cele- brated of all the villas is the Villa d'Este, built by Cardinal Pompeo Gallio, who was born in the village of Cernobbio, hard by, and was the son of a poor fisherman. Here he passed his childhood ; and in later years, when he was robed in the purple, and oppressed by the cares which the purple brings with it, he frequently returned to these scenes, and built a palace where his father's hut once stood. Often of an evening the stately figure clad in scarlet silk would be seen pacing beneath the shade of the yew-tree alleys, followed at a respectful distance by his clerical attendants, chatting together in subdued tones ; perhaps weighty news may have arrived from Rome, from the Gcsit, or the Vatican ! But STREET IN TREMEZZO. 102 ITAL V. TAVERN IN LUGANO. Pompeo doubtless paused whenever the breeze dividing the branches of the trees opened a glimpse of the blue lake, and listened to the song of the fisherboy returning homeward, and thought of the days when he himself sat careless and light-hearted in a humble fishing-boat Now he sits in the bark of St. Peter — close to the helm, too!— and navi- LA GO DI CO MO. THE RAVINE OF THE PIOVERNA, NEAR BELLANO. gates a stormy sea, for Charles the Fifth has wearily resigned the Empire, and Luther's fiery words are penetrating to all ears. The echo of them sounds threateningly even in Italy ; and Rome and its future seem enveloped in a lurid cloud, even such a one as 104 ITALY. is rising above the ridge of mountains yonder. Pompeo pauses, looking darkly before him, whilst the priests whisper together and the waves murmur low. Centuries passed, and there., where once the Cardinal walked, dwelt the repudiated wife of a King of England, — the Princess Caroline with her suite. It was about this period — from 1815 to 1820, — that the present extensive pleasure-grounds were begun, a charming little theatre built, and numerous outbuildings for the accommodation of those attendants who had followed the princess in her exile. We soon have an instance of the cosmopolite-international character which marks the border of the Lake of Como ; all nations, all forms of riches and renown, meet here. As we pass beneath a castle crowning a high point of rock, one of the sailors shows a double range of dazzling teeth and pointing to the building exclaims, " Troubetzkoy, Principe Russo !" The next name comes much more trippingly off his tongue, as he exclaims eagerly " Villa Taglioni," at the same time raising himself on his toes, and perceiving in an instant from our nod, that we foreigners knew something of the fame of the great dancer. All these villas have something of a classical grace about them ; some trace still lingers on these shores of the spirit in which the ancients built their villas, and were wont to pass their lives in the country ; that is to say not with an idea of enjoying for a while a rude, rustic kind of ease, but surrounded by all external elegances to cultivate their minds amid the charms of nature. The Villa Pliniana, mentioned above, is truly the great ancestor of all these country seats ; and perhaps something of its influence may have insinuated itself even into the dwellings built by foreign pilgrims in the land, — albeit they know nothing of it ! The paths traverse marble terraces where stand Apollo and Aphrodite ; orange and cypress trees shade the gardens ; the flower- beds are rich with all imaginable hues from the glow of the rose to the purple depth of the violet ; the waters murmur softly, and we are overcome by an almost irresistible conviction that all the beauty and sweetness of the earth are concentrated on this soil. The finest of all the villas which the State of Como possesses, the " Rcgina del Lario" is the Villa Carlotta, not far from Cadenabbia. Nature and Art have combined to adorn this princely residence, which possesses amongst other treasures the bas-relief by Thorwaldsen, representing the Triumph of Alexander, and Canova's exquisite group of Cupid and Psyche. But the first rank, so far as landscape beauty is concerned, must be assigned to Bellaggio, situated at the point where the two arms of the lake divide ; its name is celebrated throughout the world. High above the village which advances close to the water's edge, rises the Villa Serbelloni, its gateway hidden by pines and cedars, and commanding a wide view in all directions of shining waters, houses in nests of verdure, and light barks on their way to Melzi. Here and there a valley opens, into whose depths you give a brief glance as the little boat glides past them, and out of which a foaming torrent dashes into the lake. " L'Orrido di Bellano" cries one of our rowers, pointing to the water which tumbles in silvery spray from the rocks, and forms the waterfall of the Pioverna, the finest on Como. The main stream which flows through the lake is the Adda, which is first perceived near Malgrate, opposite Lecco ; a large stone bridge that dates from the days of the Visconti unites the two shores, for the lake here is narrow, and the intercourse between the two banks of it lively and continuous. A splendid road leads from hence to Como, and a broad canal reaches as far as Milan, but our path does not lie in that direction ; the district of the three lakes still holds us for a time, and we cheerfully obey the invitation shouted to us as we stand on the steamboat at Menaggio, " Per Porlezza, signori ! Per il lago di Lugano ! " MENDICANT FRIAR IN THE BRIANZA. ft i'HE UNIVERSITY . F EUJNOB LAGO DI LUGANO. 105 LAGO DI LUGANO. URING my stay in these parts I am often reminded of the fairy tale of the King who had three fair daughters, whose wooers were constantly disputing as to which of the three carried off the palm of beauty. Finally the youngest is adjudged to be the fairest : for although she has neither the tall and princely stature of the eldest sister, nor the depth of intellect which distinguishes the second, she possesses nevertheless, a certain amiable grace, a winningness, a charm, that are all her own, and are more powerful than the gifts of the others. It is almost the same Avith those three marvellous lakes which lie close together on the southern slope of the Alps. Grand and majestic, pre-eminent even in its name, the Lago Maggiore stretches itself out before our eyes ; the Lake of Como is distinguished for its traditions of genius and art ; but the pearl of beauty belongs to that pale blue flood which nestles timidly between the two larger lakes, and is called the Lago di Lugano. Only a few villages on the lake belong to the kingdom of Italy ; the greater part of its shores is in Switzerland, and the mixture of different elements which is quite per- ceptible in its population, is expressed, also, in the features of the landscape. Intercourse with the inhabitants of this district leaves a most agreeable impression of their character : they have the pleasant vivacity belonging to even the meanest Italians, something, too, of their grandezza, but they are devoid of the serious drawback to these advantages, — that which is euphuistically termed the " dolcc far niente." The sterner spirit of the Swiss has influenced them with its energy and activity, and they seem to possess the best qualities of both races. As I have said, the charm of the landscape lies partly in this blending of io6 ITALY. different elements that complete each other. The beauty of the South is lavished on this lake, and yet its mountain peaks rise bare and jagged, and wherever a ravine opens, its rocks are as stern and grey as in some mountain lake in Switzerland ; orange and myrtle, silver olives and golden vines bloom here in luxuriant richness, but high above them we ROTUNDA OF HERCULES ON ISOLA BELLA. see great woods of misty pine-trees dark of hue ; — a northern forest under an Italian sky! Innumerable windings mark the course of the lake ; — such deviations as we see in the current of a rapid and impatient stream ; but this circumstance is the secret of the great variety in the scenery, since we are continually coming upon a new and unexpected view. Suddenly the road turns a sharp corner of the cliff down which a foaming stream is pouring, and all at once we find ourselves close to a gigantic bridge which spans the lake LA GO DI LUGANO. 107 in an oblique line. This bridge is at Bissone, is two thousand five hundred feet long, and offers a charming view from its centre, of the manifold branches of the lake. Indeed the singular formation of the narrow basin is best seen and understood from this point ; and not less strange than its visible configuration are the relative depths of its various parts. For example, whilst at Oria and other places, the water is nearly a thousand feet deep, — thus rivalling the depth of the Swiss lakes— here, where the bridge of Bissone leads across it to Melide, it measures but a few fathoms ! The grandiose bridge, designed by Lucchini, was opened to the public in 1847. The town of Lugano is perhaps the most interesting point on the lake. It is the capital of the Canton Ticino, and of Italian Switzerland. It was sold in the sixteenth century to the Confederation by the Duke of Milan ; and is at the present day a prosperous and thriving little town. Its climate possesses a large share of southern mildness, as the position is an admirably sheltered one ; commerce flourishes, arts and sciences are not neglected, and guests flock from all parts of the world to this smiling Paradise. The stranger who intends to linger a few days in Lugano, generally takes up his quarters at the Hotel du Pare, which is really an ideal hotel with delightful io8 ITALY. gardens at the free disposition of visitors, where you may feel as entirely at home as though all the beauty that surrounds you were your own, and with a broad stone terrace looking down upon the blue waters with Monte San Salvatore mirrored in them. At a very short distance from the hotel is the church Degli Angcli, with the famous fresco by Bernardino Luini, — a noble and touching representation of the Crucifixion. This is undoubtedly the most precious possession that the town can boast of; but we find traces everywhere of artistic culture, and many of the neighbouring villas built by rich strangers, contain collections of good modern pictures. The most agreeable promenade by the margin of the lake is the quay, where on market-days you may see interesting specimens of the popular life and manners : a motley throng of country folks in gay- coloured national costume, mountaineers and boatmen, Swiss and Italians, all mingled together and all chattering, bargaining, greeting — or cursing, as the case may be ! Amongst the strangers to whom Lugano has given hospitality, are many distinguished men, who have sought repose and refuge here from the storms of active life. Mazzini dwelt for years in a villa near Lugano, on foreign soil, but close to the mother country, whose greatness and unity were the aim and object of his life. Whosoever has met him in his solitary walks here, must retain an ineffaceable impression of his simple, noble dignity of aspect : — an impression much at variance with the general (and erroneous) notions entertained by strangers about this great man. But Time has been more just to him. He strove not for his own glory but the glory of his nation, and remained magnanimous and poor, virtuous and faithful, to his last hour. An almost antique temperance and moderation of spirit, was the keynote of his character ; and this was acknowledged after his death by the general voice not only of Italy, but of Europe, and is confirmed by the citizens of Lugano among whom he lived. His^ outward aspect had something of old-fashioned aristocracy. He wore a high black cravat framing his delicately cut face, that was expressive of benevolent mildness ; men took off" their hats as he passed, children smiled at him confidingly, and the poor knew him for their most untiring friend. Such was Mazzini ! The grave in which he lies at Pisa (where he passed the last days of his life) gave him the only gifts he ever received from his country — a few handfuls of his mother earth. LAGO MAGGIORE. HE Lago Maggiore stretches before us in all its imposing extent; over thirty miles long, and concealing tremendous depths beneath its waters. Its northern shores touch the rugged mountains of Switzerland, Avhere the Simplon road comes down, and snowy peaks are seen rising above the fir woods ; but as its blue waves stream onward towards the sultry plains of Lombardy the tints grow richer, the air clearer, and the fertility of the South displays itself in unchecked luxuriance. The banks are thickly inhabited ; here is a humble cottage on the slope of the hill ; yonder a splendid modern palace adorned with every elegance : there again, are some remains that recall to us the times of the Romans who built here temples to their gods and villas for their luxurious rich. Nature too has built here with wild volcanic forces ; the broken chain of rocks which crowns the shore not far from Pallanza is continued under the blue depths of the lake, and wherever a peak rises above the surface it forms THE ' ■ ■ OF ■■• LA GO MA GGIORE. 109 one of those marvellous islands which lie like enchanted gardens in the midst of the waters. The little towns dotted along the edge of the lake have an air of old-fashioned simplicity ; — there is a tiny port with dark-coloured boats, a broad stone quay, the houses have open arcades in front of them, and attractive-looking gardens ; the streets are steep and narrow, and the heights above are crowned with crumbling ruins. The busiest moment of the day is that when the steamer stops at the landing-place, and the inhabitants crowd round the newly arrived strangers. At other times only the heavy- laden diligence passes by, or the vetturino with jingling bells to his horses. The town- hall, the post-house, and so forth, are the principal buildings in every little town, and their occupants the most important personages ; the population is lively, good-natured, and industrious. Such is the aspect of the hamlets and townlets on Lago Maggiore, — Pallanza and Angera, Locarno, and Canobbia. In Pallanza we took a boat and were rowed across to the I sole Borromee. Two of these, San Giovanni and the I sola dei Pescatori are poor and unadorned, and inhabited only by fishermen and their families. One narrow street of low houses runs through the island ; fishing-boats with their nets are moored to massive piles ; half-naked children play about in the soft sand, and of an evening you may hear the fishermen singing an ancient song whose tune is marked by primitive simplicity as he sails homeward before the light breeze. But in strong contrast with this idyllic poverty is the formal stateliness of the Isola Bella, which rises in a series of terraces from the blue waters. The gardens which now adorn it were laid out in the seventeenth century by Count Vitaliano Borromeo, who created shady grottos and leafy alleys on the rocky islet. The earth in which the trees were planted was brought hither in boats from the mainland, and now after two centuries have passed, the vegetation has reached a high degree of luxuriance, and the barren rocks are transformed into a fairy-like garden. Near to the shore on the lowest terrace, is a broad walk all overshadowed by orange and pomegranate trees, citron, and myrtle, whose stems have attained a gigantic thickness, and amidst which wild roses bloom and singing birds make their sheltered homes. This walk leads to a shrubbery of laurels ; and here, more than seventy years ago, a young man paced, lost in ambitious dreams, and cut upon the bark of a laurel tree, the one word — ' battaglia' ; the man was Napoleon Bonaparte, and the time a few days before the battle of Marengo ! Above there, in the deserted palace that turns its front towards the Simplon, we find yet other traces of the great conqueror : the bed is shown on which Napoleon slept, and which has been used by no one since that time. But with the pride in harbouring so great a guest, was mingled a con- siderable dose of fear and uneasiness : and travellers who visited the Borromean Islands in 1803, narrate how the greater part of the costly pictures and statues were removed from the palace, and carried safely away " out of the clutches of the art-loving (!) French." The whole palace is built in a barocco style according to the taste of the day when it was designed, and reminds us in its old-fashioned formality and stiffness, of the French chateaux of the period. The so-called throne-room is really splendid ; and even the other saloons with their marble pavements and columns, and their white statues glimmering out of dim recesses, have something stately and princely about them, — albeit the stateliness smacks of a time that is no more. Much less artificial, and therefore much more attractive is the Isola Madre, whither we proceed in a light bark one brilliant morning. The soft wind blows the perfume of the blooming gardens into our faces ; silver fishes leap out of the waters ; the whole enchant- ment of the morning freshness seems to pervade the air. The Isola Madre is the largest I IO ITALY. of the Borromean Islands. All is still and solitary here ; only a castellan who keeps watch and ward over the gardens and the uninhabited palazzo, reigns over the islands, and opens the gate to us as we mount the tall flight of steps. The gardens of this island offer specimens of the vegetation of every zone ; one portion is set apart for tall northern pines and firs, whilst on the opposite side flourish palm-trees and cedars, sugar-canes and tea-plants. At the southern extremity of the lake is Sesto Calende where the Ticino flows out of it ; but the most important town in this part of the lake is Arona, a cheerful, prosperous little place, where commerce and traffic flourish, and are daily flourishing more and more. There are one or two good frescos in its churches, but undoubtedly its chief ' lion ' is the colossal statue of the Saint whose home was Arona. Upon a lofty hill rises a pedestal formed of blocks of granite, and nearly fifty feet high; upon this stands the statue of St. Charles Borromeo, Archbishop of Milan, and one of the most zealous champions of ecclesiastical supremacy. The monument, which was completed in the seventeenth century, and cost more than a million of francs, was erected out of the private means of the Borromeo family and the voluntary contributions of the inhabitants of the district. As we are told, the design was made by Cerano and the execution was confided to Falconi and Zanella, who gave to the statue its present aspect. The figure of the saint is about seventy feet high ; he has one hand stretched out in blessing over the town where he was born ; his head is bare, and in his other hand he holds the book of Eternal Truth. His features bear the impress of that deep and enthusiastic earnestness which marked his whole life. His battle-cry was the power of the Church, but it did not make him deaf to the voice of humanity ; for this man climbed up to the rugged mountain villages in order to comfort the poor and needy, and during the terrible plague that devastated Milan, he was to be found everywhere by the bedsides of the sick and dying. The statue is impressive by reason rather of its colossal proportions than of its artistic value ; but still it never fails to produce a powerful impression. On the eminence that rises above it, stand the ruins of the feudal castle where San Carlo was cradled ; the massive contours of the figure stand out darkly against the pale evening sky, and even at a great distance from Arona we can still perceive the gigantic hand extended in benediction. Farther and farther in the dis- tance the great statue dwindles and finally disappears. The Present holds no such figures : it is one of the giants of old days ! MONCALIERI, NEAR TURIN. TURIN. E are on the banks of the Po. From the balustrade outside the Capuchin Monastery we look clown upon the wide-spreading city with its vast piazzas, rectangular streets, and great domes rising out of a sea of reddish, tiled roofs. Then come verdant gardens, and far in the background the blue chain of the Alps with their snowy summits. High above all the others tower Monte Rosa and Monte Viso, and through the gaps of the jagged outposts of the Alps, you get glimpses, here and there, of savage Savoyard vallies. The air which blows from thence is sharp and keen ; it has no touch of southern softness in its breath, but rather the stern vigour which is expressed in the material aspect of the city : — active energy overpowering dreamy fancy. This is the old valiant home of the Sards who have made Italy free and united ; this was for centuries the capital of little Piedmont, upon whose energy the mother country staked her best hopes ; this is the birthplace of the great statesman Cavour. Although Turin was already, in the time of the Romans, a strongly fortified place (as may be proved by the plan and disposition of its streets to this day) yet its chief historical import- ance dates only from the eleventh century, when it came into the possession of the House of Savoy, — to which it belongs up to the present time. Indeed there are very few cities which are at once so true to dynastic ties and traditions, and so full of intense patriotism for the great mother country. We naturally find the traces of the House of Savoy in I I 2 ITALY. FOUNTAIN IN THE GIARDINO REALE. every palace and monument throughout Turin ; and its influence is felt everywhere. The names of Amadeo and Emanuele, of Philibert and Carlo Alberto, meet us at every step ; amidst these eighteenth century buildings we seem to see Prince Eugene striding along as when he saved the town from the French by one of his victories. And however much TURIN. i'3 modern hands may have modified the old forms, they cannot efface their impressions. It is true that Turin does not possess the charm of many another southern city, yet neverthe- less she stirs our sympathies profoundly, and we feel for her — if not admiring enthusiasm, yet — heartfelt esteem' and respect. The most important streets in Turin are the Via del Po, Via di Roma, and Dora Grossa, — a remnant of the old Roman Road which led from hence to the mountains : MONTE DEI CAPPUCCINI. these streets all converge to the Piazza Castello, a huge square space on which stands the Palazzo Madama, and near to which are the chief public buildings. The Palazzo Madama is a strange looking edifice, less like an elegant palace than a gloomy fortress ; and is overgrown with ivy. We wander round its dark walls, whose towers look desolate enough for birds of prey to build in, until we come to the facade opposite to the Via Dora Grossa, when the picture changes on a sudden. This facade was designed by Juvara and built with lavish costliness, and the rude fortress that frowns on three sides of the building here is turned all at once into a princely castle displaying all the pomp of the eighteenth century. The royal palace also, with its splendid gardens, is approached from the Piazza di Castello. In addition to the splendid saloons and dwelling rooms, most of them decorated with paintings on subjects relating to the history of Piedmont, the palace contains, moreover, a famous armoury — perhaps the finest collection in Europe. In addition to a rich variety of arms of general historic value, it contains many curiosities of more personal interest : for instance the armour of Prince Eugene, the sword used by Napoleon at Marengo, and the banner which the papal troops lost at Castelfidardo. As Q ii 4 ITALY. might have been expected, the more recent events which have culminated in the resusci- tation of Italy, have left distinct traces on the aspect of Turin ; for nowhere can you read contemporary history in the public streets, so clearly as in Italy, and whosoever has fought with a bold hand or a dauntless brain for " la Patria " may be sure of the recognition of a ROAD TO THE CHURCH OF SUPERGA. public monument. " GV Italiani d'ogni Provincia" is inscribed on the monument to Vincenzo Gioberti, erected in i860; although the means by which Gioberti endeavoured to attain his country's independence were singularly ill-chosen, inasmuch as he hoped to gain that end by the assistance of the Papacy ! But the Italians forgave their great man this radical error, and remembered only that the aim and object of his life was " L Pndipen- denza a" Italia." TURIN. "5 Despite the removal of the capital southward, the streets of Turin are still very lively and full of traffic. The houses are lofty, with elegant balconies ; and the ground-floor is generally shaded by open arcades containing handsome shops. In the narrower streets rOR'JW PALATINA, you frequently come upon interesting glimpses of old-fashioned court-yards overgrown with creeping plants ; at the street corners you find kiosgnes after the Paris fashion, filled with newspapers and caricatures from all parts of the world. A motley population of passers by is mirrored in the splendid plate glass of the shop fronts, and yonder, where you see a huge beehive stuck up over the door as a sign, is the savings-bank. Q 2 n6 ITAL 1 \ On Sundays the churches are well filled ; La Gran Madre di Dio and La Consolata, and above all the cathedral in which the young Rousseau, once upon a time made profes- sion of the catholic faith. At three o'clock one Sunday afternoon Ave strolled into the cathedral just as a troop of children had assembled for religious instruction. They were all seated on low benches arranged in a hollow square, the boys on one side and the girls on the other. The lessons had not yet begun when we entered, and the young rascals were chattering at the full pitch of their lungs as energetically as though they had to settle the politics of the nation ; only two out of the whole number seemed at all shocked at this profane levity, and looked round triumphantly at the delinquents whenever an ecclesiastic chanced to pass by, and to hiss out an angry " sh — sh — sh ! " to the noisy crowd. Finally came the teacher in his cope and stole, stepped, catechism in hand, into the centre of the square, and began to examine the children. The very first boy gave him a wrong answer, and the priest took him by the ear to lead him off to the dunce's stool ; but the little fellow began hotly to argue the point, and to maintain that the matter was as he had stated it. It was impossible to permit himself to be blamed publicly ! When, however, his powers of argument failed to justify him, he despairingly appealed to the compassion of a higher tribunal : " Misericordia di Dio /" he roared out as he sank down sobbing on to the seat of ignominy. The little girls showed a charming array of pretty childish faces ; some had their chins propped thoughtfully on their hands, others let their dark eyes stray abstractedly in all directions, the elder children — girls of from twelve to fourteen years old — wore black veils and fluttered their fans nervously at the difficult questions. I shall not easily forget the indignant glance which the tallest of them threw after the priest who, when she had failed to answer three successive questions, was ungallant enough to shrug his shoulders contemptuously at her ignorance. After the catechism was over, a prayer was said. The children fell lightly on their knees like a flock of pigeons alighting on a field, and when the prayer was over, they rose again like a flock of birds fluttering, chirping, and chattering, and swarmed out through the great doors of the Duomo. Now all. is still again in the cool dim space, and the monument to those members of the house of Savoy who are buried in the Capella del Sudario, stands silent and solemn before us. The kings are buried in the Superga, a solitary church on an eminence, a few miles from Turin, commanding a wide view over the surrounding country. It dates from the stormy times when hostile armies were assembled under the walls of Turin. Victor Amadeus vowed to build a church if little Piedmont were but saved ; he kept his vow, and J u vara was the architect of the votive temple. Who could guess, then, that within a hundred and seventy years the capital of the Savoyard Kings would be called — Rome ! FOUNTAIN IN THE ACQUA SOLA. GENOA. E stand here in presence of a Princess enthroned in robes of marble whiteness, whose forehead nature has wreathed with laurel and myrtle and decked her breast with roses, to whom belonged the great race of Doria, and whose title is " La Sufterba." Much of her glory has departed, truly; but the last passion that dies in a proud nature is pride, and' her pride Genoa has preserved to the present hour ! She has lost her world-wide power, but she cannot be dethroned from the supremacy of her great past ; the diadem of mountains that crowns her head no victor can take from her, nor the daily homage of the blue seas that murmuring kiss her feet ; — she is to-day, as she was centuries ago, La Superba ! The aspect of her material and external life is certainly much changed since Genoa lost her independent sovereignty, and was incorporated with the little kingdom of Sardinia. Civic industry replaces the far-reaching plans of the Doges ; the pomp of i iS ITALY. power has ceased ; the nerves and sinews of public life in Genoa now are commercial, and not political interests. Nevertheless, although the sphere of their activity was narrowed, yet the energy, acuteness, and ambition of the Genoese soon found new aims to strive for ; and they bent all the strength, both of their defects and their qualities, to the effort to shine — to advance — to preponderate ! They had not forgotten that their symbol of old was the griffin — the mythic creature that combines sharp claws with soaring pinions. Every bold enterprise which the unquiet spirit of the times brought to light was keenly followed and observed in Genoa ; every political idea which seemed to serve the great- ness and glory of Italy made the blood of the old "Superba" course more quickly through her veins, and her prudence never quenched her enthusiasm. Nowhere was " Italia Una ' greeted with heartier acclamations ; nowhere was Garibaldi's hymn sung with more exult- ing delight than on the strand where Andrea Doria's palace is mirrored in the waves. It is true that with all her wonderful beauty certain parts of Genoa convey an impression of decay, and of having seen better days : but you feel at once that new and vigorous life is circulating through her marble limbs, and that it may be reserved for her alone of all the splendid cities which Italy possessed in the middle ages, to fulfil the fable of the Phcenix. The statue of her great Columbus stands at the gates of the town like a silent promise for the Future. The view of Genoa from the sea is indescribingly striking. The bay in which the town lies presents no soft curving semi-circle, but is a deep jagged notch made by the sea in the rocky shore, from whose edge the tall mansions and palaces rise, terrace after teraace, up the steep slope of the mountain, which towers gigantic behind the town. Nature has raised a fortress here which offers a terrible resistance to any possible attack ; and man has added still more threatening fortifications to her handiwork. He has built out great stone piers into the sea — the Molo Vecchio and Molo Nuovo — near to which stands the lighthouse, and he has planted batteries upon the rugged heights ; but the beauty of the scene is such that even these frowning forts cannot destroy it ; they seem to harmonize with the bare rocks above them, and to add to the soft charm of the lower landscape, a character of self-sufficing strength that is very imposing. In the harbour there stretches a perfect forest of masts bearing flags of all countries ; here are two formidable ironclads of the Royal Navy ; yonder is a merchantman from America, and a sailing vessel from the Indies. You hear a babel of all languages, and see little barks and row-boats threading their way amidst the larger craft. There are two thousand of these small boats in the harbour of Genoa. The immense traffic of the port, and the restless vivacity of Southern life are here brought visibly before our eyes with a movement and noise, a never-ending variety of groups and figures, that really defy description. On the broad stone quay that runs along by the water's edge, and from whence flights of steps lead down at intervals, are crowds of boatmen and facchini (por- ters), with bare breasts and sunburnt faces ; poor, patched, ragged, and dusty, yet bearing many of them traces of a high type of manly beauty. Half-naked urchins play and clamber about on the edge of the quay ; there goes a train of sober-paced mules, heavily laden with sacks of grain ; yonder a couple of lads are fishing, perched astride upon a floating barrel ; here comes a black visaged fellow, unlading coals from a little collier. " Un batello, Signore ! un batello ! " cries a boatman, unloosing his little craft from the iron ring to which she is made fast. We step in, and are steered with wonderful swiftness and accuracy through a labyrinth of floating walls. It is only by thus coming close to their huge flanks that one realizes what gigantic bodies these big ships are. Who knows SALITA SAN TAOLO, GENOA. OF THE UlflVERsrry o? -m.„^ GENOA. 119 what bottom the anchor last rested in, which they have cast here ? — what rocks may have threatened their massive sides ? — how many hundred lives may one day sink to destruction within one of these huge bulks ? The mystery of the great deep, and the bold adven- turousness of those who first ploughed its surface, strike our imaginations forcibly here. Many of the ships bear a statue of Columbus at the prow, others an image of the Madonna, others again the lion-like bust of Garibaldi. On all sides they are lading or unlading, PORTA VECCHIA DELLA LANTERNA. hammering cases or weighing bales. One begins to have some conception of the immense scale on which goods that we are accustomed to see in minute quantities are imported or exported, and also to realize the yawning gulf that divides wealth from poverty ; for upon these very bales and sacks worth millions, the poor facchini sleep, worn out with their daily toil, and awake to look longingly at the galley fire on board the ship yonder, where they are cooking polenta, or at the casks of sweet wine that are being sent off to foreign shores. Early and late, summer and winter, there is nothing for the facchini but toil and poverty; yet poor as they are they still possess one thing — a home, a country. How much more to be pitied are those emigrants upon the great ship that sails to-day for the Brazils ! 1 20 ITAL Y. Thus we wind our way among a thousand different objects, until we reach the limit of the harbour which the two great moles embrace in a crescent-shaped line, and now the throng begins to diminish. The dazzlingly white lighthouse shines in the sunlight, the waves foam around huge blocks of stone, and at length we are out in the open sea. With what a different motion our bark now rocks and dances on the water ! The difference between the sea here, and inside the harbour, is that between the pulse that beats in EVENING AT THE MOLE. freedom, or in a prison ! We meet few boats ; a rich merchant propelled by eight stout rowers, darts swiftly past us on his way to meet his ship that has just been signalled from the port : further away lies a great steamer newly arrived from the Levant and under- going quarantine, with the clothes of the crew fluttering from the rigging in the fresh, purifying breeze. We are already a good distance from Genoa, and the dolphins are playing and leaping all around us, when we catch sight of something rising and falling and rocking strangely ahead, and hear a broken sound of bells. On nearing this curious object, we find it to be a sound-signal, to warn mariners off some dangerous rocks. A kind of raft painted red, is anchored here, and in a pyramid erected on it hangs a colossal bell. The furious haste with which the invisible hand of the storm sounds this bell, the rage of the roaring waters that strive to drown its voice, the frenzied violence with which GENOA. 1 2 r the huge beams seem as though they would tear themselves free from the chains that hold them together, — all this has something weird and terrible in it. How wild and ghostly must this floating bell sound in a tempestuous winter's night ! The port of Genoa is separated from the town by a long sort of colonnade, or pier, which forms one of the pleasantest promenades imaginable ; and underneath which, in vaulted chambers, there are enormous magazines and storehouses. At every hundred MARKET IN THE PIAZZA DI PESCHERIA. yards or so, a gate opens from the port to the town ; iron tramways cross each other in all directions, to facilitate the transport of heavy loads, hundreds of little carts stand ready, drawn by mules and donkeys which fill the air with their brayings; they are often harnessed three or four nose to tail, for the streets are too narrow to permit of their going abreast, and they are generally furnished with a set of bells that tinkle cheerfully as the animals clatter over the pavement. As soon as we leave the neighbourhood of the port the whole aspect of the town is altered : it has a different physiognomy and a different expression. Instead of the ceaseless, almost slavish toil of the porters and boatmen, we find in the principal streets an air of easy and pleasant bustle and occupation. The maritime element has disappeared, and we are on dry — nay mountainous — land. The narrow lanes climbing the heights R 12 2 ITALY. between rows of lofty houses, paved with bricks, and only practicable for the sure feet of mules and donkeys, give the street commerce of Genoa a peculiar stamp, and offer a series of striking pictures which Rome or V enice could not surpass. I mounted up the Salita San Paolo ; the people were washing and cooking in the open air ; under a doorway sat a pedlar-woman chattering to a swarm of women with their babies in their arms. An Abbate passed by with a grave and laborious step, and the women looked after him curiously ; I fancied he must be some great dignitary, and asked who he was. " / don't know," answered the pedlar-woman, shrugging her shoulders with an air of sovereign disdain and indifference : " Non lo so ! U11 prete, — un fana- tico!" The great centre of trade is in the immediate neighbourhood of the Loggia dei Banchi, where the Exchange is, and where the Strada degli Orefici (Street of the Goldsmiths,) begins. Here you see the deli- cate gold and silver fila- gree work for which Genoa is famous, spread out in profusion, for the most part on a back- ground of blue velvet which shows it off to great advantage. But this is a species of wealth created by industry : Genoa is not lacking in another sort of riches which have been the inheritance of the great princely families for generations, and are petrified into marble palaces, or bloom in enchanting gardens. We find such in the Via Balbi, the Strada Nuova, Strada Nuovissima, and Via Carlo Felice, which are the resort of the fashionable world ; and when we enquire who are the occupants of the elegant equipages that roll past, every name that is told us, is, as it were, a fragment of history. There stands the Palazzo Ducale in which the Doge once dwelt ; the magnificent Palazzo del Municipio formerly belonged to the Dorias ; then come the Spinola, Pallavicini, Durazzo, Balbi, — one more splendid than the other. In these Genoese palaces the court-yards are usually very handsome; they are invariably high above the level of the streets, and are approached by a broad flight of marble steps. The court-yard is surrounded by a colonnade, also of white marble, is hand- VIA SAN LUCA, GENOA. OF THE GENOA. 123 BEFORE THE CONFESSIONAL IN SAN LORENZO. somely paved, and has a fountain in the middle, round which orange-trees and oleanders are planted. From hence the main staircase leads up to the reception-rooms ; the banisters are of gilt bronze, and there is generally a huge hanging lamp, which is lighted R 2 I2 4 ITALY. at dusk. The state rooms are magnificent, with folding doors of the costliest woods, and their walls hung with masterpieces of art. A festa in these halls, when they are filled by crowds of the beautiful Genoese ladies, with the eloquent fan in their hands, the gold arrow in their hair, and whole love-stories in their dark eyes, must be an enchanting spectacle. The building whose entrance is guarded by two stone lions, is the University, the court-yard of which is reckoned one of the finest in Genoa. It was formerly the College of the Jesuits, and was built almost entirely by a member of the Order, who belonged to the rich and noble Genoese family of Balbi. Here comes a swarm of students flooding the wide staircase, ascending with a lagging step, descending with a swift one. The walls are adorned with numerous stone tablets which record some memorable date, and with the statues of learned men, and allegorical representations of various virtues, which are probably only to be found thus in effigy among the students ! Every wall and pillar is scribbled over with numerous inscriptions ; for the demonstrative tendency which charac- terizes Italians in general, appears to reach its climax among the Academic Youth. Evviva Garibaldi, Re del la Repubblica ! " was scrawled in long letters on one marble- slab ; and for ten whole years no one had found time, — or thought it worth while, — to efface this expression of political opinion. Others were more subjective, and contented themselves with a " lungo addio," before they departed. It was striking to see several inscriptions in English : " Farewell for ever ! " was to be read in more than one place. The Palazzo Brignole-Sale is renowned for its picture gallery ; but its exterior is remarkable enough to attract attention, for it is of a glowing red colour, and looks, some- times, in the sunset light, as if the whole building were on fire ! The populace call it the Palazzo Rosso. The most remarkable of the many churches which Genoa possesses are perhaps Santa Maria di Carignano, and the Santissima Annunziata : — the first for the fine view to be had from its cupola, the second for the wonderful richness of its internal decorations. The roof is covered with gold, even to the capitals of the white marble columns ; and this has a wonderful effect when the light streams in through the purple curtains that screen the windows in the dome. This church is not usually opened until four o'clock in the afternoon, but even then it is generally silent and deserted, and devoid of that hum and movement which destroy the solemnity of most Italian churches. I had the wide nave almost to myself one afternoon : there was only a monk who had taken refuge there from the glare of the hot street, and was pacing up and down reading his breviary, and a young girl with a white veil on her head, kneeling in front of an empty confessional box and waiting for the priest. On the very steps of the confessional lay a beggar-boy with an exquisite Raphaelesque face, fast asleep. From the Annunziata the way lies through the most fashionable streets to the Fontane Amorosc, where the ascent begins to the Acqua Sola, the most favourite promenade in Genoa. The plateau on which these gardens are laid out is nearly one hundred and fifty feet above the sea, so that you have a limitless view beyond the roofs of the town and its rocky bastions, over the blue waters. I descended from the Acqua Sola to the sea-level again, by stony and deserted paths where chance was my only guide. A threatening storm was gathering in the heavens as I came out from these winding ways in the immediate neighbourhood of the Palazzo Doria. The mass of white houses was relieved in marble pallor against the black clouds swiftly rolling up behind it ; and now for the first time I realized the bold character of the physiognomy of the town, and the cor- rectness of her appellation, " La Superba," as she stood there majestic and defiant, with GENOA. 125 HARBOUR OF GENOA. the angry sea rolling dark foam-crested waves at her feet ! I hastened down a steep street by the Muro dei Zingari (Gipsies' Wall), which leads through a western suburb of the town, but the stormy wind blew clouds of dust in my face with such violence that at length I was fain to take refuge in a dirty little ostcria which I found by the road-side. 126 ITAL Y. Here, under a vine-covered porch in front of the house, a party of grimy-visaged fellows, workmen employed in the arsenal, were sitting drinking ; for it was Saturday evening, and the wages had just been paid. They clinked their glasses, and quarrelled, and sang, and added a most diabolical riot to the noise of the howling wind. However one must allow that they displayed the merits which are in general characteristic of the Italian workmen : — sobriety and frugality. It is only the noise that is greater with them, not the consump- tion ; for three Italians will make a greater row over one poor bottle of wine, than would thirty Englishmen or Germans in emptying a barrel ! Their enjoyment consists in the companionship, the chatter, the discussion, the noise ; and the circumstance that they drink a "biccJiicr di vi;io' : at the same time, is merely an adjunct — a means, not an end. It is therefore neither so unpleasant nor so dangerous to mix with them as it seems from a distance ; on the contrary, the stranger will be courteously and willingly received, room will be made for him, and care taken to avoid saying anything that might offend him ; and if he is able to converse in Italian with tolerable fluency he will be welcomed with pleasure. Such, at least, are the impressions I brought away with me from the tavern by the Muro del Zingari. There are yet two points of interest which every traveller in Genoa visits, and whither we should like to accompany the reader before leaving the town. The first of these is the noble cemetery, a long parallelogram of marble arcades shaded by dark cypresses. There is always a certain melancholy charm to one who is a traveller in foreign lands, in leaving the busy haunts of men now and then, for consecrated spots like this, where only our common humanity is appealed to, and we are moved by feelings far above any passing antipathy that may arise towards foreign customs and people. How much beauty, how much happiness, and how much suffering lie at rest here in the Campo Santo of Genoa ! One mi^ht wander for hours in its marble cloisters and muse on the history of the unknown dead. The last, and most attractive pilgrimage for all foreign visitors to Genoa, is the Villa Pallavicini, close to Pegli. Nature has beautified the spot so lavishly that one might willingly dispense with the artificial additions on which the owner has spent millions. For, although it is true that much art has been expended in laying out the park, and lead- ing you from one surprise to another, yet the real charm of this delightful domain does not lie in such aids ; — the blue sea, of whose limitless extent you get a glimpse from marble terraces whenever a soft breeze parts the branches of the tall camellias, the night- ingales that sing all day, the flowers that fill the air with perfume, — these are the real treasures of the Villa Pallavicini ! And in presence of these the artificial mediaeval ruins, the kiosques, and grottos, inevitably sink into triviality; but at the same time the generosity and public spirit which the princely owner displays in allowing strangers free access to his Villa, cannot be too highly prized, or too warmly acknowledged. In this connection I would record a noteworthy contrast between people of the Latin and northern races, which I observed here : the latter, namely, turn towards the sea and the view, the former crowd noisily and eagerly through the narrow doorway of the "cabane rustiquc ;" in the one, silent admiration is the chief sentiment, in the other, pure curiosity. The majority of the company, on the occasion when I visited the Villa Pallavicini, happened to be French people ; and as they were very free in expressing their sentiments, I enjoyed some amus- ing scenes. "A/i, quel sdjour de paix et d'innocence /" cried a hollow-eyed elderly gentle- man, who entered the pretty Swiss Cottage with a very showily-dressed lady on his arm. One stout matron pinched all the flower-buds with her fingers, and discovered that the GENOA. 127 " Italian flowers" were miles behind the French. " Ticns, nos boutons sont bcancoup plus avancfs," said she complacently to her son, a pert youth, who certainly looked like a very forward bud indeed ! Every minute one heard an exclamation — " charmant, ravissatif, gracieux, majestuetix" etc., etc. In short it was an excessively comic spectacle, and sent us back to Genoa in a very cheerful humour, there to dream away one more day. Beautiful cities never seem more beautiful than at the moment when we are obliged to leave them ! The sky and the sea and the marble palaces were bathed in a flood of light, as we took our last look at Genoa ; and we acknowledged that, although the whisper of a sigh may be heard in the word now-a-days, yet she is still worthy of the proud epithet she bore of old ; — La Superba ! SCENE ON THE SHORE. ON THE RIVIERA DI PONENTE. HE little hamlet of Pegli, close to the Villa Pallavicini, lies on the Riviera di Ponente. From Genoa to Nice stretches this wonderful road, to which, perhaps, no coast scenery in the world is comparable for beauty, along the edge of the changing sea. Every village has its own special distinction : in this one a Roman Emperor was born : in that one a Pope : a third boasts of its palm-trees, and another of a famous battle that was fought near it in old days. Until quite lately the only way to travel from Genoa to Nice was along this high road. Heavily laden diligences and swift vctturini crossed each other all day long with much jingling and rumbling and cracking of whips, and the tired traveller was glad to arrive at his halting place for the night in Loano or Albegna. But now all this is changed : the railway train goes from Genoa to Nice in seven hours, passing through more than seventy tunnels on its way, and sometimes so close to the sea that the foam of the waves is thrown on to the swift wheels. But it must be owned that we lose in beauty what we gain in speed. From Genoa as far as Savona the coast is little varied. In nearly every considerable place there are great shipbuilding yards, where hundreds of busy hands are hammering ; and on more than one occasion we counted thirty vessels lying close together. Lower down on the sandy shore that the waves had left smooth and moist, we saw bands of fishermen, ten or twelve together, hauling in their nets, whose place was marked by a red barrel floating at some distance on the sea, whilst others were OF THE OF n ON THE RIVIERA DI PONENTE. 1 29 manning a little sailing boat and putting off to fish. They were all bare-legged to the knee, and the boatmen wore scarlet Phrygian caps. Presently a donkey driver passed by, tramping barefooted through the soft sand, and singing lustily as he went ; besides his laden beast he had charge of a rough cart drawn by a mule, and my curiosity was excited by an inscription in chalk on the side of the cart. I examined it and found it to consist of the singular motto, " Morte ai Stupidi ! " — " Death to the Stupid ! " Certainly a singular device for a donkey driver. The little villages on the shore (or sometimes perched half-way up a high cliff) are NEAR BORDIGHERA. enchanting, half hidden among gardens and vine-trellises, fig trees and olives. In almost every garden there grows a gigantic species of hemp, which shoots up to the height of the first floor windows, and looks like some huge sea-weed, and the aloe shows its stift sharp leaves in every crevice of the rock where there is room for a handful of soil. One striking feature of the railway journey along the coast, is the frequency with which the tunnels succeed each other. The contrast between looking out at the bound- less sea one instant, and being plunged into utter darkness the next, is more strange than agreeable ; light and darkness succeed each other with absolute suddenness and lightning speed, and a ray of sunshine strikes you with its dazzling brightness, and is then withdrawn, just like a glittering dagger which some daemon or genii should keep rapidly sheathing and unsheathing. Sometimes, however, we come to a long stretch of open ground, from whence we can contemplate the wondrous play of colour in the Protean sea. Now, when the horizon of the sky is of a pale yellow tint, the waves below it are dark as blue polished steel ; again, when gloomy clouds are gathered in the heavens and pile s 130 ITALY themselves up threateningly, the waters turn livid, and roll in pale green billows crested with curdling foam ; anon the whole expanse shimmers into a soft silvery grey, then comes the rosy hue of evening, and at last the glorious gold and purple of the sunset pours itself upon the flood. But these changes are not to be seen every day : sometimes months OBELISK IN VILLA PALLAVICINI. pass, during which a blue cloudless sky is stretched clear and dazzling above the equally blue Mediterranean for as far as the eye can reach. The narrow strip of land that lies between the sea and the mountains, and is all covered with dark rocks and green olives, is itself of such a nature as to make the position of the towns and villages all along it peculiarly picturesque. The little place on the hill yonder, surrounded by ancient walls, is Finale ; then comes Oneglia, where Andrea \ OF THE ON THE RIVIERA DI PONENTE. Doria was born, and then the little town of Porto Maurizio, celebrated for its harbour. At a window looking on to the sea sits a young mother singing, spindle in hand, with the sunset light upon her face, whilst her brown-skinned, black-haired little ones are playing under the orange trees in the garden. Even in the prosaic railway stations, what life and PROCESSION. movement, what charming figures ! It is a pity to rush through such scenes in an express train ; but really the railway is becoming master of the whole road, and it is sur- prising to find what numbers of persons, even of quite the lower orders, have taken to using it. The notion that " time is money " seems to have taken root even among the Italians. In the coupe where we sat, we had a fellow-traveller who amused us all mightily. He was a stout priest from the French side of the frontier, just started on a holiday trip, and looking the very ideal of good humoured jollity. At every station at which the train stopped his mouth widened into a broad grin as he jumped out hastily "to s 2 132 ITALY. enquire how long we were to halt there." The answer was usually " Cinque minuti whereupon he would hurry off to the buffet to have his flask filled with red wine of the country. This flask was regularly found to be empty by the time we reached the next station, when the whole manoeuvre was accurately repeated. The first of the three famous places of resort for invalids which we come to on the Riviera di Ponente, is San Remo, a little town of nearly twelve thousand inhabitants. It owes the shelter it enjoys from harsh winds to the rocky promontories which shut in its deeply curved bay to the east and west. The original town is built far back inland, but the newer edifices, palaces, villas, and hotels which are intended for the use of strangers during the winter, are much nearer to the shore ; so that San Remo is clearly divided into the Old Town and the " Quarticre Marittimo." The former is a sort of architectural chaos, of which I have never seen the like, a laby- rinth of steep alleys and old arch- ways, built partly to prop up the crumbling old town walls that have suffered much hard usage at the hands of Saracenic pirates. The climate of San Remo is renowned for its mildness and evenness ; and the vegetation — luxuriant all along the Riviera — here attains a higher point of lavish fertility. Here we see palm-trees for the first time, many of them are as much as eighty feet high, and the palm branches used in the solemnities of Palm Sunday at Rome are all sent from hence, and all by one family, the Brescas, who received the privilege from Pope Sixtus the Fifth. The story goes that the origin of this privilege dates from the raising of the great granite obelisk which stands on the Piazza of St. Peter's, on which occasion, when the workmen employed had got into difficulties, and there seemed scarcely any hope of the huge mass being successfully raised into its place, the sailor Bresca of San Remo rendered good service by hauling at the ropes at the peril of his life. But the most famous plantation of palms on the whole coast is at Bordighera, where these splendid trees are so numerous that palm branches form a regular article of export to France and Holland. Soon after Ventimiglia, where the French frontier is passed, we arrive at Mentone, renowned throughout Europe for its sanitary advantages. The position of the town is similar to that of San Remo, for the bay is enclosed by rocky heights at each end, and sheltered at the back by the great mountains of the Maritime Alps. The plan, too, of building is the same ; the old town lies as far as possible inshore, and on the BORDIGHERA. O f THE ON THE RIVIERA DI PONENTE. 133 slope of the hills, whilst at the margin of the sea you find numerous elegant and spacious new houses erected for the winter visitors, and often let for large sums. The vegetation HARBOUR OF MONACO. here is, if possible, more magnificent than that we have hitherto seen on the Riviera. The lemon trees are especially luxuriant and vigorous. Every street boy who idles about dirty and ragged may have a fragrant white blossom in the button hole of his buttonless jacket. The climate of Mentone is one of the finest in Europe. During forty-three years the thermometer only went down below zero four times, and then but for a few hours ; whilst the summer heat is scarcely ever so intense as that which is commonly felt every season in VIEW NEAR SAN REMO. Paris and St. Petersburg. Mentone was formerly an appanage of the princeling whose territory we shall enter on at the next station ; now it is the chief town of a French 134 ITALY. Canton, since the Prince of Monaco was paid four millions of francs in i860, "pour cider line ville qui ne lui appartenait pas" Monaco is the next important place we come to, and there is a visible excitement among the passengers as we approach it, for there in the gaudily gilt Casino is the gambling table which is the chief and most peculiar feature in this miniature state. " It would be worth while to get out here and win a thousand napoleons d'or whilst waiting for the next train," says a traveller, who looks as if it would puzzle him to stake a hundred ! The principality, whose entire length can be traversed in the railway train in thirty minutes, and which at many points only measures a hundred and fifty metres across, nevertheless lies in a position of wonderful, almost unique beauty. A huge rock that advances boldly from the shore, and falls almost perpendicularly into the sea, bears upon the plateau on its summit the princely castle, and the houses of the little town. The gardens that surround it are full of stone-pines and cypresses, and on the natural terraces of the rock bloom the vine and the aloe. The battlemented walls and ramparts which enclose the town give to the whole a bold, fortified air, which reminds us of the old pirates' nest which once crowned these heights. Its shadow makes a deep blue spot upon the sea, and the road winds in sharp zig-zags downward to the shore. Nearly opposite the town lies Monte Carlo with the Casino, to which an admirable road leads, as smooth as a drawing-room parquet, amidst plantations of the finest exotic shrubs and flowers, and with indications on every hand that millions are expended in making the place attractive. The Casino stands on an open space, and is adorned with marble pillars ; it contains fine saloons, used for balls and concerts, a reading-room furnished with newspapers from all quarters of the world, and, lastly, the magnificently decorated "Salons de jeu." All the arrangements are strictly after the French fashion; you hear scarcely a word of any other language, and see no coin of any other country on the green tables. Access to these latter is only possible on certain conditions, which are rigidly adhered to ; it is forbidden, for instance, to minors, to persons in a menial position, and to the " negligently dressed ! " Good manners are de rigucur here ; and it is con- sidered as necessary to ruin oneself with a good grace, as it was to an ancient gladiator to die with dignity. Nevertheless, unpleasant circumstances will occasionally happen, as was proved a winter or so back, when a poor wretch shot himself through the head in the middle of the saloon. There is a tolerably strict control exercised over the entrance into the gambling rooms, even of those persons whose toilet is of the most unexceptionable kind. No one is admitted without a ticket issued and signed by the " Commissaire special" nor can such a ticket be obtained except on giving one's full address. It is made evident in the politest manner in the world that people here have a right to look on you with suspicion. A swarm of liveried lackeys fills the halls and corridors, and even their smooth- shaven faces have assumed the blasd air which is considered good style in the " Cercle des Etrangers." This is the name under which the whole meritorious gambling institution is included, and " Cercle des Etrangers " is written on the green ticket of admission, valable pour unjour, which the visitor receives. The authority which rules and regulates every- thing, and whose edicts are seen everywhere, is an invisible entity denominated " l'Ad- ministration," the general factotum of Monaco, and the good genius of its finances if of nothing else. Not without reason did the old saying arise : — " Son Monaco sopra un scoglio Non semino ne raccoglio Ep'pur mangiarc voglio." Lf*>4gy OF THF ON THE RIVIERA DI PONENTE. '35 (I am Monaco perched on a rock; I neither sow nor reap, but I mean to eat nevertheless! The means by which it ate and lived formerly was piracy ; now it is gambling ; — evidently a considerable moral progress ! The excitement of gaming, like all other fevers, grows more intense towards evening, when the rooms are ablaze with wax-lights and the throng presses so closely around the green tables that those in the front rows, — the old inhabitants, — glare round indignantly. CONVENT GARDEN AT PESIO. No sound of exultation or disappointment is to be heard ; nothing but the hard clink of the money. Eyes and not lips are eloquent here, for any display of emotion would be con- trary to bou ton, and to the laws of the all-powerful " Administration ; " but how expres- sive are the silent glances ! How terribly eloquent is all this dumb show ! The grande dame yonder with dark brows and massive features sets her twenty-franc piece time after time indefatigably on the same number, but it is never the winning one, and you see the calculation of her losses pass across her face like a thunder-cloud every time the croupier coolly sweeps away the gold coin. " Cinq mille francs," she whispers to a lady near her ; — evidently the sum she has lost that evening. But there are still two rouleaux of gold before her, there wants still an hour of midnight ! Behind her stands a young gentle- man of the first Parisian society, who certainly if he be not a minor has only just ceased to be one ; but who would cavil about a week or two with a person who can lose fifteen thousand francs in half an hour ? Fifteen times running the young Vicomte has set a thousand franc note on number seventeen, (it is whispered that that number represents a lucky day in his, not very ancient, history,) and fifteen times running has the croupier raked up the crisp white note with its blue letters as if it were a mere worthless scrap of 136 ITALY. paper. A sort of shiver ran through the crowd at last ; they were touched on a tender point, — the love of gain. But the young Vicomte went out sullenly by himself on to the marble terrace where the throng of careless non-gambling visitors was assembled under rose-bowers and orange-trees. What will the noble father of this hopeful aristocrat say when he receives the young gentleman's next letter ? This had been a good evening for MENTONE. the bank ; only one of all the players won constantly : he was a repulsive looking man who persistently staked his silver five-franc piece (the lowest stake allowed) and received gold napoleons in exchange for it. Each of the buildings which flank the Casino contains a magnificent Cafe got up in the highest style of Parisian luxury, with wide doorways, columns, carpets, mirrors, etc., etc., of the costliest kind. There are single tables surrounded by elegant screens, so as to shut off select parties from the profane vulgar, and only leave room for the entrance of the garrjou with the champagne. From behind these screens is heard the laughter of silvery voices and the rustling of silken dresses ; possibly the party numbers among it some elegant leaders of Parisian ton, ladies who have their box at the " Italiens/' and drive magnificent equipages in the Bois de Boulogne. They are gay despite their losses at the SEASHORE NEAR SAVONA. 0/ UNIVERSITY THE n- utm ON THE RIVIERA DI PONENTE. 137 green table, and possibly console themselves with the saying that those who are unlucky at play are fortunate in love. One may pass some very delightful days in Monaco, but after a while one is glad to get away from it ; and one would be glad even if the next station were not Nice, "the Pearl of the Mediterranean " as it is called. The aspect of this town is attractive in every direction. The landscape in which it is placed is enchanting, and in Nice itself there is the piquant contrast, — one might almost say conflict, — between the element of the real INTERIOR OF A PEASANT'S COTTAGE IN BRIGA. Italian populace and that of French — " civilization," which has entirely taken possession of the superficial part of all social intercourse. In addition to this there are the contrasts between the numerous other nationalities which crowd Nice from October to the middle of April, and which are sufficiently indicated by the names of many public buildings and streets. Here is the German Protestant temple, and there the Russian Church ; yonder is the Promenade des Anglais, and close by a shop which announces itself as a branch of a great Parisian house. A magazine of children's clothing bears the sign " Aux grdces enfautines" and the poorest little stall where flowers are sold has written above it " Maison sptciale pour V exportation dc Jlcurs en France, Bclgique, et Anglcterrc" Everywhere Parisian manners and Parisian fashions dominate, and the Theatre where they are performing the " Fille de Madame Angot " sticks up on its playbills as the attraction par excellence" Grand succes parisicn ! " T 138 ITAL Y. Nice lies close to the sea, but there is no bay as at San Remo or Mentone, and the port, situated to the east side of the town is so insignificant that marine commerce has never reached any flourishing point there. On this eastern side also lies the old town, huddled together close to the castle in the form of a triangle ; and here is a labyrinth of dirty narrow streets, through which traffic on wheels is exceedingly difficult. But the western part of the town and the whole of the shore belong exclusively to the foreign colony who occupy more than eighty splendid villas hereabouts. We see English ON THE SHORE OF THE LAVENZA, NEAR BRIGA. matrons and their daughters very calm and self-possessed under a fire of eye-glasses from the officers of the grand' amide, gouty noblemen in Bath chairs with the " Times " in their hands, and the population of nomad fine ladies and gentlemen, — a little the worse for wear, but delightfully fashionable — proper to a foreign place of resort such as Nice. One can wear a straw hat and white linen coat even in November. What an odd anachronism this costume appears to us northern folk, who know that our friends and relations are sitting at home over the fire with snow on the roof and mud on the pavement ! The chief place of assembly for the fashionable world is — besides the Promenade des Anglais, begun in 1822 by the British colony in order to give employment to a number of poor distressed workmen, — the Jardin Public, which lies near the sea and is filled with the finest exotic plants. It contains myrtles of truly colossal proportions and the noblest palm-trees in Nice. The palm in the centre of the garden, however, was " planted in honour of the annexation ! " Quite close to the Jardin Public a little river runs into the sea, called the Paillon, which is distinguished above all its fellows, even in these parts, by the fact that it UfWMfy Of Th'E |;»!!Vro. : --, ■ ; i^jjgjjjg ON THE RIVIERA DI PONENTE. J39 scarcely ever has any water in it. Its dry pebbly bed stares up at the sunshine ; but it is crossed by several bridges, nevertheless. The whole nomenclature of Nice is impressed with an air of almost comic grandeur : for instance there are Boulevards, Avenues, Quays and Squares, and all baptised with the high-sounding but somewhat ephemeral title STREET IN TENDA. " Imperial." In a word, there are many other things besides the great palm-tree in the yardin Public that have been " planted in honour of the annexation." Although Nice itself is wanting in that air of picturesque neglect, if I may so express it, which gives a peculiar charm to the aspect of many thoroughly Italian cities, and although French civilization has covered it with the sort of varnish which makes modern Europe so monotonous, nevertheless the excursions to be made in the neighbourhood, — especially towards the mountains, — offer all the attractions of unsophisticated nature. Peculiarly beautiful is the road over the Col di Tenda towards Valdieri, a favourite hunting seat of King Victor Emmanuel; snowy peaks rise above the crumbling Avails of the little town, and although there remain but few vestiges of the fortresses erected in the T 2 140 ITAL Y. Middle Ages to resist the incursions of the Saracens, yet that wild people has left other traces of its presence in these parts, in the shape of manifold traditions. Not far from Tenda lies the little village of Briga, picturesquely situated on the banks of the Lavenza nearly three thousand feet above the sea level, and surrounded by the wildest solitudes. The men of Briga lead a nomad sort of life with their flocks and herds in the mountains, whilst the young girls, whenever they can be spared from home, go down into Nice, there to earn their marriage portion in service. Another point of interest much renowned in this district, is the Certosa of Pesio ; an ancient monastery, in whose inner courtyard great trees grow and cast cool shadows on the cells of the monks. Many a pilgrim has sought refuge there, and endeavoured to lighten the load of sins that lay heavy on his conscience by penance and solitude : but now it is a place of cure for bodies instead of souls, and physicians strongly recommend its pure bracing air to invalids. The sea and the mountains are in truth Nature's best and mightiest works, for in them lie the hope and the secret of health. CASTLE OF MONACO. LAVAGNA. RETURN FROM FISHING. ON THE RIVIERA DI LEVANTE. N both sides, to the west and the east, the gulf whose central point is the fair city of Genoa, stretches its blooming shores ; hence the names that distinguish the wondrous coasts that lie east and west of Genoa, — Riviera di Lcvantc, and Riviera di Poncnte. We are now about to follow the former, or eastern, road which, like its western neighbour, is carried along through the rocky cliffs by means of various tunnels, and affords here and there glimpses of the soft blue Mediterranean peeping between olive and myrtle groves where pretty villages and villas are nestled. The first station of any importance that we come to, is called Nervi, a little town much resorted to in winter by invalids and delicate persons, with gardens blooming all the year round, that reach down to the sea, and sheltered from rough winds by high mountains in its rear. These mountains front us in a grand semicircle when we reach Lavagna, a tiny white townlet that looks like something on the stage. Nor is it lacking in heroes ; for Lavagna is the home of the Fieschi, who possessed it as a countship as early as the eleventh century, and of whose blood came the well-known conspirator against the power of the Dorias. Two Popes, Innocent the Fourth, and Adrian the Fifth, also belonged to this town and to this family ; and even in the present century, the well-known name has once more been mixed up with a bit of European history, on the occasion of the attempt on the life of Louis Philippe, which took place in the year 1835 on the Boulevard du Temple. Whether the criminal really had a right to the name of Joseph Maria Fiesco which he 142 ITALY. SEASHORE NEAR QUINTO. assumed, is uncertain to this day ; but this much is known : namely, that he had been already twice condemned to death as a conspirator, and thus at all events shared something of the dark fatality which has seemed to rest upon the name of Fiesco for three centuries. Soon after Lavagna, Sestri di Levante seems to rise up out of the sea as we approach it ; it is situated on a narrow tongue of land with a steep rock rising at the extremity of it JEZZANO, IN THE BAY OF SPEZIA. ON THE RIVIERA DI LEV ANTE. H3 which rock is called Isola. The golden evening light is shining on the battlement of an old tower that crowns the rock, and touching the summits of some dark pine trees around it ; the waves break softly on the beach, and away in the distance we seethe road climbing ON THE PENINSULA NEAR SESTRI LEVANTE. a steep ascent amid olive groves. Wherever a valley opens the parched bed of a mountain torrent is visible, dried up by the fierce sunshine and full only of dazzling white pebbles ; poor little hamlets lie scattered on the slopes, their squalid houses still watched over by a ruinous tower or castle. The first of these villages that we come to is called Moneglia, above whose roofs rises an ancient fortress which once commanded the entrance into this rocky gorge ; for here the road grows ever wilder and steeper, and leaves the 144 ITAL Y. sea-shore for the inland mountain fastnesses. Already we are nearly two thousand feet above the blue mirror of the Mediterranean when we come to a solitary hostelry that bears the name of Bracca, which is also the name of the whole valley through which the road is carried here, and finally we reach the highest point of the pass. We have made a wide detour, and are at a considerable distance from the sea in the midst of a wild mountainous country ; but now we begin to descend again, and the hard poverty to which this stony, sterile soil condemns its inhabitants, gives place to smiling ease as soon as we descend into the valley of Borghetto. In Cassana close at hand, are several caverns renowned for the discovery of numerous fossil bones in them. The wild burnt-up torrent bed by which the THE ISLAND PALMARIA, IN THE BAY OF SPEZIA. road passes to go to Cassana belongs to the little mountain streamlet the Vara ; we pass through one more grey solitary village called San Benedetto, and then come once more to the coast. That is the old mountain road which we have been describing, but now, — like many another similar pass, — it is almost deserted ; for the railway is now open from Sestri to Spezia. It cost years of labour to win this railway from the rocky cliffs and sandy shore, but it is at length completed, and thousands of strangers traverse it yearly. Here, as we speed along with the swiftness of the wind, we get a glimpse of a blue chain of mountains delicately outlined on the distant sky, and are told that those are the mountains of Carrara ; and presently in the bay that opens beautifully before us, we come in sight of Spezia. The town itself is small, and devoid of splendour or attraction, although they are building new palaces there every year, but its position amid a green background of olive- trees is enchanting. The harbour of Spezia, lying between two fortified points of rock, is renowned all over the world, and is said to be one of the finest harbours for ships of war in Europe. The first Napoleon ordered surveys to be made, and occupied himself with strengthening the defences of the place from whence he thought he could command the whole of the Mediterranean. Now a fleet of the Italian Royal Navy lies at anchor there; and whenever the political OF THE ON THE RIVIERA DI LEV ANTE. 145 horizon looks stormy in Southern Europe, Spezia becomes once more a word of power. Amongst the historical reminiscences of the place may be reckoned the stay made there by Garibaldi after he was taken prisoner at Aspromonte. He had, as is well known, been FOUNTAIN OF THE SIREN IN CARRARA. wounded by a bullet which had penetrated through his boot into the bones of the foot ; and the Hotel of the Citta di Milano in Spezia, where the wounded hero was laid up, was crowded by surgeons from all parts of the world. There were the famous Italians Albanese and Cipriani, the Englishman Partridge, and the Russian Perigoff, but none u 146 ITALY. of them were able to relieve the patient's sufferings, or to agree about a diagnosis. At length by Garibaldi's own earnest wish Nelaton was sent for, arrived about the end of October, and then and there laid the foundation of that European reputation which LERICI, NEAR SPEZIA. belonged to him ever afterwards. On the first examination of the wound he differed from the opinion of the majority of his colleagues, of whom only two out of the seventeen surgeons assembled, believed the ball to be still in the wound. He has himself narrated the transaction in a published account as follows : " I examined the wound with a probe ; and at the depth of about two centimeters and a half, I struck against some hard body which gave a dull sound ; . . . . passing to one side ON THE RIVIERA DI LEV ANTE. of this obstacle, I probed further, and at the depth of from five to six centimeters came to the bone. The first obstacle clearly was the bullet. I told this to the General, and begged him to assure himself of the fact, and for this purpose gave him a probe to the point of which was attached a minute fragment of Sevres porcelain rough at one side. The General put the instrument into the wound with his own hand, struck against the obstacle which I had found, pressed upon it lingeringly, and then withdrew the probe. The tiny morsel of porcelain was no longer white, but marked with a dark, metallic-looking stain. This was analysed and found to be lead. There was no longer any doubt about the matter. We had found the bullet ! "* As may be supposed the circumstances above narrated have taken an important place SIESTA. in the annals of Spezia, and whenever the ' Hermit of Caprera ' is mentioned, you are sure to hear all the inhabitants, young and old, begin to recount the story of the wound. The neighbourhood of the town is famed for its beauty, and one of the most beautiful spots in it is Porto Venere (or the Port of Venus) named from a temple of the goddess that stood here long before the Pisans built a church and convent on the same site. At the distance of a few miles from Spezia the Isola Palmaria lies out in the sea ; it is an island composed almost wholly of marble ; and further on along the coast is Lerici, half hidden amid olive woods, and echoing with the ship-builders' lusty hammer on the shore. * This account of a scene in which all Europe was deeply interested, is — in so far as it leads the reader to infer that M. Ne"laton extracted the ball— inaccurate. It is true that Nelaton concurred with the two or three surgeons who declared, contrary to the opinion of the majority, that the ball was still in the wound. It is also true that to him is due the credit of inventing the probe with a fragment of porcelain attached to it, which was the means of positively determining the fact that the ball was there, and its exact position. But the operation of extracting it was performed by Zanetti (one of the most eminent surgeons whom Italy has ever produced), and Ne'Iaton was not even present on the occasion. It may be stated, moreover, in contradiction to sundry pamphlets and newspaper articles published at the time, that the only woman present in Garibaldi's room when the bullet was taken from his ankle, was the Signora Jessie White Mario, who held the General's hand during the operation— Translator's note. U 2 148 ITALY. The next large town that we meet with on the Riviera di Levante is Sarzana, which although it counts barely ten thousand inhabitants, can boast itself rich in proud memories. Nicholas the Fifth, one of the greatest Popes who ever filled the throne of St. Peter, came from Sarzana ; and to Sarzana, too, the family of Bonaparte belonged, before they mi- grated to Corsica in 16 12. Behind Avenza the railway branches off to Carrara. Veins of marble run through the whole coast-line that we have been traversing : they glitter in the mountain gorges, they rise up from the waves in the numerous little islands that lie off the shore, but here at Carrara they are gathered together into one colossal and inexhaustible quarry. Carrara is the marble-treasury of the world, from whence, even since the days of Augustus, the white marble has been obtained which was destined to be animated by the artist's hand. The quarries from which it is cut lie deep among the hills in wild, savage- looking gorges ; there are more than four hundred of these quarries in active operation, and you constantly hear detonations echoing among the mountain peaks, as the great masses of marble are blasted from their native rock, and see on all hands troops of sun- burnt workmen busy with the dazzling white stone. On every side we have proof how rich Carrara is in this precious material ; not only in churches and palaces, but in far humbler buildings it is prodigally employed : every petty tradesman decks his doors and windows with it, and you enter a miserable tavern by a staircase made of — Carrara marble ! Amongst the other towns on the Riviera, Massa and Pietra Santa are perhaps the most worthy of notice. Great veins of marble pierce the soil in all directions ; the slopes are crowned with vines and olives, and from amidst the green peep out ruined castles, the homes of a thousand fantastic legends. Then to the right spreads itself the illimitable blue of the Mediterranean, veiled with the softest haze ; the fresh sea-breeze blows upon us as we pursue our way along that golden pathway, whose very name suggests the murmur of waves upon the shore, and the play of morning sunbeams — Riviera di Levante ! ON THE RIVIERA. MARBLE QUARRIES NEAR CARRARA. OF THE MONKS PLAYING BOWLS. IN EMILIA. N no country is travelling so rich in delightful objects as in Italy, but in no country are the limits of time and space more oppressively felt. In most other lands the intermediate spaces between great cities or famous points are comparatively devoid of attraction, but here almost every tiny town that we pass on our way to the great centres is important, either historically or picturesquely. Art has everywhere scattered pearls of price ; the number of petty potentates who held their courts in the various subdivisions of Italy, created a hundred centres of interest for the traveller. One would desire to see everything, and yet it is impossible to halt everywhere ! Without much sacrifice of one's inclinations, and without neglecting a thousand beauties, it is abso- lutely impossible to travel through Italy and to describe it. The district we are now hastening through is the ancient Emilia ; the district of the Romagna, and of the Legations, whose cities flourished centuries before Christ, and upon whose soil the dying Roman Empire painfully drew its last gasp, and made way for the new era that was to arise out of its ashes. Where is a city to be found so rich in treasures of early Christian art as Ravenna ? Parma was the home of Correggio's immortal genius ; and of Ferrara, where the house of Este ruled, it has been truly said : — " No mighty name is named in Italy, But has been on a time our house's guest." — Goethe. But the other cities of Emilia are lacking neither in glory nor great men who culti- vated arts and sciences under the fostering patronage of princely races. And a storm- tossed moving story is that of this whole province, from the days when Gauls and Goths contended here in arms, and Belisarius took Ravenna, down to the revolution of 1849, when Garibaldi trod this soil with his legions ! Nearly every great family which ruled ITALY. over Italy in the Middle Ages, from the Visconti in Milan to the Borgias in Rome, have extended the theatre of their feuds over Emilia, and side by side with the conflict of material weapons raged the deadlier conflict of spiritual warfare, which latter we may convey in a word, — here stands the Castle of Canossa. All these great events have found characteristic expression in the monuments and architecture of the series of cities which we now come upon. The first of them is Piacenza, which, behind a bulwark of twelve mighty forts, contains half a hundred churches and half a thousand palaces ; but in the sound of its name lingers some trace of the pleasantness of the town in the eyes of bygone generations : — Piacenza, how delight- fully the word sounds ! The central point of such traffic as the town still possesses, is the Piazza dei Cavalli, where stands the Palazzo del Comune which served the citizens for a town-hall. The facade of the ground-floor offers a series of five open arches, beneath which, in old times, the tribunals were held, and public business transacted, whilst the upper story served for the meetings of the town council, and even, during one period, was used as a theatre. Despite the elegant architecture of the central part of the building, with its windows surrounded by richly decorated arches, the effect of the whole is stern and warlike, owing, partly, to the bold battlements which crown the Palazzo. Two bronze equestrian statues of members of the Farnese family, which stand in front of the palace, harmonize admirably with its general tone. But this town-hall of Piacenza is far surpassed, and almost sinks into insignificance, when we behold the ducal castle of Ferrara rising before us in gloomy majesty. Time has blackened these walls that rise, fortress-like, from out a wide moat filled with water, and defended by frowning towers, battlements, and bridges ; all of so stern and threaten- ing an aspect, as to impress one with a vague sentiment of terror. In looking on this castle we can believe in the power, but not in the happiness of the race that ruled here ; we seem to feel something of the oppression which weighed on Tasso's spirit when he dwelt at the court of the Estes. And yet in those days the town was animated by a lively varied population of some hundred thousand inhabitants : whereas now its streets are empty and deserted, and the threatening castle looks down upon poverty and solitude. The present population of Bologna is about the same as that which Ferrara pos- sessed in the time of its highest prosperity ; but Bologna could easily contain three times that number of inhabitants, on such a colossal scale is the city planned. It almost seems as if the wide-spreading plain which here surrounds us on all sides had inspired the eyes and hands of the builders with large and grandiose projects : palace succeeds palace, and street after street opens on to a wide piazza framed in by lofty walls and turrets. Nay, even the statues that stand in the public places are of gigantic dimensions ; the statue of Neptune, which adorns a fountain in the Piazza di Ncttuno, is nearly ten feet high, and together with the smaller bronze figures which surround the sea-gods, weighs more than twenty thousand pounds. Adjoining the Piazza di Nettuno is the Piazza Maggiore (now named Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, after the King) where the market is held, and where a number of interesting buildings are crowded together. This is an impressive spot to visit when the noise and bustle of the day are over, and the full moon rises behind the Palazzo Apostolico. Palazzo Apostolico ! this name, too, is now obliterated from the building that bore it so long, but at the sound of it rise up a thousand reminiscences of the stormy history of Bologna ; for the crown worn by the city's rulers, was the triple tiara of the Vatican. The influence of the ecclesiastical power in Bologna is displayed in the nume- rous churches which are distinguished not only by important works of art, but also by CANOSSA. IN EMILIA. PIFFERARI. their enormous dimensions : especially is this the case with San Petronio, the principal church of Bologna, whose gigantic size positively astounds one at the first glance ; but there are many other churches built with a similar lavish prodigality of means. Few cities of Italy were so rich as Bologna, which bore the epithet of La Grassa (The Fat) in ITAL Y. consequence of her easy opulence : but notwithstanding the tight grip which Mother Church always endeavoured to keep on so wealthy a city, the burghers maintained a spirit of proud independence throughout all their vicissitudes. Among the churches, that of Santo Stefano is distinguished, not so much for its artistic treasures, as for containing a sort of museum of ecclesiastical curiosities of all kinds, pictures, and statues, gold and silver jewelry, and relics of saints. But all these temples with their splendid bell- towers, all these turrets and battlements of princely pa- laces, are not so distinctively characteristic of the general aspect of the town as are the two mighty monuments which are visible for miles above the sea of roofs, and with which the traditions of seven centu- ries are entwined. These are the leaning towers, each named after its founder : — the larger Asinclli, the smaller La Garisenda. The view from the summit of the former (which overtops its neighbour by a hundred and thirty feet) reaches from the Paduan hills to the Apennine, and from the Adriatic to the towers of Modena ; all the treasures which Nature and Man have lavished on this soil, lie beneath our gaze, — the happy fields through which, as far back as two thousand years ago the Via sEmilia led northwards to Milan. As we advance eastward towards the sea, however, the plain grows marshy and desolate, and close to the sandy shore we come upon a city which surpasses most towns of central Italy in renown, though not in prosperity ; — I mean Ravenna. Who has not pictured to himself the old Gothic King Theodoric ? — here is his tomb. Whose heart does not ache to read of the great Dante sadly departing into exile ? — here it was that he found rest for time and eternity. In Ravenna Thumelicus, the son of the barbarian Prince Hermann, grew up to be a gladiator ; in Ravenna Gaston de Foix fell in one of the bloodiest battles which Europe had yet seen ; in Ravenna Byron sought peace and repose beside the beautiful Countess Guiccioli. Yet these are but a few of the more THE LEANING TOWERS IN BOLOGNA. IN EMILIA. 153 salient memories of the city which for centuries led so stormy an existence, and then again for centuries so stagnant and solitary a one ! The foundation of her political importance and prosperity was the harbour which Augustus caused to be constructed for -r- TOMB OF THEODORIC, RAVENNA. his fleet close to Ravenna. This prosperity decayed and fell with the decay and fall of the Roman Empire ; but Ravenna has another indestructible importance which is assured to her as long as her stones stand one upon the other : she is, namely, the treasury and metropolis of all Europe for the study of early Christian art. Almost everywhere else the works produced by the painter and sculptor and architect in the fifth and sixth cen- x 154 ITALY. turies of the Christian Era have been hopelessly damaged or ruthlessly destroyed by the vandalism of succeeding generations ; a basilica such as the church of San? Apollinare in Classc, is almost unique amongst the monuments of the world. It is supposed to stand upon the site of an ancient temple of Apollo ; the saint to whom it is dedicated is said to have suffered martyrdom in the reign of the Emperor Vespasian. The church stands about an hour's drive away from the town, and the road to it lies, for some portion of it, close to the enchanting Pineta (pine-wood), which made so profound an impression on Byron ; but when it was built (A.D. 534 — 549) it stood, as its name imports, close to the busy harbour where the Roman classis (fleet) lay at anchor. The sea has now receded many miles from the spot, and tall pine trees grow above the sandy bottom where once the galleys of Augustus rocked upon the waters of the inconstant Adriatic. The task of playing cicerone through Ravenna should be undertaken not by a mere unlearned recounter of his travels, but by a profound student of ancient art ; and the visitor who really desires to see and understand her treasures, will find that he must devote himself very seriously to his aim. The whole neighbourhood of the town is full of forlorn melancholy, and the town itself still suffers for the centuries during which she lay neglected and forgotten, apart from the great highways of traffic. But yet she has wonderful compensations — at least in the eyes of an artist ! Ravenna is a new tint in the wondrous picture, — a new chord in the wondrous concert — that we call Italy. She furnishes another proof of the inexhaustible artistic treasures of this land ; and therein we find much consolation! For in taking leave of the gentle reader we are conscious of many short-comings, but then we say to ourselves, " Who could be so mad as to undertake the task of exhausting the Inexhaustible ?" 6 mof 'tUWMS FROM THE ARNO TO THE TIBER BY EDWARD PAULUS. X 2 mmsny of ih« FLORENCE. 'Mid deserts dimly through the mists descried We speed across the barren Apennine, Or, plunged deep down where never sunbeams shine, Pierce arrow-swift the mountain's mighty side. Sudden we feel soft spring-like breezes blowing, Down from the sky that shimmers crystal clear, And at our feet there opens far and near A wide green land where laurel groves are growing. Fair Florence, we salute thee 'mid thy bowers Beside the yellow Arno's storied stream, Thy wondrous marble dome that towers supreme, Thy stern old walls all garlanded with flowers, And, hid within the solemn cypress glade, Thy silver fountains whispering in the shade. FTER a somewhat gloomy journey through innumerable tunnels, and amidst the arid, bare, rocks of the inhospitable Apennine, we suddenly get a glimpse — whilst we are still high on the mountain — down into wide-spreading, verdant Tuscany. Milder airs play around us, and we feel an intense longing to be down there in that realm of all ancient culture, — culture of art, of commerce, and of land. Even as seen from the railway the extraordinary fertility of the soil strikes us. It is cultivated with minute industry, and scattered over in all directions with cottages, farm- houses, and villas : these latter generally situated on the slope of a sunny hill, surrounded by cypress groves, and within reach of a fresh stream or fountain. It is a happy, beautiful, peaceful-looking land, covered with the very emblem of peace, the silver-leaved olive, which grows and thrives everywhere. Even on the stoniest soil you may see great ancient olive trunks, twisted, hollow, and decayed, but still bearing a crown of silvery foliage that trembles in the breeze and makes a glory in the sunlight. This first town we come to on the plain, with a marble bell-tower and lofty dome, — is it Florence ? No; we dart past; this is only Pistoia. It is surrounded by an ever- green garden where the garlands of vine are slung from tree to tree. The country grows still richer and lovelier as we advance ; here is Prato, a pleasant smiling little town, and already we catch glimpses above the trees, of castles, and mansions, and groups of statuary. Suddenly uprises Brunelleschi's gigantic dome looking almost silvery in the sunshine, and all around it, flowing out even to the slopes of the olive-green hills, spreads the town, magnificent with soaring towers and noble buildings. This, this is Florence ! From the very first day of our acquaintance with the fair city, it inspired us with sympathy ; it is so pleasant and home-like despite its thousand years of historic greatness! The houses are pressed close together in a neighbourly fashion, and are mostly crowned by an open, shady loggia, or arcade, with slender stone pillars ; and the peculiar Florentine broad eaves stretch out from the roof and shelter the streets below from sun and rain. 153 ITALY. There is an air of tranquillity and contentment in the narrow streets with their lines of sober, brownish-grey houses, broken here and there, by a church, or an open Piazza decorated with monuments and elegant open arcades. Three-fourths of the town lies on the right bank of the Arno, the remaining fourth, with the Boboli Gardens and the gigantic Pitti Palace, lies on the left. Six bridges, two of them modern iron ones, cross PONTE VECCHIO. the yellow Arno ; the finest of them, the Ponte della Tnnitd, is built of sandstone and marble, and forms in its entirety one long, graceful curve from shore to shore, with which the smaller curves of the arches harmonize admirably. A very different aspect is presented by the Ponte Vecc/uo, an ancient bridge with houses and shops on it, which carries across the river a large part of the city's traffic ; and this is not inconsiderable, for Florence has now a population of nearly a hundred and fifty thousand inhabitants. Seen from this bridge the shores of the Arno on each side present a series of lofty, irregular buildings, many of them with open loggie on the roofs, and some of the more ancient bearing towers : whilst in the distant background rise olive-covered hills sprinkled over with churches, villas, and ancient convents shaded by tall cypresses. A short distance above the Ponte Vecchio, we turn to the left and find ourselves in OF THE university of Illinois FLORENCE. 159 front of the Uffizi, the buildings of which enclose a narrow oblong space opening, at its upper end, on to the Piazza della Signoria. Outside the arcade, which extends along the whole length of the ground floor, are niches at regular intervals, and in these niches stand marble statues of the most famous Tuscans. Here are Andrea Orcagna, Nicolo Pisano, Giotto, Donatello, Leon Battista Alberti, Lionardo da Vinci, Michael Angelo, Dante, Petrarch, Boccaccio, Ferrucci, Machiavelli, Guicciardini, Amerigo Vespucci, Galileo, FOUNTAIN OF NEPTUNE IN THE PIAZZA DELLA SIGNORIA. Benvenuto Cellini, Cosmo the First, Lorenzo the Magnificent, and many others ; truly a series of names for any country to be proud of! Passing by these we reach the Piazza della Signoria, where, in close proximity to the mighty mass of the Palazzo Vecchio, stands the beautiful Loggia dei Lanzi. The Piazza is moreover adorned with numerous statues and monuments, and the great fountain of Neptune, where marble sea-horses, and listlessly reclining marine goddesses, fling showers of silvery water at each other in sport. Many tragical and cruel reminiscences are connected with this Piazza, and with the great pile that stands here — the Palazzo Vecchio. First came the fierce and ruthless struggle between the Guelphs and the Ghibellines, which endured for centuries : for, as Dante says, the commonwealth of Florence was like a sick man who restlessly changes his posture without ever finding ease or rest. But out of these times of conflict grew up the bold and profound ideas, on which even to-day the State and society are founded, and i6o ITAL V. from the contending ranks emerged the pure and noble figures of immortal artists, poets, and men of science ; until at length, almost imperceptibly, and without any act of violence, the rule of the Medici was firmly established — the rule of not merely the richest and most powerful, but the best and most cultivated citizens in Florence. Arts and Sciences begin to flourish in hitherto unheard-of fulness and beauty, the Golden Age seems to have returned with Cosmo the First, — Pater Patricr, — and his high-souled grandson, Lorenzo the Magnificent. Nevertheless there occur at intervals wild outbreaks of the old Floren- tine passion and vindictiveness. The 26th of April, 1478, is the date of the conspiracy of the Pazzi. On the morning of this day, Lorenzo the Magnificent, together with his younger brother Giuliano dei Medici, a chivalrous youth of two-and-twenty, is attend- ing mass in the cathedral, at the moment when the officiating priest (who happens, on this occasion, to be Cardinal Raffaele Riario, nephew of the Pope) is in the act of elevating the host, and when at the sound of the bell all the congregation bows itself to the earth, one of the hired assassins stabs Giuliano with his dagger. Giuliano staggers and falls, and Francesco de' Pazzi, throwing himself upon him, stabs him again and again with such blind fury that he actually wounds himself in the thigh. At the same time two priests, Maffei of Volterra and Bagnono, attack Lorenzo. Maffei wounds him in the throat, but not mortally, and Lorenzo flies to the sacristy, the brazen doors of which are at once shut and bolted, and defy all attempts to break through them. The populace rushes from the fatal scene confused, terrified, and horror-stricken, as if the Day of Judgment had arrived. Outside, on the Piazza, old jacopo de' Pazzi unfurls the banner of Liberty, and the Archbishop of Pisa (deeply implicated in the conspiracy) forces his way into the Palazzo Vecchio with an armed band ; — all in vain ! The indignant people tears the two priests to pieces, hangs the Archbishop of Pisa and the two Pazzi high on the stone cross of a window frame in the Palazzo, flings down other of the conspirators from an upper storey on to the stones of the Piazza, and carries their mangled remains stuck on pikes in triumph through the city. But later, after the too early death of Lorenzo, terrible dissensions once more con- vulse fair Florence. There arises in the midst of the people the haggard, pale, enthu- siastic figure of Savonarola, the Dominican monk of San Marco, like a threatening prophet of old, full of dire forebodings. The vanity of this world, the seductions of the flesh, the immoral and enervating beauty of all arts and sciences, form the theme of his penitential preachings. And with the force and fierceness of a flame fanned by storm-winds, he sweeps the calculating, sensual, intellectual Florentines along with him into the fantastic "kingdom of God " which his fanatical brain has imagined. Pietro de' Medici is expelled, Jesus Christ the Saviour of the World is proclaimed King of Florence, and the monk's power knows no limits. On the last day of Carnival in the year 1497, and on the same day of the following year, Savonarola causes a huge pyramidal pile to be erected on the Piazza della Signoria. Its foundation consists of masquerading garments, masks, false beards, and so forth ; above these are works of Latin and Italian poets, priceless parchments and manuscripts with miniatures and illuminations ; then come women's adornments, jewels and articles of the toilet ; higher still musical instruments, chess-boards, and playing cards ; at the summit of all, paintings, especially such as represented female beauty. When this pile was set alight, the Piazza resounded with the blaring of trumpets, the ringing of bells, and the singing of many voices. Afterwards there was a procession to the Piazza San Marco, where a very curious round was danced. Those who took part in it stood in hree concentric circles : the inner one consisting of the monks of St. Mark's Convent FLORENCE. i6r alternating with boys dressed to represent angels, the next of acolytes and young men of the laity, and the outer one of old men, citizens, and priests, the latter crowned with olive- branches. But — on Ascension Day of the following year, another pile stood in the Piazza della Signoria, and with it the body of Savonarola, after being seven times put to the torture and finally strangled, was burnt to ashes ! The old historic Piazza contains buildings so bold and grandiose in conception as to recal the ancient Roman architecture. Here we see the daring idea of Arnolfo who erected the tower of the Palazzo Vecchio ; that is to say, he carried up the broad, massive, ancient tower of the Fornaboschi to a dizzy height above the roof of the building, and PALAZZO PITTI. crowned it with a sort of stone baldacchino resting on four huge round stone pillars, so that this tower commands a view over Florence only rivalled by that from the dome of the Cathedral. Yonder we behold the great work of Orcagna, after whose design the Loggia de' Lanzi was built, (subsequent, however, to Orcagna's death) the noblest and most beautiful open arcade in Italy. Only three wide arches rise upon rich pillars ; but what arches ! How perfect in symmetry and proportion ! The Loggia was completed in 1387, and one may date from thence the commencement of the " Rinascimento," the new birth of classic art and architecture. In truth, however, it was quite a new art that then arose, as distinct and different from the old, as is the modern world from the ancient. This building has ever been the delight of connoisseurs. When Lorenzo de' Medici begged Michael Angelo to design him a supremely magnificent palace for the magistracy, to be erected on the Piazza, the great artist advised him to carry the Loggia de' Lanzi entirely round the Piazza, since nothing finer could possibly be invented ! The prince, however, shrank from the expense of such an undertaking. It is pleasant to stand under the shelter of the beautiful Loggia, and to look down from the steps of it into the lively, populous Piazza. Many Florentine loungers may generally be seen assembled here amidst the wondrous groups of statuary which fill the arcade. Your Florentine lounger is not beggarly, half-naked, and insolent like the l62 ITAL Y. Lazzaroni of Naples, neither does he stun you like him with discordant senseless noise ; no, he is peaceable, placid, well dressed, and reposes very comfortably on the luxuriant laurels of his great fore-fathers ! Among the statues in the Loggia de' Lanzi are some of the finest creations of antique, mediaeval, and modern art. In the centre stands the fine classical group in marble, of Ajax with the body of Patrocles, and close to it the modern group of Achilles and Polyxena by Pio Fedi ; — an admirable work despite all that can be said against it, instinct with passion, and a brilliant example of the indestructible talent for sculpture which the Italians possess. Here, too, is the beautiful meditative Thusnelda, her head drooping dreamily as though she were sadly thinking of her native Germanic forests ; and near her are five other antique female figures. At the distance of a few paces stands Donatello's Judith in bronze ; she holds aloft the grinning ghastly head of the Philistine warrior Holofernes, and is evidently rejoicing in the bloody deed just committed. The greatest work — at least if greatness be measured by size — of Benvenuto Cellini is also here under the Loggia : it is the bronze figure of Perseus, about the casting of which he has so much to say in his autobiography. The smooth-limbed son of the gods, displays triumphantly Medusa's head with its horrible snaky curls and awful deadly beauty. The pedestal on which the statue stands is adorned with marvellous richness, and reminds one of innu- merable other works due to the chisel of this fantastic, self-willed, genial artist, who, notwithstanding all his defects, literally overflowed with talent, and who boasts loudly of his triumphs throughout his singular autobiography : adding to the description of nearly every one of his numerous productions " this was the most beautiful and divine of all ! " Proceeding onward from the Piazza, through the lively and crowded Via Calzaioli, past the square colossal mass of Or San Michele, in whose niches stand the noblest statues of Ghiberti and Donatello, we reach the Piazza del Duomo, — the Cathedral Square. On the left we have the Baptistery where the world-renowned bronze gates are ; to the right the Duomo with its blank, unfinished facade, and close to it Giotto's Campanile (Bell-tower) all clothed with coloured marbles. The origin of the Baptistery is lost in almost mythical obscurity. It was once the principal church of the city ; and many Italians declared it to have been originally a temple dedicated to Mars. This is, no doubt, an error ; but the materials of the building which consist in part of genuine antique pillars, and blocks of stone, point at least to a very early period in the Christian era. The interior of the building is very solemn ; it is dimly lighted, surrounded by pillars, and surmounted by a dome, in which strange Byzantine mosaics glimmer on a golden back- ground. The exterior, with its delicate coloured marble panellings, is remarkable as showing an attempt in the direction of modern art, — a sort of anticipation of the Renais- sance by two hundred years! And one of the greatest among the creators of the Renaissance of art in Europe, — the Florentine Brunelleschi, — diligently studied this monument from his youth upwards. His statue stands but a few paces from it on the south side of the Duomo. Brunelleschi is represented as looking up joyfully at the cupola of the Duomo, his grandest and boldest work which dominates with its noble outline the whole of towered Florence, and her villa-besprinkled suburbs. It is a never-to-be-forgotten sight that breaks upon the traveller along the sunny slopes of the Val d'Arno, when he first beholds fair Florence amid her garland of gardens, bristling with towers, and surmounted by the glorious dome of Brunelleschi rising noble and serene in the brilliant rays of a southern sun. But seen nearer, the dome loses nothing of its imposing effect ; especially when viewed from the eastern side, where it rises like a huge mountain above the cluster of VIA DEGLI STROZZI. FLORENCE. 163 LOGGIA NEAR MERCATO NUOVO. chapels around the choir. The drum is pierced by huge round windows, above it is the dome formed by eight marble ribs converging together, and above that again, the lantern, more than seventy feet high. If this lantern were placed on the flat earth, it would form of itself a beautiful temple, — a marble rotunda in which the taste of the Renaissance, so rich in ornamentation, has begun to display its elegant luxuriance. Brunelleschi the great y 2 ITALY. master, lived to see the completion of the dome which he constructed with a double shell, — one over the other, — to be the admiration of all subsequent ages, and the beginning of the lantern, which was carried out in strict accordance with his design. When the last rays of the sun which gild so lingeringly the summit of the Duomo have died away, when the birds have ceased their graceful wheeling and skimming around the mighty cupola, and when the moon begins to pour her magic light over the marble pile, then the town at its feet begins to live and move after the hot summer day. Then the numerous little tables set out in front of the Caffes are filled with chattering groups, drinking coffee, lemonade, or syrup and water. There they sit, smoking, talking, disputing, — but always with moderation and courtesy, — until a cold breath of wind, blowing from the Arno, scatters them. Next morning, however, there they are in the Caffe once more, with the unfailing cigar and a newspaper. The waiters run about with coffee and smoking hot rolls soaked in butter, which I can pronounce from experience to be excellent, and flower-girls — with nothing blooming about them except the bouquets they sell — peep in, and insist upon sticking a flower into the button-hole of any stranger who may happen to be present, whilst a single glance from a native will suffice to repulse them. As the heat increases, the upper classes take refuge behind the massive walls of their cool palaces, and wait patiently until the evening, when they go to an open-air theatre, and then drink coffee again in the Piazza del Duomo. The Duomo, with its clothing of fine coloured marbles, is built in what may be termed the Florentine-Gothic style ; and the most perfect specimen of this style stands near it in the shape of Giotto's graceful Campanile. It rises in five storeys, each one loftier than the other, broken by exquisite pointed-arched windows, — a wonderfully simple square tower ; but the panels of marble which clothe it with most harmonious colouring, the delicately cut festoons, ornaments and statuettes, which adorn it, make the colossus marvellously light and elegant. In the month of May, in the year 1865, on the occasion of the Dante Festival, the whole city, including the Duomo, was illuminated ; and then the fairy-like beauty of these enormous masses of building was fully brought out. The Campanile with its polished marble pillars seemed absolutely suffused with light, and transfigured : an image of the majestic figure of the great poet to whose immortal memory the festival was dedicated, glowing with a flame of holy and exalted love. The interior of the Duomo is most impressive at twilight, when its great painted windows admit a soft, enchanted light, — when its proportions seem to grow and grow in the dimness, — when tapers begin to glimmer here and there upon the altars, grey dusk silently invades the solemn consecrated space, and from the world without there sounds through the lofty vaults the deep tone of the great awful-voiced bell ! How often has it rung to summon the burghers of Florence to fight against their fellow-citizens, or — more nobly — against the common foe ! The greatest, and the last, deed of the free commonwealth of Florence, was the defence of the city against the troops of Charles the Fifth. In a spirit of magnanimous self-sacrifice the Florentines destroyed their suburbs, burning to the ground country- houses adorned with frescoes by the greatest painters, and surrounded by blooming- gardens, lest they should afford shelter to the enemy. Michael Angelo fortifies the tower of San Miniato al Monte, which is standing to this clay, and strengthens it to resist all attacks. Food becomes scarce, fresh troops of Spaniards and Germans keep strengthen- ing the Imperial army, yet the courage of the besieged is not to be bowed ; and, far away from the city, behind the Cyclopean walls of old Volterra, the last hero of the Republic, LOGGIA DEI LANZI. FLORENCE. the fiery Ferrucci, is bravely fighting and repulsing the Spanish storming parties. But the position of Florence becomes daily more desperate ; the plague rages fearfully in this sultry July weather, throughout the low-lying, shut-in valley; corpses lie in the public streets, and Malatesta, the commander of the troops hired by Florence for her defence, is engaged in secret negotiations with the enemy ! Then in that moment of extremest need, the victorious Ferrucci is commanded to return to Florence with his whole army, and approaches slowly, being reduced by fever, and having to take circuitous routes. He is already as far on his way as Pistoia, when, on the third of August, towards evening, the news suddenly flies lightning-swift through the sultry, plague-stricken city, that a battle has been fought, Ferrucci is victorious, the Prince of Orange the commander of the Imperial army, sent out to meet Ferrucci, is killed ! Indescribable rejoicings, boundless hopes arise ; but, alas, meanwhile the truth is that all is lost ! Ferrucci has been indeed victorious at first, and the Prince of Orange is slain ; but the fight continues in a townlet close to Pistoia, they fight in the fields, in the streets, and at length, overpowered by superior numbers, Ferrucci with a few followers is pressed into a house and taken prisoner. He is led before the Spanish leader, Maramoldo, the man over whom he has so often been victorious, and the Spaniard seizing a pike, with a curse strikes it into the breast of the defenceless wearied hero. " You are only killing a dead man," are Ferrucci's last words. On the fifth of August the crushing truth is at last known in Florence, and all who hear it understand that the ground is sinking beneath their feet. As at the end of a dark and stormy day the sun sinking below the edge of the horizon sends out one final, fiery gleam, so shines, at the close of Florentine history, — Ferrucci ! Then the night sweeps down on it ; miserable treachery and intrigues weave a net-work which stifles the freedom of the city, and the freedom of Italy. When all is lost, Michael Angelo returns sad, silent, and solitary, to his studio, where soon afterwards he carved the renowned figures of Morning, Evening, Day, and Night, which are still to be seen on the tombs of the Medici, in the Sacristy of San Lorenzo, which Sacristy was entirely designed by Michael Angelo. Lo ! those four reclining figures ; Morning, Evening, Day, and Night, Then it was the sculptor drew them From the marble's depths to light ; All his bitter indignation, All his sorrow's deepest moan, Breathed Prometheus-like within them, And inspired the lifeless stone. Till the sparks flew from his chisel Day by day he toiled with might, Raising up his troubled spirit Into Art's clear realms of light. And at length the work was ended. Round the forms divinely fair All the people crowded breathless, Dazzled, as by sunlight's glare : Saw the marble limbs majestic, Gazed upon the brows sublime ; Then outspake the poet Strozzi To Night's statue thus in rhyme : ITALY. The Night that here reposing thou dost see An An%el from the stone hath tiew created. She sleeps j but by Life's flame is animated. What, dost thou doubt ? Wake her, she'' 11 speak to thee / But great Angelo, — his spirit Striving still with bitter pain, — From the burning depths of feeling, Hurled this answer back again : Sweet 'tis to sleep; and sweeter to be stone, In days which shame and vilest wrongs deprave. Neither to see nor hear is all I crave j Therefore speak low, and let me slumber on .' * The figures are indeed beyond all description noble and beautiful ; there is some- thing of mysterious and superhuman grandeur about them. Here is revealed to us the whole titanic nature of the greatest of the Moderns, with its enormous creative force, and fiery aspirations. Michael Angelo was more than sculptor, painter, architect, and poet ; yet he was all these, and no one of the Arts seemed sufficient to absorb his vast genius. There is a sublime and inextinguishable sadness in him — an unspeakable restlessness ; and therefore his art often delights in wild and daring creations, and many of his works are unfinished. But when he does design with clear and complete lines, he leaves all competitors a thousand miles behind him ; and he displays a consummate knowledge of the human body, and a mastery of the chisel, such as none have attained since ; and such as were only attained before him by the Greeks in their greatest period of art. The Medicean Chapel is contiguous to the Basilica of San Lorenzo, another master- • work of Brunelleschi. In its pillared aisles may be perceived the spirit of a new, reforming time, which strove after the noble simplicity of early Christendom, and the return of the Master towards the forms of the ancient Christian basilicas ; which, however, he reproduced with an added beauty and freedom of his own. The site of the most ancient part of Florence lies between San Lorenzo, the Duomo, and the Palazzo Vecchio. Here are the two markets, the Mercato Vecchio where there is the greatest crowd and the worst odour, and the Mercato Nuovo, with its fine market-hall in the style of the Renaissance, and the bronze fountain of the "Porcellino" — the well- known Florentine boar, which the natives call by that affectionate diminutive of "little pig " or " piggy " ! — hard-by, noble Corinthian columns run through the length and breadth of the lofty, rectangular hall of the Mercato Nuovo. Here, in the old town, stand numerous palaces, but the finest of all are undoubtedly the Palazzo Strozzi and the Palazzo Riccardi. One of the most difficult tasks which the Florentine builders had to cope with, was the transforming the old, gloomy, mediaeval castle, into a noble city * The stanzas printed in italics were really addressed to the Statue of Night by Giovanni Battista Strozzi, and replied to as above by Michael Angelo. Perhaps it may be worth while to lay before the reader the Italian originals. " La Notte che tu vedi in si dolci atti Dormire, fu da un Angelo scolpita In questo sasso, e perche dorme, ha vita : Destala se nol crcdi, e parleratti." To which Michael Angelo replies : " Grato m' c il sonno, e piu 1' csser di sasso ; Mentre che il danno e la vergogna dura Non veder, non sentir m' e gran ventura ; Pero non mi destar ; deh parla basso V : — Translator s note. ORLANDINTS BEER-GARDEN, FLORENCE. FLORENCE. 167 palace. And this task most persons who have visited Florence will own that her architects have successfully accomplished. The ancient city dwellings — of the nobles at least, — were frowning fortresses, surmounted by battlements and towers, and with massive limestone walls, in which, at a great height, a few Gothic arched windows divided by a central column were sparingly introduced. The finest specimen of such an urban fortress is the Bargello, the old town-hall, in the very heart of Florence. We enter it through a magnificent courtyard partly surrounded by open arcades, or loggie, and richly adorned FOUNTAIN OF THE PORCELLINO IN THE MERCATO NUOVO. with coats of arms in carved stone- work. A broad and noble external staircase leads from this courtyard to the upper halls, which are now rich in the original colouring of their frescoes. (Some years ago these were entirely hidden beneath a coating of zvhiteivash ! ) They are spacious apartments with huge Gothic fire-places, and surmounted by roofs of carved rafters, or else by vaulted ceilings. In the chapel of the palace is to be seen in fresco a portrait of Dante at thirty-five years of age. It is a mild countenance of remark- ably delicate outline, and does not yet wear the eagle aspect of the author of the Divina Commedia, worn by suffering, sorrow, and patriotic lamentations over the decay of his native land. Brunelleschi was a creator and originator in architecture. He designed the Pitti Palace, — the first and most colossal attempt on record, to construct an artistic facade out of unhewn blocks of stone. The masses of stone are only cut at the corners, the rest of them being left rough and are of incredible size and massiveness. They recal the genius of the old Etruscans who surrounded their cities with Cyclopean walls. Brunelleschi 's ITALY. successors somewhat softened this aspect of rugged strength, by confining the rough stone- work — a style called technically ' Rustica ' — to the lower storeys of the building, and adorning the upper ones with elegant arched windows, above which the whole was crowned by the broad projecting eaves which form so striking a feature in Florentine architecture. From the mighty blocks of rough stone that form the basement storey, project great lanterns, rings, and sockets to hold torches and banners, all in magnificent wrought iron- work ; and the majority of the palaces contain a fine interior courtyard with a well or fountain. What a contrast to these pompous and magnificent edifices is presented by the dark little Gothic house where Dante was born ! It is in a narrow obscure street close to Or San Michele. Yet never did Florence wear a nobler or more impressive aspect than when she celebrated the six hundredth birthday of her Dante, and placed upon that poor little dwelling the inscription : " In this house was born the Divine Poet Alighieri." The whole city was decked with flags, every house was covered with tapestry, garlands of flowers, and laurel-wreaths. From the massive iron rings in the hoary old palaces the gay tricolour of Italy was fluttering ; but perhaps the most impressive sight of all, were the verses from Dante's divine poem affixed to buildings, bridges, and various monuments all over the town. Wonderful it was to remember that most of these grey old palaces were standing in Dante's stormy life-time ! And as the people read, and were moved by the mighty verses, how clear it was that Dante's poetry, although it grew until it reached the Heavens, yet had its root and origin here deep in this very soil ! The massive blocks of stone spoke of a bloody, violent, wildly agitated history : — the history of old Florence with her Guelphs and Ghibellines, her unsleeping feuds, her beautiful women who were drawn into the fatal strife, and raised cruel discord between the noblest families, waging war upon each other from their fortress-dwellings. This Dante Festival was one of the grandest commemorations that a people ever solemnized ; — a people once more free, united, and powerful after long centuries of shame and wrong, and honouring in Dante, at once the boldest champion of her unity, her greatest poet, and her most unfortunate patriot. As a poet Dante surpasses all his contemporaries, nay, all poets whom Italy has yet produced. His "Vita Nuova" strikes a chord which no one before him had touched ; it unveils the deepest mysteries of the human heart ; never before had Love been treated in so grandly ideal and spiritual a manner. But in the Divina Commedia the author rises to still higher heights of passion and the purified contemplation of divine beauty. The " Vita Nuova " is the germ from which sprang that gigantic plant the Divina Commedia, whose roots reach deep down into the lowest bolgia of hell, while its summit blooms transfigured in the pure light of Eternal Love. It is a mirror of the whole Universe, and, again, the history of Humanity ; more peculiarly the history of that paradise of the earth, Italy, torn and divided as it was by fraternal feuds, and of the heart of Italy, Florence, from whence the poet was banished for ever. " Ungrateful Country," exclaims Michael Angelo in one of his sonnets : Ungrateful Country, who hast nursed his woes And killed his better fortune ! Well I see How on the Best, worst evils still are poured : Let his example this hard truth disclose : No greater hast thou ever bred than he, Yet bitt'rer exile hath no man endured ! SAN MICIIELE. us* FLORENCE. 169 A marble statue of Dante, which was uncovered for the first time during the Festival of 1865, stands on the Piazza of Santa Croce. And within quite recent years the facade of Santa Croce, which, like the fronts of so many Florentine churches, had been left un- finished, has been covered with dazzling white marble.* Santa Croce is the oldest and finest of all the churches belonging to the mendicant orders ; it contains a noble monument to Dante, and is, in fact, the Pantheon of Florence. In the colossal space of the nave, which IN FRONT OF THE LOGGIA BE' LANZI. is only the more impressive by reason of its extreme simplicity, are buried, under splendid monuments, some of the greatest Italians : Michael Angelo, Galileo, Alberti, Alfieri, Macchiavelli. Dante's bones rest in far-away Ravenna. Santa Croce contains, moreover, some tombs of the earliest Renaissance period, the frescos of Giotto in the chapel behind the choir, and the exquisite marble pulpit adorned with delicate sculpture, by Benedetto da Majano. In the exterior cloister is the chapel of the Pazzi, designed by Brunelleschi. It was built in the year 1420, and is one of the earliest, as well as one of the finest, specimens of the revival of classical architecture. * At the expense of an Englishman, the late Mr. Sloane. — Translator's note. z ITALY. FLORENTINE ART. LORENCE, the modern Athens! There is a great similarity between both these most important nurseries of culture : — a similarity in their deeds and works, their struggles and victories, their good and bad fortunes ; but, above all, in the spirit of mildness and peace which emanated, and still emanates, from them, a spirit of the purest and noblest humanity. And lo ! the symbol of peace, the grey-green olive-tree, still crowns both cities, and makes them sacred soil, garlanded and consecrated to the gods. Corinth and Sparta, Delphi and Olympia, with their marble temples glistening with votive offerings, their shady groves, and their colossal ivory and golden statues of the gods, are now mere heaps of ruin. But Athens is still the " eye of Hellas ; " and though often wasted, devastated, and barbarously plundered, her holy temples yet stand above Theseus' ancient city, and the gods of Olympus still hover protectingly around them, mindful of the divine votive offerings of Intellect which have been made to them here. When Sylla, after a long siege, overcame Athens, and prudence counselled him to destroy her, he spared the city for the sake of her glorious dead ; and when, in our own day, in the year 1859, the commandant of the Fortezza di Belvedere in Florence received from the last Grand Duke of Tuscany the order to bombard the town, he made answer : " One may cannonade the rest of the world, but one cannot cannonade Florence."* Athens, it must be owned, is utterly ruinous in comparison with the so much younger Florence, where the development of art during four mighty centuries, is still clearly to be seen : — an art which has been illustrated by some of the greatest geniuses the world has ever seen, and in which the most exalted ideas of modern humanity have expressed themselves. Eternal Rome might vie with Florence in the magnificence and number of her works of art, but not in the continuous and unbroken heritage of progress bequeathed by one age to another. In Florence the development proceeds steadily from the first grey, struggling dawn of the Middle Ages to the full noon-day lustre of the modern intellect ; art in Florence rises step by step in one homogeneous edifice, whose ideal beauty has been a joy and refreshment to the noblest spirits in all times. In Rome, thanks to the counter-reformation of the Jesuits, the pure specimens of early Christian architecture, the severe frescos of Giotto's school, and the delicate works of the first masters of the Renaissance period, were in great part destroyed. They gave place to stiff, ungraceful pilasters, and lumpy masses of stucco, thoroughly tasteless and barocco. The roofs are painted with huge cloudy heavens, in which crowds of saints, painfully cramped in their limbs, and expressing a very incomprehensible amount of agitation in their countenances, are floating. Gigantic tabernacles constructed of gilded bronze and marbles of every colour in the rainbow, rise up to the vaulted ceilings in pompous masses, bearing chubby-cheeked angels, who blow big trumpets with a manifestly painful * This answer is "ben trovato" but alas, " non i veroj" The reply of the commandant to the Grand Duke simply was, that his soldiers would refuse to obey any such order. — Translator's note. FLORENCE. 171 exertion of lungs. In Florence, on the other hand, everything— or nearly everything — remained unspoiled and unaltered, each work in the place it was originally destined for, COURTYARD OF THE BARGELLO. and still instinct with the spirit of the ancient founders, who rest in their tombs near to the votive offerings they made to religion and to art. From the earliest Christian times down to the latest times of the Renaissance, Florentine art extends in an unbroken sequence ; the horrors of the Barocco-style. were in a great measure avoided by the artistic z 2 172 ITALY, instinct of the Florentines ; and at the present day the tendency of her artists is to return to the best of the early models. Let us now cast a rapid glance at the Florentine School of Painting. Cimabue may be considered the founder of the Florentine School of Painting ; he was born of a noble family in the year 1240, and worked much in Pisa (the choir of the Duomo) and still more at Assisi, where he covered the upper church of the cathedral dedicated to St. Francis with frescos. He broke away from the stiff conventionalities of the Byzantine Mosaics ; and his pictures display a good deal of the serene and cheerful beauty of the Antique, without losing the solemnity and seriousness of the intensely religious early Christian Art. One of the most famous works of Cimabue is to be seen in Florence in the church of Santa Maria Novella ; — the Madonna and Child. The Virgin is seated under a canopy, and above her head six charming angels are floating. She is clothed in a dark, rich garment with gold borders, which falls in long straight folds. The expression of divine maternal love on her countenance is rendered with wonderful vivid- ness. This picture was so enthusiastically admired when it was first painted, that it was carried in procession from Cimabue's house to the church. Next in succession to Cimabue comes Giotto, painter, sculptor, and architect. Vasari relates that Cimabue found him one day keeping the sheep of his father Bondone ; the boy, only ten years old, and utterly without instruction, was drawing one of the sheep on a fragment of stone ; whereupon Cimabue took him as his pupil. Giotto, the awakening genius of the fourteenth century, soon originated the most bold and animated designs, crowded with a great variety of figures. He filled whole churches and chapels in different parts of Italy with his frescos, which are still well-preserved in the church of the Madonna dell' Arena in Padua, in the lower church of the Duomo at Assisi, in Florence, Rome, and Naples. Besides all that, he covered the exterior of the Duomo of Florence with splendid marbles, built the enchantingly beautiful campanile, and adorned it with exquisite statuettes. The school of painting which he founded, both frescos and paintings on wood, branched out widely in various directions. On many an altar in the Florentine churches may still be seen his slim, narrow-shouldered saints on a gold background, with their pale, gentle, yearning faces, their soul-fraught, pensive eyes, delicate, expressive hands, and rich brocaded garments. They glimmer from afar through the solemn twilight of the Gothic aisles. After Giotto and his disciples comes Orgagna, painter, sculptor, architect, and poet. He carried on for a time the construction of the Florentine Duomo, and being dissatisfied with the proportions of the span of the roof, as designed by Arnolfo and Giotto, carried the arches to their present huge dimensions. His whole genius tended towards the grand and powerful, the stirring and terrible in art, which he carried out in enormous frescos imbued with Dantescan intellect and Dantescan boldness. The traces of his genius may be seen in the Campo Santo of Pisa, in Santa Maria Novella, in the tabernacle in Or' San Michele, and in the Loggia dei Lanzi. Power and passion animate all his figures ; but yet he reaches a point of ideal religious serenity, such as Florentine art only attained to by going through all the phases of actual life and suffering. And this it is which is so wonderful and admirable in his works. Soon after Orgagna's death, the Florentine artists embraced the Real unconditionally ; and yet — with few exceptions — not to extra- vagance. The soft and gracious blue skies of Florence have never been favourable to exaggerated enthusiasm, and seem able to produce only delicate and judicious minds. The later artists remove their creations from the ideal spheres wherein the figures of Giotto COURTYARD OF THE PALAZZO VECCHIO, FLORENCE. OF THE innvffiSfTY OF FLORENCE. 173 and Orgagna still stand or float, into the realms of the actual ; — into the full, every-day life of Florence, with all its realities. The Madonna is represented as a graceful Florentine maiden, and set in a rose-garden with the villas, walls, and fantastic towers of the town for a background. The Holy Family descends into this work-a-day world, and its members wear the splendid, becoming, and many-coloured costume of the day. The delight in portraiture, — which Giotto shared, — grows stronger and stronger, and the artists represent well-known figures of the people, and graceful youths belonoqnor to the noblest families of Florence. The young Ma- saccio, Brunelleschi's friend, points the way with his frescos in the church of the Carmine, and is followed by a string of first-rate names ; among them Ghirlandajo, Michael Angelo's master. Sculpture advances at an equal pace with painting. Giotto, Orgagna, and other masters, are themselves sculp- tors as well as painters ; and in the year 1330, Andrea Pisano, after two-and-twenty years of labour, finishes his bronze gates for the Baptistery : — somewhat stern and stiff, per- haps, but full of dignity. Then in the years 1427, and 1452, Lorenzo Ghiberti completes his two great bronze gates for the other portals of the Baptistery, of which gates Michael Angelo says that they are worthy to stand at the entrance to Para- dise. A whole world of thought, the fulness of the spiritual life of that day, is fixed into exqui- site forms in these bronze gates. Ghiberti joins the old art to the new, which latter tends entirely to the representation of Nature ; and such men as Brunelleschi, Quercia, Donatello, active workers in marble and bronze, and many more besides, are his worthy compeers. But so great is the productive power of this time, that shortly a third species of art arises, which combines painting and sculpture : the art, namely, of working in tcrra-cotta, baked and coloured clay. It was invented by Luca della Robbia, and carried on after his death by his nephews and great nephews. Luca della Robbia also worked in marble. One of his productions, which is worthy to be compared with the finest in this kind, stands BRONZE FOUNTAIN IN THE PIAZZA DELLA SANTISSIMA ANNUNZIATA. 1/4 ITALY. above the organ in the Duomo at Florence, and consists of bas-reliefs representing groups of children dancing, singing, and playing on musical instruments. He has richly endowed his native city Florence, and other parts of Tuscany with his terra-cottas ; works full of simplicity, sentiment, and piety. For the Art of the Renaissance had its source in religious enthusiasm ; but it was enthusiasm which soon got beyond the limits prescribed by the priests, and to which the Beautiful in and for itself is sacred. " True painting," says Michael Angelo, is pious and noble in itself; for the mere striving after per- fection elevates the soul to devotion, inasmuch as it brings it into closer com- munion with God." The Art of the Floren- tines had continued to erow ever richer, more many-sided, more accurately faithful in its delineations of actual life, when, — perhaps at the mo- ment that the turning-point Avas nearly reached, and Art ran some risk of falling into the petty and commonplace, — the greatest geniuses of all appeared upon the scene. These men, from their herit- age of three centuries of un- flagging struggle and aspira- tion, from the great and earnest ideas of the old masters, from the gigantic artistic progress of the early Renaissance, and lastly from their own gifted intellects, evolved the splendid results which will be the standard and measure of Art for a thousand years to come. They are Leonardo da Vinci, Michael Angelo of Florence, and Raphael of Urbino. Leonardo da Vinci was richly gifted. He sought to penetrate the secrets of Nature in all directions, and studied the laws of optics, mechanics, statics, &c. His mind was surprisingly versatile. Wherever he went he attracted crowds of enthusiastic disciples and was the friend of kings. But a strangely unfortunate star seemed to rule over the fate of all his productions, nearly every one of which perished either during his lifetime or shortly after his death. The colossal model for an equestrian statue of Ludovico il Moro in Milan (for the casting of which Leonardo demanded a hundred thousand pounds' weight of brass) was chosen as a mark to shoot at by the archers when the French VIEW FROM THE BOBOLI GARDENS. FLORENCE. *75 FOUNTAIN IN THE BOBOLI GARDENS. entered Milan in 1499, and utterly destroyed. His great cartoon of a battle-piece, which he designed in competition with Michael Angelo for the great Sala del Consiglio in Florence, was cut up and lost. It represented soldiers and knights engaged in deadly i 7 6 ITALY. contest round a standard ; even the horses were struggling and raging against each other in wild confusion. The cartoon was admired and studied by the greatest masters of the day. Lastly his world-renowned Last Supper is nearly effaced from the wall of the Refectory in Milan, which was long used as a stable for horses ! But even in its decay it testifies to the almost superhuman depth and creative power of the Master ; and stands to this day an unapproachable wonder, and one of the highest developments ever attained by Art. The influence which Leonardo — the inventor of chiaro-oscuro, — had upon his contemporaries, is incalculable ; and everything that remains from his hand bears an irresistible charm. At the very time when Leonardo and the young Michael Angelo were competing for the palm of victory with their cartoons, a beautiful youth of twenty years old entered the city — it was Raphael of Urbino. Florence was then at the summit of her power and glory, and the young painter received impressions then which lasted him his whole life. Many of them were contradictory impressions, no doubt, but he combined, and har- monized, and transfigured them with his own peculiar grace. Thenceforward the Florentine painters — a Fra Bartolomeo, an Andrea del Sarto, and others — followed in the path of one or other of those three greatest ones. The apex is reached ; but even the descent — even the latter summer and autumn — produce many delightful and beautiful flowers. The list is closed with Giorgio Vasari, who was at once painter and writer, and who, himself the personal friend of many of the great masters, and having before his eyes their masterpieces in their first freshness, wrote the history of Florentine art. He gives us the whole long list of Tuscan artists, from Cimabue down to Michael Angelo, and a catalogue of their works. His book is full of errors, nay, often of downright inventions and old wives' tales ; but the glamour of that wonderful Art- world is upon every word of it ! His style is forcible and picturesque, his information often most precious ; and old Vasari may be said to be the father of all modern histories of art. * # # * « * YVe must not omit all mention of the great collections of pictures, made during several centuries by the princes and the people, the national treasures of Florence. The two huge palaces of the Pitti and the Uffizi, are connected together by a long gallery, which crosses the Arno above the Ponte Vecchio ; and in these two palaces are displayed to the public a splendid series of works of art, from the Antique, through all the changes and fluctuations of Christian art, down to the second classic period, which may fairly be ranked as equal with the first — the Renaissance. Here the northern stranger, who has crossed the Alps for the first time, makes acquaintance with Raphael, Michael Angelo, Andrea del Sarto, Fra Bartolomeo, — and yet there are people who fancy they can see all these wonders in the course of one afternoon, and who probably think there ought to be donkeys ready saddled and bridled at the top of the Uffizi stairs, to enable visitors to ride through the galleries, and thus view them even more expeditiously than they do at present ! Besides these, the churches are full of works of art; and there is, moreover, the Accademia di Belle Arti in the immediate vicinity of the beautiful Piazza della Santissima Annunziata, with its arcades and elegant bronze fountains. In the Accademia a collection of Tuscan painters is arranged in strict chronological order ; and there is, too, an artistic museum in the Bargello. 01 THE FLORENCE. 177 In the old Dominican convent of St. Mark, from whence Savonarola scattered his fiery words, the corridors, the cells, and the refectory, are adorned with the frescos of Fra Giovanni Angelico da Fiesole. His contemporaries gave him, even during his life-time, the title of Beato, or Blessed; and in truth, in looking upon these slender figures, and these sad, yet glorified faces, we feel something of that peace which passeth understanding. We seem to see the form of the pious monk as one who has conversed more with angels than with men, transfigured by the serene light of heaven, standing on the threshold of that turbulent agitated time — full of innovations in religion as in art — the Renaissance. FLORENTINE NATURE. '• The hyacinths were blooming fresh and fair, In Boboli, what time with flute-like note The nightingale poured music from her throat, And Spring's sweet spirit filled the morning air." MIST still broods over the towers and palaces of the town, above which the cupola of the Duomo, divinely illumined by the golden rays of the rising sun, soars into the clear ether. Here in the gardens of Boboli we look upon the back of the Pitti Palace, glowing redly in the morning light ; a huge, massive, gloomy, almost awful-looking pile ! Yet the rosy little clouds float peacefully above it, swarms of swallows dart joyously hither and thither, and from the olive-grown depths of the garden comes the clear note of the nightingale, dying away at times, and then sounding again fuller, sweeter, and more thrilling than ever. A cypress alley leads right through the gardens, and as it rises, a beautiful and widespread view is obtained of the city and the fruitful valley with its scattered villas, and the bare summit of Monte Morello in the background. How the great, gnarled, solemn cypresses rise up into the soft blue of the morning sky ! Marble gods gleam out of the shadowy myrtle thickets. Down in the lower part of the gardens a stream of water is trickling from the great fountain surrounded by a fragrant bower of laurels. Orange and oleander trees bloom in great vases on a little island in the midst of a lake, and above them rises the graceful form of Giovanni Bologna's beautiful marble fountain, where colossal river-gods let the water drip gently from their urns. The soft murmur of the fountain, the luxuriant growth and bloom, the stillness of the place, the pure, perfumed air, the consciousness of the near neighbourhood of Florence — all these make up an atmosphere of delight and beauty which fills and soothes the soul unspeakably. As we wander onwards we catch glimpses of the city, or look down into little olive-grown dales, where stone cottages stand half hidden by almond and mulberry trees, and where children are playing beneath vine-trellised bovvers, calling and laughing with their silvery little voices. A great contrast to these beautiful tranquil poetic gardens of Boboli is presented by the Caserne, quite on the flat ground beyond the city, on the right bank of the Arno. The Cascine is a long dusty sort of park, with lawns and fine trees — some of them mantled with ivy to the top — commanding but little outlook, and containing a few unin- teresting buildings in the modern style. But this is the daily rendezvous of the A A 1 7 8 ITAL Y. Florentines. Handsome carriages roll up and down the drives, or stand by hundreds on the space before the great cafe, when the band is playing. Here the fashionable world is to be found unfailingly at certain times and seasons ; and at the door of every smart carriage may be seen a group of Florentine dandies, chatting with airs of intimacy to the fine ladies within. There is nothing stirring, nothing exciting in the scene ; it gives one the impression that all these people will go on doing exactly the same things day after day until the sky falls ! Formerly the King of Italy, Vittorio Emanuele, the Re Galantuomo, might be seen driving here occasionally, but never stopping his carriage. A strong, indomitable looking kind of man, with his bronzed face, keen eye, and massive throat ; reminding one of some of the valiant captains whose swords were doughtily wielded in the service of the old Florentine Commonwealth. A much more agreeable promenade than that through the Cascine may be made on the opposite side of the river, to a cypress-crowned hill, where stands the convent of Monte Oliveto, or to the heights of Bellosguardo, with its pleasant villas and pine-trees. From hence a most exquisite view of the city may be enjoyed. The Pitti Palace, with the Boboli Gardens sloping up behind it, appears in all its tremendous mass ; and the effect of its huge rough blocks of stone is imposing even at this distance. ****** Outside the Porta Romana begins the splendid new road which has cost the Florentines some millions of francs. It leads between villas and gardens up the hill by a series of zig-zags to the new Piazza di Michel Angelo. Here, where formerly an olive- wood grew, now stands a fountain, and the great copy in bronze of Michael Angelo's " David." " There on the bright enchanting plain Fair Florence 'neath the sunshine lies ; And towering high o'er roof and fane, Her Duomo soars into the skies." Further on we come to the Campo Santo, the burial-ground of San Miniato al Monte. It is made in a succession of terraces on the hill-side, and glitters with white marble. How still is everything around ! The dazzling white grave-stones, the melancholy monuments, the dark cypresses, the ancient black and white facade of the venerable basilica of San Miniato, with its mosaic pictures on a gold background — all steeped in the infinite silence of a sultry noon. Nearer and nearer a funeral procession approaches ; six men carry the coffin, and others go before with lighted tapers. They all wear black garments, and black hoods drawn completely over the head and face, from which their eyes sparkle strangely through two round holes. They are members of the confraternity of the Misericordia, an institution which has existed in Florence for several hundred years. The interior of San Miniato is like one huge grave-yard, and is literally paved with tombstones, on many of which bunches and wreaths of flowers may often be seen. The windows of the choir are made of semi-transparent plates of alabaster, and admit a pale, softened light. In the apse above is a grandiose mosaic, representing the Saviour. The whole basilica is surrounded by columns, and has an ancient roof of rafters ; and to the left of it opens that celebrated chapel of St. James, which contains treasures of architecture, sculpture, fresco-painting, and terra-cotta, in the highest style of the Renaissance ; FLORENCE. 179 amongst them a fine monument to a cardinal of Portugal, whose statue reclines on an exquisitely carved sarcophagus. The ancient Etruscan city of Fiesole seems to invite us from the hill on which she is throned, with her tall campanile and Capuchin convent on the topmost summit of the height. Halfway up the steep road to Fiesole, on a sunny olive-covered slope, stands the favourite creation of Cosmo the First, the Badia, built by Brunelleschi. All the surroundings are in harmony with each other. Around a peaceful cloistered courtyard are built the church, the refectory, the library, and other halls ; and towards the city and the smiling landscape opens a delightful pillared loggia. In the sunny, deserted rooms VIEW IN THE VAL d'aRNO. we may fancy ourselves surrounded by the spirits of those illustrious men who were so far in advance of their age, and who hastened the dawn of that most flourishing epoch in Italian history, the Renaissance, the time of a new intellectual birth ; until the powers of darkness and priestcraft, supported by French and Spanish swords, trod down the ripening harvest! In those days noble and profound ideas grew up amidst a refined and joyous society ; Art and Philosophy were marked by sublime tendencies, and at the same time by the purest humanity. In those days well might a Pico della Mirandola exclaim : " God made man at the end of the six clays of creation, in order that he might acknowledge the laws of the universe, love its beauty, and admire its grandeur. God bound man to no special spot of earth, to no fixed action, to no iron necessities ; but gave him movement and free will. ' I have placed thee in the centre of the world,' says the Creator to Adam, ' in order that thou mightest look around thee and behold all that it contains. I created thee a being neither heavenly nor earthly, neither wholly mortal nor wholly immortal, in order that thou mightest educate and conquer thyself. Thou mayest degenerate into a beast, or develope thyself into a godlike being. The brutes A A 2 iSo ITALY. bring with them from their mother's womb all that is needful for them ; higher spirits are from the beginning that which they continue to be throughout eternity. Thou alone hast a power of development and growth according to thy free will, thou hast within thee the Q^erms of a manifold existence.' " From Fiesole there is a most striking distant view, especially towards the south. At our feet lies the city, shut in by hills of varied outline ; and beyond it you see far and wide over the land, over pine woods, fruit orchards, arable fields, and ancient towns rising SAN MINIATO AL MONTE. from rocky eminences. Long drawn lines of mountains stretch out far, far away in the distance, looking misty and unreal as they recede, and above them the clouds of heaven sail peacefully. An hour beyond Fiesole lies a favourite point for excursions, the Park of Pratolino, which combines the advantages of fine woods with pure mountain air. Here amidst noble oak trees crouches the colossal figure of the Apennine, built up with stone and mortar after the design of Giovanni Bologna. This giant has a beard seven yards long ! But what traveller has ever exhausted all the beauties of the Florentine Campagna ? As we penetrate into the folds of the hills, which seem absolutely secluded from the world, we find ever new beauty, and delicious peacefulness. Here are gardens on every hand ; flowering rose-bushes peep over the high walls, oleanders and pomegranates glow in their rich bloom beside stately villas, pine woods crown the higher summits of the hills, and ever and anon we catch the silvery glimmer of some olive-grown slope shadowed by dark tall cypresses ; like one melancholy note which serves but to enhance the fulness of the joyous concert of the spring. VINTAGE IN TUSCANY. FLORENCE. 1S1 COLOSSAL STATUE OF THE APENNINE IN THE PARK AT PRATOLINO. Blooming defiles lead into stern stony valleys. In the valley of the Ema, on an abrupt eminence, stands the Certosa, glittering white in the sunshine. It contains delicately carved cloisters, ornamented with paintings in the interior courts, and marble fountains which betray the hand of some great master of the Cinque Cento ; and from the cells the eye roves enchanted over hill, and dale, and rugged mountain. The valley of 1 82 ITALY. the Arno immediately above Florence offers another picture full of cheerfulness and beauty. Villa succeeds villa, gardens rise on terraces one above the other, little villages nestle down by the river's brink, on the mountain ridges stand ruined castles. We are far from the city, in a solitude, but the brightest and most blooming solitude imaginable, with pillared edifices, fountains, gay-coloured garden-beds, ancient cypress trees, and groves of evergreens ! As we advance up the course of the river the valley grows narrower and more lonely, the gardens disappear, mill-wheels churn the water amid the sallows, and the great woods come down to the edge of the road. After a long and toilsome pilgrimage the wanderer reaches the far-famed monastery of Vallombrosa — the shady valley — and further still, high up in the wild rugged Val d'Arno, close to the source of that river and to the source of the Tiber, Ave come to Camaldoli, the retreat of the holy Saint Romualdo. Here upon the bare, treeless summits of the mountains — with the woody meadows of the convent at our feet — here from this backbone of Italy, we look down upon a whole confused, deeply cleft, rocky labyrinth, through which the Arno and the Tiber have pioneered green pathways. There they lie, the infinitely varied hills covered with pine woods, and, sloping down on either hand, the fruitful smiling valleys ; then come marshy plains, from whence mighty cities have arisen — yonder, lost in the misty blue of distance, stands old Ravenna, near the Adriatic, and there, towards the Tyrrhene sea, rise up the towers of Pisa. The eye roves from sea to sea, and beholds a limitless extent of storied earth, inhabited for thousands of years by artistic, warlike, and commercial populations, and rich in temples of ancient worship, and homes of immortal culture. STREET LIFE IN PISA. PISA. ISA la Mortal Dead or asleep, since the clays when the Florentines robbed her of her liberty, she lies idly dreaming on the sandy plain, a few miles from the sea-shore, in the soft, slumberous, misty air. The proud merchant ships have disappeared that once carried on a flourishing trade with the East, or bore across the salt seas valorous Crusaders to the wondrous land which the Saviour's foot has trod, and where the Christian knights seized kingdoms from the unbeliever. Gone, too, is the pompous fleet of war- vessels, allies of the Hohenstaufens, which once received Conradin, the last of his race, with a concert of flutes and cymbals ; and which so often went forth to fight against the Genoese, and returned with many captured galleys and thousands of prisoners. The day of Meloria (1284) broke away the first jewel from Pisa's diadem. The Genoese came in force, commanded by Uberti Doria ; the fight lasted all day until long after sunset, five thousand Pisans were slain, sixteen thousand taken prisoners and carried to Genoa. Soon after that a horrible incident happened in Pisa, — the death of Count Ugolino, with his four sons, in the Torre dclla Fame. Kaiser Henry the Seventh, the Luxemburger — the emperor for whose coming Dante so ardently 1 84 ITALY. longed — intended to make Pisa the capital of Italy; but he died in 13 15, in the neigh- bourhood of Siena, and was buried in the Campo Santo of Pisa, where his monument may still be seen. Again and again the city's fortunes fluctuated ; she was the theatre of ferocious civil Avar, but enjoyed at intervals some better and more tranquil days ; until at length, after a heroic resistance which lasted fourteen years, she fell finally into the power of Florence in the year 1509. All tells of past greatness, of departed splendour ! And even the exquisite buildings which Pisa erected in the highest period of her maritime supremacy — the Cathedral, the Baptistery, the Campo Santo, the Campanile — are threatening to sink into ruin. Not only has the famous Leaning Tower sunk to one side, but the other edifices have sunk considerably, and it is striking to see how firmly their marble frames hold together. But the soil is treacherous, and the great buildings stand at a threatening angle of inclination on the treeless sandy plain, over which a southern sun pours its burning rays, reflected from the yellow soil with dazzling power on to the great marble walls. It is hard to say which is grander and more beautiful, the wide aisled Duomo, or the Leaning Tower close by, with its rows of airy columns ; or again, the massive circular Baptistery covered with dainty Gothic carving, surmounted by a bell-shaped cupola, and surrounded by a girdle of pillared arches. In the interior of the Baptistery, every tone spoken or sung is reflected from the lofty vaults into waves of wonderful music ; it is as if the lightest whisper could awake the dreaming Spirit of Harmony with which the whole building is imbued.* The Duomo is a real museum of precious works of art, especially those of the school of Niccolo Pisano, which, even earlier than the Florentines, emancipated sculpture from rudeness and rigidity, and showed a remarkable tendency to return to the best models of antiquity. There are, in the apse of the choir of the cathedral, fine mosaics representing the Saviour, the Madonna, and St. John ; the latter the last work of Cimabue. But still richer is the Campo Santo, which lies to the north of the Cathedral and Baptistery. It is an oblong, rectangular building, with smooth, unadorned marble walls on the outside, and within consisting of long open arcades, surrounding a space of ground overgrown with rose bushes : — " Sacred is the soil around us ; All across the stormy ocean From Jerusalem the Pisans Brought it with profound devotion. " 'Tis the soil of that dread mountain Where the Saviour's cross once stood, Where the earth grew darkly crimson Moistened with His precious blood. " Thence they brought it unto Pisa, Deeming that in mould so blest Their beloved dead would slumber In a doubly hallo w'd rest. " And from out this earth fresh springing Purple roses bud and bloom, Breathing o'er the wanderer's spirit Memories of the Holy Tomb ; * The peculiarity of the echo in the Pisan Baptistery consists in the sounds being wonderfully prolonged; so that three harmonious intervals — such as the notes of the common chord, for example — sung one after the other, are echoed back blended into one harmonious sound, which has an indescribably beautiful and unearthly effect. — Translator's note. PISA. 185 " Breathing of the Love immortal Which o'ercometh mortal strife, Rising o'er the grave victorious, Glorifying death and life ! " Each of the four colonnades that surround the central space is filled with fine works in marble, ranging from Greek and Roman times down to the present day. Here are antique sarcophagi and pillars, mediaeval monuments adorned with gold mosaics, PIAZZA DEL DUOMO. severely religious sculptures by Pisano, and splendid tombs of the Renaissance period ; all mingled together in beautiful variety, and standing out upon the finest background in the world. For the walls of the loggia are covered with an unbroken series of frescoes by the greatest masters of several successive centuries ; from the representation of the Last Judgment, and the Triumph of Death in Orgagna's grand and gloomy manner, to Gozzoli's pictures full of unspeakable life and cheerfulness. Perhaps the fresh joyous spring-tide spirit of the early Renaissance is nowhere so vividly presented to us as in these four-and-twenty designs with their crowds of noble animated figures, and their delightful backgrounds full of temples and turrets, lofty mountains, and valleys watered by winding streams. The most famous of these frescoes are Noah's Vintage, the birth of Jacob and Esau, the marriage of Jacob and Rachel, and Joseph recognised by his brethren. Beneath the last-named stands Gozzoli's tomb, erected in 1478 by the Pisans, In the Campo Santo, too, may be seen the huge chains of the Port of Pisa, which were taken in battle by the Genoese in 1362, and by them given to the Florentines, who hung B B 1 86 ITALY. them up in the Baptistery of Florence, where they remained down to a quite recent period. But the new times brought reconciliation, and the trophy was given back to Pisa as a token that henceforth there was to be peace amongst the sister cities of Italy. A few hours' journey north-west from Pisa, lies Lucca, an important city of sixty-five thousand inhabitants. The ramparts which surround the town are planted with shady trees, and afford a delightful promenade, whence the eye enjoys a view of the picturesque flat-roofed towers of Lucca, or ranges over the charming landscape, backed by the jagged line of the Pisan mountains. From this range of hills stretches a mighty aqueduct, which, supported on five hundred arches, was constructed in the year 1834, but is built with truly Roman solidity and massiveness. Lucca, founded by the Ligurians, was a Roman colony 200 years B.C. The remains of a great amphitheatre are still to be seen there, and the ancient basilicas of the city, — especially San Frediano — contain numerous richly wrought columns taken from the amphitheatre. Lucca is not very rich in famous artists, and yet she claims one of the greatest for her son : Matteo Civitali (1435 — 1501) the sculptor, whose immortal works, full of simple, noble beauty, adorn the cathedral. TAVERN NEAR SAN FREDIANO, LUCCA. CHURCH OF SAN DOMENICO. SIENA. IGH above the green, fruitful plain, upon a group of isolated hills Siena sits enthroned. The town is still entirely surrounded by walls and towers ; in the little ravines between the hills, and on the slopes, the houses are crowded together in picturesque disorder ; — time-darkened palaces in the heart of the city, great churches crowning the summits, and the dazzling marble duomo dominating- all. How fertile and pleasant is the whole country round ! The soil is in part .clay, in part sand ; and the latter has a yellow — almost golden — hue. There are gardens everywhere : — gardens which produce corn, wine, and oil, and all sorts of vegetables and fruits ; and scattered amongst them, you come upon groups of sunny farm-houses, all built of solid stone, and inhabited by a kindly, pleasant, industrious population. Then come plantations of the evergreen oak (or ilex) and beech ; and at about an hour's walk from Siena there is a fine wood composed entirely of ilex-trees, where many an ancient 13 b z ITALY. trunk is twined about with glistening ivy, and where a long-deserted convent stands at the outskirts of the forest. Still more poetic and impressive are the ruins of the Abbey ST. GALGANO NEAR CHIUSDINO. of San Galgano, near Chiusdino, several miles to the westward of Siena, where a stranger's foot scarcely ever treads. The noble columns of the purest gothic, the soaring SIENA. 189 The harmonious Italian language is heard in Siena to perfection ; the soft Florentine accent, with its lazy aspirates, being tempered here by somewhat of Roman strength and 190 ITAL Y. vigour. And the inhabitants are as refined, cultivated, and agreeable, as their speech : worth)- in all respects of their beautiful mediaeval city, which, for fine public edifices, works of art, temples, and the charm of the surrounding landscape, may dispute the palm with Florence herself. Siena, indeed, seems to the stranger a smaller Florence : — only more tranquil, more idyllic, more remote from the clash and conflict of this work-a-day world. In the most central and the loftiest position in the city, rises the duomo. It is built in alternate stripes of black and white marble, and has two line facades, one to the east, and the other to the west. The eastern transept remains in an unfinished and almost ruinous condition, its colossal proportions having rendered its completion impossible, by reason of the great cost involved in it : and the empty arches of its gigantic windows overlook the semi-circular market-place which lies beneath them. This market-place is adorned by the celebrated Fonte Gaja, with its charming bas-reliefs in marble : — a fine work of Jacopo della Ouercia, erected within the years 1402 — 141 9. All around the market-place, in a wide semi-circle, stand the palaces of the Sienese nobles, built of brick, in a fine early gothic style, and the chord of the arc is entirely formed by the Palazzo Pubblico, or Town Hall. This picturesque gothic building has a tower some- what like that of the Palazzo Vecchio in Florence, rising to a dizzy height. Its facade is adorned with fine arched windows, and its interior halls contain several remarkable frescoes, some of great antiquity, and the fine colossal figures of Sodoma. Both these towers, — that of the Palazzo Pubblico in Siena, and that of the Palazzo Vecchio in Florence, — are distinctively characteristic of their respective towns ; the Sienese soars higher and bolder, but at the same time more slender, slight, and graceful, than its massive, gloomy, and threatening rival of Northern Etruria. Among the palaces, besides those of gothic brick-work with their richly pillared arched windows, may be observed several elegant edifices of the Renaissance period, built of sand-stone, and having their lower stories decorated with magnificent wrought iron- work ; — arabesque designs full of palm-branches, griffins, lanterns, serpents, and heads of oxen and sheep. The development of art in Siena is almost as rich as in Florence, and of quite equal antiquity, handed down through the centuries of a long series of Great Masters, from Duccio, the highly gifted contemporary of Cimabue, to Balthasar Peruzzi, who was driven back to his native city by the famous sack of Rome in 1527. This Peruzzi, one of the greatest architects of any period, and at the same time a painter and decorator, worked in Rome at St. Peter's, built the Palazzo Massimi there, and has, more- over, adorned his native city with several of his most exquisite works. The most recent investigations have brought to light an incredible number of previously unknown — or at least unnamed — Sienese artists, whose works still beautify the old city. In this respect the cathedral, the very marble pavement of which is rich with fine designs in a peculiar kind of etching, holds the first rank. Amongst the best known masters who worked in the cathedral, may be mentioned Niccolo and Giovanni Pisano, Ouercia, Michelangelo, Sodoma, Pinturicchio, and Peruzzi. As long ago as in the Middle Ages, the purely Greek group in marble of the Three Graces,* was discovered in Siena, and the town still preserves this treasure. Sienese art has at all times been distinguished by an inimitable grace and elegance, and especially during the period of the early Renaissance. The eye * This beautiful group, which for many years stood in the building called the Library, annexed to the Cathedral, was removed at the desire of the present Pope, who deemed it an unfit ornament for a Christian church, and is now preserved at the " Academia dcllc belle Arti." — Translator's note. SIENA. 191 is never weary of admiring the charming little churches with their well-proportioned cupolas, nestling in the ravines that intersect the group of hills on which the town is built, or perched picturesquely atop of the steep slopes. Within them are to be seen frescoes and oil-paintings, sculptures and friezes of quite Grecian elegance. In striking contrast to these are the huge, unadorned masses of the two great churches of the mendicant orders, built of dark brown brick ; — San Bernardino, and San Domenico, frowning down from their heights like Saracenic fortresses. At the foot of San Domenico lies the ancient fountain, Fonte Branda, sung of by Dante.* These fountains are a specialty of Siena ; they are huge cisterns, or reservoirs of water covered by a lofty vaulted arch, and situated in the lower parts of the city, where the waters from the upper lands are gathered to- gether. Elegant pointed arches rise over the clear surface of the fountain, and wild roses and ferns flourish in the interstices of the walls. Hither come troops of women and young girls every evening to fetch water ; and the whole scene recalls a picture from the biblical history, where the young maidens at the well of the city refresh the thirsty traveller with a cool draught from their slender earthen pitchers. * The good people of Siena doubtless cling firmly to the tradition which makes their Fonte Branda the Fonte Branda mentioned by Maestro Adamo in the 30th Canto of the " Inferno." But the best opinion of the more recent Dantcscan scholars is that the Fonte Branda, so pitcously recalled by the parched tongue of the suffering Adamo, is a fountain or rill in the Casentino, just above Prato Vecchio. — Translator's note. THE LAKE OF THRASYMENE. HE grey Cyclopean walls on which Hannibal's warlike gaze rested still look down from the mountain cities around the lake. Thrasymene lies tranquil, shrouded in a slight veil of mist, unfurrowed by the keel of a boat, dotted with green islets, and surrounded by shores covered with oak-woods. Once long long ago the mist spread thickly over the waters, and over the narrow shore near Passignano, where now the railway runs, and hid the position which Hannibal had ingeniously taken up to lie in wait for his enemies. Eagerly and unsus- piciously the Roman troops, under the command of the Consul Flaminius, pressed on into the gap that opens between the lake and the rocky prominence close to Passignano. The heavy morning fog completely concealed the foe from them. As the head of the Roman column approached this hill, Hannibal gave the signal of attack ; at the same time his cavalry closed and guarded the entrance to the pass, and the dispersion of the mist suddenly showed all the neighbouring heights bristling with Punic arms. It was no com- bat, but a total rout. All those who had remained without the narrow pass were driven into the lake by Hannibal's cavalry, the van of the column in the pass itself destroyed almost without resistance, and the majority of the soldiers, including their Consul, were absolutely cut down in the act of marching past. But the sounds of strife and bloodshed have long ceased to disturb these scenes. A profound peace reigns over the wide and singularly beautiful landscape ; — one of the most beautiful even in Italy. Above the almost circular basin of the Lake the blue mountain pyramids of Monte Amiata and Monte Cetona rise in the south-west, and offer a spectacle of unparalleled grandeur. On the northern shore of the lake is seen Cortona on her rocky slopes, surrounded by Cyclopean walls, and containing a labyrinth of dark, narrow, and steep lanes, in which the gloomy, haunted-looking old sand-stone palaces are crumbling to decay. Above the town, upon a sunny eminence planted with olive trees, stands the gothic church of Santa Margherita, from whence there is a wonderful panoramic view of the surrounding country. Below Cortona, again, in a deep gorge formed by a little mountain stream, overgrown with fruit trees, and affording a charming peep of the mirror- like surface of the lake, lies the church of the Madonna del Calcinajo. This church is entirely unknown to the great majority of travellers, yet it is one of the noblest speci- mens of the early Tuscan Renaissance, built by Cecco di Giorgio in the form of a Latin cross, and surmounted by a lofty cupola. Upon its altars are still to be seen pictures by no less a hand than that of Cortona's greatest citizen, Luca Signorelli, the creator of the frescoes in the Lady chapel of the Duomo at Orvieto. The shores of Thrasymene are traversed in great part by a high road, but are but thinly populated. On the western side, on a narrow tongue of land that stretches far into the lake, stands Castiglione del Lago, almost an island city, with alleys and streets as strait and confined as those of Venice. Here, forgotten and neglected by the world still Till: LAKE OF TIIRASYMENE. i93 stands the palace that once belonged to the victor of Lepanto, the conqueror of the Turk, Don John of Austria. Its halls are still adorned with frescoes representing his doughty deeds ; especially the ceilings are fine, painted by Giulio Romano in his best and happiest period. I PORTA AUGUSTA, PERUGIA. If any one wishes to enjoy them he has but to take a little boat and get himself rowed across the lake to Castidione. A subtle enchantment seems to fill the spirit in the midst of this wide sheet of waters ; the still, shining lake, the blue sky, the utter solitude, the girdle all around of wood-covered hills, crowned with hoary ancient cities, c c 194 ITALY. from whence the matin bells are chiming, — all combine to make a singular and delightful impression. It is a wondrous country! Hill-city after hill-city, on the jagged rocky ridge ; Perugia, Montepulciano, Pienza, Radicofani, San Ouirico, Castiglione dell' Orcia, and others. In the extreme distance lies Siena; and high above all these stony peaks towers from a belt of clouds the massive bulk of Monte Amiata, from whose top the cupola of St. Peter's may be descried. Even in former days, when the great high road to Rome passed through these towns, they were sleepy and deserted enough, but since the railway train has puffed along the lower plains, and beside the beautiful lake of Thrasymene, they have become still more remote and unvisited. They are all still surrounded by walls and towers, and seem to have grown into one with the brown rocks on which they are built. Very often in the midst of the town a yawning chasm is seen splitting the crag, and spanned by the arch of a stone bridge picturesquely overgrown with ivy and the wild vine. For hours at a time your travelling carriage, with a yoke of oxen in front to help the horses — grand-looking beasts, these oxen ! sleek, long horned, and of a soft dove- colour — will have to crawl and toil up the steep way to some mountain city ; passing the cisterns cut deep into the overhanging rocks by the roadside, and the girls coming down to fetch water with a huge earthen pitcher of antique form carried on the shoulder, and a scarlet kerchief bound over their abundant black hair. Who could over-praise the beauty of the maidens of Montepulciano, or the merits of its noble vine that ripens here in the pure mountain air, upon the sun-baked chalky soil ? And then the view from the city walls ! Who can describe that view over the heaped-up hills, rising ever higher, step after step, until they reach the Alpine altitudes that glitter in eternal snow, the mirror of Lake Thrasymene with its islets, and, nearer to our feet, the shining little lakes of Montepulciano and Chiusi set in the greenness of the fruitful Val di Chiana ? Close by that Lake of Chiusi, where Porsenna once dwelt, and where his half- ruined colossal tomb is still pointed out, rise several hills of coagulated sand, shaded by a few scattered oak trees. These hills are perforated in all directions with passages and chambers, the last resting places of ancient Etruscans. They were the common burying-place for the entire population. Here are winding galleries filled with niches to contain the cinerary urns, of which hundreds have been found. Where several such galleries converge to one point, there is generally a loftier space like a chapel ; and the whole bears a striking similitude to the Christian catacombs. In the precipitous ridge of rock that looks over the valley, have been found single chambers, which served for the tombs of distinguished families. Heavy folding doors of stone closed the entrance to each roomy chamber, whose roofs, cut in the sandstone, either flat or sloping in shape, are adorned with coffered panels painted red. All around the chamber are ranged the sarcophagi, or, as the case may be, smaller oblong urns containing only ashes. At about the height of the eye there runs around the wall a sort of frieze, representing incidents from the life of the deceased ; — how they drove abroad in a chariot drawn by four horses, or how they went forth to the chase, all painted in pure colour on the natural surface of the wall. The figures are clearly and sharply designed, and full of expression ; and the animals especially are admirably drawn. In the valley behind Montepulciano stands the solitary church of San Biagio, built by Giuliano da San Gallo, entirely of blocks of limestone. It is one of the most remarkable domed churches of the Renaissance. A great cupola rises in the centre of THE LAKE OF THRASYMENE. 195 the Greek Cross, in which shape the church is built, and the light is admitted only through the windows of this cupola. All the lines of the edifice are severe, and of antique simplicity ; the exterior looks like what St. Peter's might have been had the designs of Bramante and Michael Angelo been faithfully carried out. At the distance of a few hours' journey from Montepulciano, rises the mountain town of Pienza, the native place of the great Pope ./Eneas Sylvius Piccolomini. The pontiff filled the poor, obscure, little mountain town with splendid palaces, which although once more solitary and deserted, are still standing in full preservation ; so that Pienza transports the beholder into the midst of the most flourishing period of the Italian Renaissance. The greater part of these edifices were constructed within a few years, — 1460, to 1464, — and the highly cultured, art-loving Pope, assisted the architect with his personal advice. The papal palace is square in form, and surrounds a courtyard with arcades and richly painted walls. Its facade, looking towards the Val d'Orcia, displays three ranges of pillars, one above the other, which pillars are surmounted by exquisite capitals of carved foliage. The view from this side, looking across the valley of Orcia to the wood-crowned eminence of Monte Amiata, is indescribably impressive. In the summer of the year 1462, when the plague and the excessive heat were making the lowlands terrible, /Eneas Sylvius took up his abode in these mountains, as he has himself so well described. Midway up the hill on which Pienza stands, he established his head quarters, together with the Roman Curia, in the ancient Longobard convent of San Salvatore. From hence, looking from among the chesnut trees at the edge of a rugged precipice, the whole of Southern Tuscany may be descried ; and in the distance the towers of Siena. Here, in the exquisite summer weather, under the shade of mighty oaks and chesnuts, upon fresh, smooth lawns free from thorny briars, or trouble- some insects, or dangerous reptiles, the Pope enjoyed the most serenely cheerful days. Every week he himself chose out some new shady spot for the Segnatura* which was held on certain fixed days. Once during such an assembly it happened that a huge stag was roused by the dogs from his lair in the neighbouring thicket, and after valorously defending himself with hoof and horn, was seen to flee away into the higher mountains. Of an evening the Pope would sit in front of the convent over- looking the valley of the Paglia, and hold cheerful converse with the cardinals. Some of his Holiness's suite who ventured to descend the mountain in the ardour of the chase found the heat in the lower districts insupportable, and all the vegetation scorched and burnt up ; — a real Inferno ! whilst the convent in its green shade of woods seemed to be a habitation of the Blessed. To the southward of Lake Thrasymene, upon a bold and rocky eminence, stands the ancient Citta della Pieve, — now a poor insignificant little place, — the birthplace of Perugino, Raphael's master. But to the east, on a long isolated back-bone of hills rising from the plain, higher than any of these hill cities, and dominating them all by virtue of her position, is enthroned Perugia (the ancient Perusia), the mightiest of all the Etruscan cities, still an important town, and once so strong a fortress that even Hannibal after his victory at Thrasymene dared not attack her. The town somewhat resembles Siena with its fine churches and picturesque groups of houses ; but it is much sterner- looking ; the streets are narrow, steeper, darker ; the air is keener and rougher, the * The Segnatura, or Signatura, was a supreme tribunal of the Roman Curia, consisting of seven prelates and a cardinal, which latter presided over it under the title of Prefetto. It was called Segnatura di Giustizia e Grazia, because it not only emitted sentences, but enjoyed the sovereign privilege of according a free pardon.— Translator 's note. C C 2 196 ITALY. scenery around wilder and more grandiose ; — a noble Alpine style of scenery in the immediate vicinity of the snow-crowned central range of the Apennine. Perugia has none of the gentler charms of Siena, and its history is more troubled, stormy, and wild. The tradition still lingers of the Bloody Wedding of Perugia, in the family of the whilom rulers of the town, the Baglioni. A conspiracy was entered into, at the head of which were two distant connections of the family, Grifone and Carlo Barciglia, against their relatives Guido and Ridolfo Baglione, with their sons Gianpaolo, Simonetto, Astorre, and Gismondo. The plot was carried into effect suddenly on the wedding day of Astorre Baglione with Lavinia Colonna, in the summer of the year 1500. The feast began and continued amidst signs and tokens of sinister augury. In the night of the fifteenth of Jul)', Guido, Astorre, Simonetto, and Gismondo were murdered in their respective houses : the rest managed to escape. As the body of Astorre, together with that of Simonetto, lay out in the open street, the beholders (and especially the foreign students who frequented the then famous university) compared him to an ancient Roman, so noble and dignified was the aspect of his lifeless form. Simonetto, on the other hand, looked bold and defiant, as though death itself had failed to subdue him. But on the following day those Baglioni who had escaped from the city, collected a large following and, with Gianpaolo at their head, forced their way back into Perugia, where other adherents speedily joined them. Grifone fell into the hands of his cousin Gianpaolo, and the latter ordered him to be killed. Atalanta, Grifone's mother, a still young and beautiful woman, who had some days previously retired to her estate in the country, together with Zenobia, Grifone's wife, and two children of Gianpaolo, now returned with her daughter-in-law to see her dying son. All made way for the two women as they passed along ; those who had struck down Grifone shrunk out of sight, fearing to draw upon themselves the mother's curse of vengeance. But, contrary to expectation, Atalanta conjured her son to pardon those who had given him his death wounds, and Grifone expired amidst her prayers and blessings. Then the two sad women in their trailing garments stained with Grifone's blood, went slowly away across the Piazza, amidst the awe-stricken silence of the crowd. This Atalanta is the same for whom Raphael painted the famous Entombment, now in the Borghese Palace, in Rome. The picture was a sort of votive offering to the highest and holiest example of maternal grief. But even in these latter days the history of Perugia displays one page of blood and horror : the storming of the city by the Swiss Papal troops, under Colonel Schmidt. Together with the whole of the Romagna, Perugia had risen up to join herself to the kingdom of United Italy, under Victor Emmanuel. Everywhere the annexation had been proclaimed without the slightest act of violence ; but Colonel Schmidt thought it incumbent on him to wrest back the town into the power of its old rulers at any cost. It would be difficult to imagine any place more adapted for defence than Perugia, with its strong encircling walls built on the living rock, its massive stone houses, its narrow, steep, and winding streets defended by long flights of steps, and great arches of solid masonry. On this occasion every window became a loop-hole ; children hurled down showers of stones, and the heavy Roman tiles, women poured hot oil on to the heads of the advancing soldiers ; it was a conflict without a parallel, obstinate, unchristian, blind, and pitiless ! House after house had to be stormed singly. In their chambers, in their beds, before the pictures of their saints, men and women were seized by the infuriated Swiss, and butchered. And then, once more, Perugia lay gagged and bound at the feet of the Pope King, and — Colonel Schmidt was made a General ! THE LAKE OE TJIRASYMENE. 197 But ihc blood of those so ruthlessly slain, cried aloud to Heaven, and only a few- years had passed before the States of the Church broke up and crumbled to pieces, like an edifice of rotten timber. The stern fortress which was built to terrorize and oppress INTERIOR OE AN ETRUSCAN TOMB NEAR PERUGIA. the city by the fierce Pierluigi, son of Pope Paul the Third, is levelled to the earth ; and on its site is a charming- promenade planted with flowers, and commanding a splendid view over the mighty range of mountains and the broad valley of the Tiber to Assisi, which sits aloft upon a buttress of the great hills. ###### 198 ITALY. " Cast away everything, and become a beggar," spake Bouddha Sakya Muni centuries before the birth of Christ. A powerful Indian King took off the golden diadem from his brow, went out into the wilderness, and preached to the poor lessons of love and long- suffering. " Cast away everything, and become a beggar !" These words, which found an echo in the profoundest depths of the peoples' nature, seized powerfully upon the East, and have kept firm hold on it even to the present day. And the same words were uttered many centuries later from the innermost heart of a young man in the distant western world of Europe, — one Francis, the son of a well-to- do merchant in Assisi, born in the year of the Redemption 1182. In the midst of a luxurious life he suddenly flung away his gold- embroidered garments, wrapped himself in rags, and went away into solitude. At first he was held to be crazy ; but he soon won disciples by his fervent faith and the burning eloquence which seemed to spring from the immediate influence of a Divine power upon his frail mortal frame. Francis was no gloomy ascetic ; he embraced the whole creation in a spirit of unwearying love and gentleness and compassion, communing even with the beasts of the forest and the birds of the air, that were not scared by his peaceful presence. Soon the whole western world was covered with colossal churches of the Mendicant Order, wherein the merits of volun- tary poverty were preached to the people. And to this day those vast, unadorned, early Gothic choirs, with their bold and lofty vaultings, bear testimony to the intense earnestness, the pure enthusiasm, which emanated from the influence of St. Francis of Assisi ; — an incredible contrast to the condition of the Papacy, which at that period was sunk into mere outward show and luxury, and yet in the course of time, destined to do that Papacy incalculable service. Two years after the death of Francis he was canonized, and the Duomo of Assisi (which consists really of three churches erected one above the other) was built above his tomb. The Duomo and Convent of San Francesco are situated at the lower end of the town, and are built upon enormous foundations and substructures of solid masonry at the edge of the precipice, looking towards the river Teschio. In the background is the city, looking as if it were one with the rock it stands on ; above that again, the ruins of an old castle, and the range of treeless chalk hills, overgrown with juniper bushes, and wild thyme, and parched tufts of grass. Fearful chasms split the great mountains in their loftier regions ; the autumn rains eat deep channels in them every year ; at the bottom of the ravines the larger rivers wind along : — now rushing swollen and angry in a flood of terribly destructive power ; now showing only an almost dry bed of baked white pebbles in the hot droughts of summer. Amidst these solitudes St. Francis dwelt for many years, and their grandeur entered into his soul. The Cathedral of Assisi is almost a little world apart, full of consecrated works of art, and sublime memories. The body of the Saint rests in the lowest part of it, in a tomb cut in the living rock. Above that rises the lower church, a vaulted, massive building with rows of thick, low pillars, and pierced so sparingly with windows that the eye needs some time to accustom itself to the ' dim religious light ' sufficiently to distinguish Giotto's solemn frescoes, typifying the vows of Chastity, Poverty, and Obedience, whilst in the side chapels ancient painted glass windows admit coloured rays that sparkle like jewels on the stone pavement. The upper church is a wide, free, cheerful space, full of light, and roofed by a vault that seems made of palm branches laid together. Here are the world- renowned frescoes of Cimabue. ASSISI. THE ROADS TO ROME. BESIDE THE ADRIATIC. ERE once passed the important Via Flaminia, where now the railroad runs for miles along the shore. The blue waves of the sea break into white foam against the stone dam on the top of which the train rattles and puffs. On one hand is the ever moving expanse of the Adriatic, its horizon melting mistily into the silvery belt of clouds above it : white sea-gulls wheel and swoop on swift, strong pinions, and the little Dalmatian fishing boats cut their way doughtily under a press of canvas through the sunny waters. On the other hand are blooming valleys between softly swelling hills, backed by the rugged lines of the higher range of chalky mountains, from whose heights old battlemented towns look down. Again, on the shore itself, are lively, industrious, populous seaside places, set amidst the richest gardens of the plain : — Rimini, Pcsaro, Sinigaglia, and so on till we reach the " elbow of Italy," Ancona. This town is piled up against the steep hill's side, in a way that reminds us of Genoa. It stretches in 200 ITALY. a semi-circle round the fine harbour, at the entrance to which the Triumphal Arch of the Emperor Trajan is still standing in a state of excellent preservation. But let us return to Rimini, the ancient Ariminum, where the ruins of Sigismund Malatesta's threatening fortress-castle are crumbling to decay. Rimini lies at the mouth of the Marecchia valley, which is still spanned by the five-arched bridge built by the Emperor Augustus ; and on the opposite side of the town, looking towards the mountains, stands a fine triumphal arch, erected in honour of the same Emperor. Rimini bears, unmistakeably, the aspect of a place that has seen better days. A population of old women, distaff in hand, sits in waiting under the wall of the Duomo, and levies black DEPARTURE FOR THE MOUNTAINS. mail on the traveller who approaches to view a building splendid even in its incomplete- ness ; — the great monument which Sigismondo Malatesta caused to be erected to his former mistress, the beautiful Isotta, by one of the greatest masters of the dawning Renaissance, Leon Battista Alberti of Florence. This Alberti was the friend and admirer of Brunellcschi ; he designed the facade of Santa Maria Novella, and the Palazzo Rucellai in Florence, and the supremely beautiful church of Sant' Andrea in Mantua. Further on is Pesaro, renowned for its figs, and its villas in the taste of the later Renaissance, set in a wilderness of gardens. Tasso and Ariosto once sung of them : now they are silent and neglected, but from the laurel thickets, which encroach even on to the marble steps, the nightingale is heard to pipe her sweetest songs, and away across the placid sea, in the warm summer night, the stars of this southern heaven rise large and glowing. Close to the railway station, on the shore, the Swan of Pesaro has at length found a resting place ! I allude to the monument of the great maestro Rossini ; there he sits, snuff-box in hand, with his pleasant, smiling, shrewd, rather Epicurean face, — the BESIDE THE ADRIATIC. 201 man who never travelled on a railway, now exposed henceforward to the close vicinity of yelling- locomotives ! Then comes Sinigaglia, the birth-place of Catalani ; a clean, industrious, well-to-do little town, where one of the greatest fairs in all Italy is held. Many Jews are to be found here. Count August von Platen, one of the most indefatigable of Italian travellers, says that he found at the fair of Sinigaglia very little German merchandise, but a great number of Nuremberg toys, which he proceeds to apostrophise sentimentally as a symbol CATHEDRAL OF ANCONA. of his Fatherland ! But Sinira^lia has other and less trivial reminiscences : amongst them the destruction of one of the greatest Peoples of Antiquity. The battle of the Metaurus fought against Hasdrubal, Hannibal's brother, took place close to this spot. The victory of the Romans, although hardly won and bloody, was complete ; the Car- thaginian army, unable to retreat, was utterly destroyed and its encampment taken by storm. Hasdrubal, when he saw that the bravely-contested battle was lost, sought and found, like his father, Hamilcar, a soldier's death. The day after the battle, the Consul Nero broke up his positions, and after an absence of less than fourteen days, once more confronted Hannibal in Apulia. Hannibal had received no tidings from his brother, and was ignorant of his fate. The first news was brought him by the Roman Consul, who caused the head of Hasdrubal to be thrown into the enemy's outposts. Then Hannibal perceived that he had hoped in vain, and that all was lost. ****** D D 202 ITALY. Much more interesting and attractive, however, are the mountain towns : San Marino, the ancient Republic, perched on a precipitous ledge of rock ; a state which covers a superficies of some four square miles, and contains a population of eight thousand inhabitants ! (The town itself counts only sixteen hundred.) There is a strange air of serenity in the quaint narrow streets of the town, with their little houses built of SAN MARINO. rough-hewn limestone. Within the houses are stored up furniture and utensils of a hoar antiquity ; and even some of the inhabitants look as though they belonged to a past geological period ! They dwell here from generation to generation, proud and content on their airy height. The whole world seems to belong to them as it lies stretched in endless beauty and variety at the foot of their native rock. The Republic of San Marino once sent a message to Napoleon the Great, which has become classical : " We accept," said the Republic, " the friendship of the First Consul. We will pay for the cannons. We desire no extension of territory." Urbino, Raphael's home, is a town of seven thousand inhabitants, full of reminiscences of high intellectual culture ; an oasis beloved of the gods. High above the stream of OF THE JN/VCPCtTV nr , BESIDE THE ADRIATIC. 203 Time, it stands yet almost unaltered. The palace of the great Montefeltro family is a and the eternal sea. In several of the churches of Urbino are to be found altar-pieces painted by Giovanni Santi, Raphael's father. The aspect of his native town, the sur- rounding scenery, and family influence, all combined to foster the budding genius of the boy Raphael. His pictures are steeped in the serene and pure atmosphere of this mountain city, elevated high above all low mists and exhalations of the common world. Behind Loreto, the renowned place of pilgrimage whose Casa Santa is as important for the history of Italian sculpture as the Campo Santo in Pisa is for that of painting, stands Recanati, on a barren rock. Here was born Count Giacomo Leopardi, the greatest Italian poet since Dante, and, like Dante, the faithful mirror of his own times. Nay, Leopardi was, perhaps, the stronger of the two ! Dante lived in the exciting and swift- moving days of Guelph and Ghibelline : Leopardi in the most nerveless and degraded period of Italian history; — the beginning of the nineteenth century (from 1798 to 1837), doubting and despairing, but full of a grandly antique spirit. Never has utter hopeless- ness been expressed more profoundly, nakedly, grandly, and touchingly, than in Leopardi's poems. Sickly, weak, and lonely, from his youth upward ; crushed beneath the sorrows of Italy, and yet clinging desperately to the idea of her ultimate liberation, he withered and drooped untimely, like a plant of the southern sunshine amid bleak Alpine winds. We give one passage from his poems : Love, love, thou hast departed from this bosom So warm and glowing once. With chilly hand Misfortune grasped it, and it froze to ice, Even in the very springtide of my years. # # # And yet if sometimes, when o'er smiling slopes The dawn arises silently, or when The village roofs and fields in sunshine glow, I meet a youthful maiden in her beauty ; Or when amidst the placid quietude Of summer nights, I wander forth alone And pause beside some rustic home, and gaze Upon the solitary landscape, listening To one shrill girlish voice that sings within The while its owner plies her busy wheel ; Oh then, even yet, my heart will stir and beat ! But soon, alas, it turns to stone again. All soft and sweet emotions are estranged From my unhappy breast for evermore. D u 2 204 ITAL V. BESIDE THE TYRRHENE SEA. T present the railway follows nearly the same line by the sea shore which the Via Aurclia of the Romans formerly traversed. But long before the existence of the Roman road, an ancient Etruscan road passed through these regions amidst blooming gardens and populous cities, whence various artistic products were exported — mainly ornaments of brass and gold — by bridle-paths across the Alps, even into the very heart of Germany. Or the Etruscan ships sailed between the pillars of Hercules, carrying to the shores of the North Sea precious and eagerly-sought-for freights of amber, which were bartered for the bronze weapons of the Huns. In those times the land was more flourishing and fertile than it has ever been since. Large and massive conduits, built of cuneiform stones, assured a regular current to the rivers, which would otherwise have been apt to stagnate in their course through the lower lands, and afforded the means of beneficial irrigation during the heat of summer. The cities were mostly built on rocky eminences — often artificially scarped — and were surrounded by gigantic Cyclopean walls. Now all these things are destroyed or deserted. From Leghorn downward, even to the very gates of Rome, there is scarcely a trace of cultivation, and the soil has become rotten and worthless. Broad sedges, marsh-cypresses, great bilberry-bushes, heather that grows to the height of a man, and is full of purple blossoms in the Spring, stiff, flowering thistles, odorous thyme, all manner of wild thorny creeping plants, which twine around the huge Cyclopean walls whose strength defies Old Time to utterly destroy them, and choke the disused conduits, and mantle the resting places of the dead, — all these have overgrown the land. And this wilderness is inhabited by wild boars, black-muzzled buffaloes, the venomous steel-grey viper, the crane, the snipe, the plover, and the melancholy booming bittern. Opposite to Elba lies Populonia, now a miserable village, once the emporium that received the inexhaustible stores of iron obtained in Elba. Beyond and behind Grosseto is the ancient Rusella?, completely ruined, Vetulonia, Saturnia, Vulci, and, behind Corneto, Tarquinii, the vastest of all the Etruscan burying places. The number of tombs there is reckoned at two millions. And then, far away across the greyish-brown waste, and the low rolling hills overgrown with shrubs, you catch a glimpse of the dome of St. Peter's, looking solitary and mysterious on the horizon. Several islands rise out of the Tyrrhene Sea : Elba, fertile, well-cultivated, with prosperous towns, and rich mines of iron-ore, and, nearer to Sardinia, little, unproductive, rugged Caprera. Yonder, in the Island of Elba, once resided his Imperial Majesty the Emperor Napoleon the First, placed there against his will by the European powers, after he had ruined his own people, but still keeping a Court, and a regiment of soldiers ! Here, in Caprera, Garibaldi voluntarily retired (after having given freedom to his people), without rank or wealth, and peacefully cultivated his fields. CASCADES OF TERNI. Of THE THE MIDDLE ROADS. 205 THE MIDDLE ROADS. NE of these is a railway, running eastward from Arezzo past the Lake of Thrasymene, passing be- low Assisi, and joining the line from the Adriatic coast at Foligno. From hence it proceeds nearly parallel with the ancient Via Flaminia, which reached the Adriatic at Fanum, the modern Fano. The line passes through a hilly district, by Trevi, with its grey stone houses hanging on the steep slope, to Spoleto. This town is built up on a rugged height, crowned by its great fortress castle, backed by great mountains covered with ilex woods, and commanding a fine view of the valley of the Tiber. It is the boldest of all the mountain towns perched defiantly on their rocks, which we pass by this route to Rome. In approach- ing Spoleto from the railway, we come first to the Porta dclla Fuga, the self-same Etruscan gateway before which Hannibal turned back after the battle of Thrasymene. Within the town are many remains — most of them in a ruinous condition — of mediaeval buildings : buildings of the time of the Hohenstau- fens, who placed the Swabian Knight, Conrad of Irslingen, here as Duke of Spoleto. The ancestral castle of his race may still be seen, ruined and weed- grown, in a remote valley of the Wirtembergian Black Forest. The rule of these Swabian barons did not endure very long. But between the years 1342 and 1 35 1 , a scion of this race, his mind filled with old traditions and hatreds, undertook to avenge the expulsion of his ancestors by carrying warfare and rapine through- out Italy. This was Werner von Irslingen, known as Duke Guarnieri, the leader of a famous band, and styled by himself " the enemy of God, of pity, and of mercy!" The last of the family, Reinald by name, lived a beggared AQUEDUCT OF SPOLETO. 206 ITAL V. noble in his castle of Schiltach, in the Black Forest, and when he died was under the weight of grave accusations brought against him by the Imperial courts of justice, in the year 1446. Castello, once the residence of the most fascinating woman of the fifteenth century, Lucrezia Borgia, stands at a great altitude, and commands an extraordinary view of the amphitheatre of mountains, and down into the rocky valley. This valley is spanned by the highest stone aqueduct in the world ; it is more than seven hundred feet long, and about three hundred feet high, and has ten arches resting on gigantic pillars. It was built by the Lombard dukes, who ruled here during several cen- turies. The water that runs through its broad channel is collected among the silent, ever-green oak-woods of Monte Luco, where one or two deserted hermitages and the Capuchin Monastery of San Giuliano stand. Below Spoleto the railway passes through a long- tunnel, underneath the heights that form the watershed of the Clitumnus and the Nera ; and reaches Terni, situated between two arms of the Nera. Terni is the birthplace of Tacitus. About an hour and a half from Terni, the Velino falls over masses of tufa into the tremendous gorge of the Nera, and forms the famous cascades. The principal fall is six hundred feet high. We saw it one evening when the sun was sinking behind the mountains. The purple light glanced between the rich foliage of the trees, and illuminated the bold outlines of the yellow tufa rocks. Tremendous was the fury of the waters as they came thundering down into the gulf, whirling, quivering, hissing, roaring, and foam- ing ! And from the wild, yeasty, snow-white mass, there kept rising clouds of mist, growing thinner and purer, until they were mingled with the arch of peace that spanned the tumult with its heavenly colours. Then the light clouds of spray passed onward, wonderful in variety and beauty, like troops of celestial and immortal forms, and high in air prelate fugger's tombstone. a royal eagle circled in his slow and stately flight. The ancient Narni lies below Terni, just at the en- trance to a wild gorge, through which the Nera has forced its passage. Above is the Cyclopean citadel, and in the fore-ground, crossing the torrent, a half-ruined, gigantic Roman bridge. The railway here passes through a gorge which recalls the Via Mala in its dark and threatening aspect. The rocks overhang the road, and are clothed with laurel bushes and dwarf ilex. The Nera dashes impetuously along in its narrow course, until at length the rocky walls open out into the valley of the Tiber, and we behold the plains of Latium stretching fair in the sunlight. The second of the roads through central Italy is also a railroad, which pretty nearly follows the course of the ancient Via Cassia coming from Chiusi, passes westward by the Lake of Thrasymene, and so on to Orvieto. Orvieto is built upon an isolated rocky hill, and looks down with its weather-blackened palaces into thinly-populated valleys overgrown with ilex woods. It was once a Papal residence. The traveller approaching ORVIETO. THE MIDDLE ROADS. 207 Orvieto can discern from a considerable distance the west front of the Cathedral — one of the wonders of the world. It is in the purest Gothic style, and nearly covered with mosaics upon a gold background, wonderfully symmetrical, grand, and, above all, splendid. Adjoining the cathedral is the Lady Chapel with the renowned frescoes of Luca Signorelli and Beato Ano-elico of Fiesole ; — the finest works of both. The Resurrection of the Dead, and Paradise, are by Signorelli. The first-named picture especially displays a quite enormous power of passion, and wonderful mastery in the representation of the nude ; — a foretaste of Michael Angelo. Opposite to this the pyramidical group of Prophets by Beato Angelico enchants the eye. Signorelli gives us powerful, even violent, movement and action : here, on the contrary, all is peace and rest, and the faces shine with a divine serenity ; — a foretaste of Raphael. But neither of these two great and immortal geniuses, despite the master-pieces they have given to the world, have ever surpassed in certain respects the work of their predecessors in the Lady Chapel at Orvieto. A pleasant excursion may be made from Orvieto to the little Lake of Bolseno, on whose southern shore lies Montefiascone, the famous place where the muscadel wine known as Est Est is grown. The tombstone of the prelate Fugger of Augsburg — a rude but undoubtedly genuine Gothic work — is still shown in the Church of San Flaviano at Montefiascone. Propter nimium Est Est Dominus metis mortuus est. The noble churchman was travelling through Italy, and being much disgusted at the quantity of poor sour wine he found on his journey, he sent a trusty henchman on before him as avant-courcur to investigate the hostelries on his route, and to taste the wine. If the liquor were found satisfactory, the faithful servant was to chalk the word Est on the tavern door. In due course he arrived at Montefiascone, and tasted the muscadel. So delicious did he find it that one single Est appeared to him but poorly to set forth its merits : — so he chalked up two ! Then with chalk of ruddy hue On the tavern door he drew In great letters his device, " Est " twice over — some say thrice. Came the bishop, saw, and drank. Till upon the ground he sank. Tapster, cellarer, host, and all Gave him pious burial. Propter nimium Est Est Dominus mats mortuus est. WlLHELM MuLLER. TO ROME. Lo, as the rosy morning light is growing, Soracte's sevenfold peaks are redly glowing ! And ere that selfsame sun sink in the west, On great eternal Rome thine eyes shall rest. ERE begins already the great waste of the Roman Campagna, covering wonder- ful ruins, of which a few here and there peep up above the soil. Sometimes we come upon a group of miserable huts made of reeds, or a crumbling mediaeval tower. Poisonous weeds grow luxuriantly around them ; thistles" and the noble acanthus, looking as though the capitals of the Corinthian columns buried in the soil had sprouted into leaf! Here is Viterbo, the ancient city, with its beautiful murmuring fountains and sombre palaces, and, outside its gates, singular rocks full of caverns, and gardens of Renaissance villas running wild. Viterbo is the city of the Popes, who frequently took refuge here either from German Kaisers, or from their own turbulent Romans. The huge Papal palace still stands stern and fortress-like, the old time-stained town walls look much as they looked when many a legion of foreign soldiers marched past them in the Middle Ayes, on their way to the Roman Campagna to encounter battle, wounds, malaria fever, and death. Conradin, the last of the Hohenstaufens, passed this way on his road from Pisa through Toscanella, whose singular marble churches, covered with Gnostic figures, TO ROME. 209 existed even then. Pope Clement the Fourth, Conradin's bitterest enemy, watched the troops march past from the wall of the town. E E 2 IO ITAL Y. Whilst their banners flutter lightly, On they march with warlike din, And of all that troop so knightly, Handsomest is Conradin. Hark, the trumpets blaring loudly ! Hark, the northern shout and song ! Helm and hauberk flash out proudly Sunlit, as they prance along. HOUSE IN VITERBO. Watching from the rampart tower Glares Pope Clement gloomily. Words of hatred, words of power, Prophet-like, thus spcakcth he : " Go, poor fool ! Like smoke-wreaths flying Soon shall fade each vain device ; And thyself art blindly hieing Victim to the sacrifice ! " Loud he calls, but all unheeding Conradin leads on his band. Soon his fair young head lies bleeding In the dust on Naples' strand. Further to the south, passing by the Lake of Vico in the crater of an extinct volcano, we approach nearer to Monte Soracte. In the distance we had descried it as a long misty blue mountain with seven peaks : seen closer it shows itself to be a lofty, wide, spreading wooded height, furrowed by many gorges, and bearing ancient convents that peep out from amid the trees on its undulating slopes. On the side fronting towards Rome, stands the very ancient monastery of Sant' Oreste (Soracte is now popularly called TO ROME. 2 I I Mont' Oreste) founded by the Longobards. In the year 747, Carloman, the eldest son of Charles Mattel, renounced the pomps of his princely rank, and retired hither to become a monk. Yet another and more poetic historical figure is connected with the neigh- bourhood of Soracte ; — Otho the Third, the last scion of his great race. He was an enthusiastic youth of barely two-and-twenty, dreaming of restoring the universal empire to Rome, and awaiting his bride, the daughter of the Greek Emperor, whom his envoy Archbishop Arnolfo of Milan, was to conduct to him across the Ionian Sea from Byzan- tium. But surrounded by enemies and blockaded in the little castle of Paterno at the foot of Soracte, he turns his dying gaze across the wide Campagna to Rome, now risen in revolt against him ; and from the other side of the Alps come the tidings that the Germans, whom his ancestors had made the most powerful people in the world, intended to set him aside and crown another prince in his stead. He dies, poor, crushed by misfortune, and comprehending the vanity and emptiness of all mundane things. If there be on earth a prospect calculated to enchant the spirit and fill it with aspirations unspeakable, it is that which is seen from the summit of Soracte. All around us the amphitheatre of grandiose and finely-shaped hills ; at our feet the great rolling plain of the Campagna, teeming with the wondrous ruins of so many centuries ; on the horizon a shimmer of the sea ; in the midst of the plain the Tiber rolling majestic on its winding course ; and lo ! upon its banks, framed in by leafy gardens, red in the sunset- glow, Eternal Rome ! E e 2 FROM THE TIBER TO ETNA. BY WOLDEMAR KADEN. WITHIN THE CONFINES OF LATIUM. ROME. Oh scene sublime ! Yet stern and sad enough To make us shudder with an icy breath From times for ever past. And oh, -what times ! The glorious days of Rome's supremacy. From every ruin sounds a wond'rous voice Like the invisible rush of eagle's wings. And Rome's great spirit ghost-like walks the earth Which once she ruled in uncontested might. H. LiNGG. OMA ! Roma! Thus shouts the wanderer from northern lands, in whose mind a longing to behold the Eternal City has grown with his growth from earliest youth, when he first catches sight of the Dome of St. Peter's rising from the plain and towering into the intense blue of the sky. Rome ! Rome ! Even although we may not articulate it with our lips, yet in our hearts the mighty name sounds and echoes ; and we feel an awe-stricken shudder as the memories of the classic past come upon us with resistless enchantment, and a thousand years of history seem concentrated into that supreme moment when we first see Rome. The gift of seeing in its true sense is not given to all ; but even to those who possess it, Rome is too vast, too mighty, to be seized on at once in its entirety. Rome is a broken mirror whose fragments and splinters still reflect the colossal images of heroes, citizens, populace, and nations, in glory and splendour, in devastation and decay, in blood and misery. The dust of centuries and the ashes from many a funeral urn lie thickly on the broken fragments, and hide their pictures from the eyes of most of us ; but after long and patient gazing, the ruins combine themselves into a whole, the colossal images are united into one vast world-picture, so a-blaze with glory that the soul is filled with awe and wonder, and even the eyes of the wisest are dazzled. The traveller from the north feels himself suddenly transported into a new world as soon as he passes the barrier of the Alps. This Italy is in truth a land of sunshine and delight. The sun beams more brightly than with us at home ; the moon has a more silvery lustre ; other stars shine above us and light us to pleasant paths. A rich luxuriant vegetation surrounds us, and fills the air with perfume. We seem to be wandering in a garden hedged in by laurel and myrtle, over-arched by roses and vines. A charming- melody accompanies the traveller on his way — a melody that fills and cheers his heart —Spring sunlight, Summer breezes, wine and flowers, dark eyes, brilliant landscapes — these form the theme of the melody, and there needs but to have a sympathetic human heart in order thoroughly to enjoy it. 2l6 ITAL Y. But soon as we approach nearer to Rome there is mingled harmony with the melody, and it sounds ever fuller and stronger. The tones grow and swell into a great symphony, in whose rolling depths the pleasant butterfly-winged melody is overwhelmed ; but from its waves the spirit arises in tempestuous strength, and is wafted on eagle's pinions through the wide, wide Past to sunny heights from whence it contemplates a majestic vision of the World and of Humanity. Such is Rome ! Such are the first impressions of Rome ! Even the greatest minds are confused at first by the immensity of this symphonic sea. They are stunned — bewildered ; they grope after a beginning ; they seek a stand- point from whence to behold the spectacle before them ; they are hurried restlessly from one object to another ; many mornings, many evenings, make up a long series of days ; and only when these are passed is the classic repose of mind attained to which is so peculiarly essential in Rome. Goethe himself long sought for it in vain. We cool our fevered brow in the refreshing waters of the Fontana di Trevi, and collect our thoughts into an attitude of solemn reverence beneath the dome of Agrippa, the incomparable Pantheon, which, once dedicated to all the gods, now hospitably receives any worshipper whose heart retains some feeling for the ancient deities. And then begins to arise from its grave, amid dust and ruins, rank greenery, and modern buildings, out of the mists of history and the veils of the past, great imperial Rome — the complete and perfect Rome of Hadrian ! In gorgeous raiment, sword in hand and diadem on head, she shines from her throne upon the Seven Hills, proud mistress of the earth from the sunrise to the sunset. The sun looks proudly down upon her! High sun, thou dost pause to look with lingering gaze on thy Rome ! No greater hast thou beheld : no greater shalt ever behold. In a flood of rosy light, the sun comes forth and illuminates the city. Let us, too, gaze upon the glorious scene, and try to conjure up a vision of the shining marble city in all her antique beauty ! But whither shall we first direct our eyes in this sea of graceful temples, mountainous amphitheatres, solemn mausoleums, and vast baths ; amid the labyrinth of shady porticoes and populous forums, of royal palaces full of golden halls, and colonnades, and triumphal arches ? Yonder stride the mighty aqueducts from the blue mountains to the plain, filling countless fountains, wells, gardens, and villas with their silvery water in profusion. From hill to hill of the city proud arches are boldly stretched ; and the valleys between them are groves of marble. Here is a forest of pillars of all kinds : Doric, Ionic, Corinthian, Roman, polished monoliths glancing in the light, and capitals adorned with all variety of richest fancy. And then between these, on wall and frieze, in niche and grotto, in garden and square, from every shady nook, shines out a second populace in stone, the great army of statues in noble marble or gilded bronze. All the deities of Olympus, all the ancient kings and heroes, seem to have descended to partake in some great Festival of Art ! It is almost too much of beauty! The yellow, legend-laden Tiber seems to linger as he flows beneath the grandly- arched bridges ; Phoebus seems to linger as he drives his team towards the neighbouring sea, unwilling to depart. But Spring never leaves the city : here is his eternal kingdom ! Covered with the deep green of the new wheat, with vine and olive, with pine and cypress, the wide Campagna stretches towards the hills in which the Tiber takes its rise ; ROME, 217 towards Nemi with its charming lake, the Speculum Dianae, and Alba Longa. Great paved high roads intersect the plain ; and on either side of them, the wealth, ostentation, or affection of the survivors have raised rich monuments to their dead. Villa upon villa LAKE OF NEMI. as far as the eye can see ! Their marble walls are delightfully relieved against the dark greens and browns of the landscape : the farthest of them look like flowers upon the rich plain, — like white magnolia blossoms amid their lush foliage. Above the whole is the light of this clear Olympian ether, silvery even in the shadows, and gilding even the meanest things with an enchanted ray. The perfume of a divine Spring-tide fills the air, F F 2l8 ITAL V. and kisses away care. The nightingales never abandon these gardens and ever-green groves ; their love-songs sound the whole year through. They warble in the gardens of the Esquiline, where poets dwell : and mingle their sweetest lays with the strophes of Horace, Virgil, and Propertius. Here, too, the violets bloom eternally. It is only in this clime that man can be entirely happy and enjoy the full flavour of the draught of life. So thought Cicero in his exile beneath the skies of Asia, and wrote longingly to his friend : " Oh, thou mayest dwell but in Rome, and live only in that air." That sun looked down, too, upon a powerful people whose spirit had an eagle's wings : — a people of leonine strength and leonine courage. Thus Rome became the proud heart, the thinking head, and, above all, the powerful arm, of the world. Every Roman, whithersoever he might wander along the roads that led to all the nations of the earth, could see in fancy written in letters of flame above the gates and triumphal arches of his native town, the Virgilian : " Tu regere imperio populos, Romane, memento !" And this proud and lofty feeling of self-reliance and daring, developed itself in the domestic polity of the city, as well as in its foreign rule. Thus Rome conquered the world. The beginning was small : and might be compared to the grain of mustard seed of the Evangel. One poor hill was once large enough to contain the cradle of the Roman people. Look yonder ! In the midst of the six other heights that seem to girdle it about, you behold the Palatine. It is the hill of Romulus ; the first foundation of the Imperial city. The other mounts surround it like sentinels ; and a series of five kings completed the strong chain, by joining hill to hill with castles and towers. The Sabine Titus Tatius joined the Palatine to the Capitoline hill : the Quirinal was added to the chain under Numa Pompilius : the Ccelian, under Tullus Hostilius : Ancus Marcius added the Aventine : and finally, under the sixth king, Servius Tullius, the seven hills were united into an armed whole by the addition of the Esquiline and the Mons Viminalis. The town was finished. The Seven Hills had become one fortress ; and Servius Tullius encircled it with a huge girdle of walls. From this period begins the real history of Rome, which up to then consists of mythic shadows and misty, nebulous legends. Those are but dim ways which lead the enquirer into the endless maze of races and localities, such as the Volscians and Sabines, the Marsi and Rutuli, Tibur and Latium. All the accounts of the Aborigines are fabulous. They were finally pressed upon by the powerful Sabines and withdrew to the neighbourhood of Alba Longa, from whence they colonized the Seven Hills by the banks of the Tiber. They called the whole district in which their cities were situated, Latium, and Jupiter Latiaris was the presiding deity of the Federation. His Olympus was on the Mons Albanus, popularly called at the present day Monte Cavo. It is the Latin " Mountain of the Gods," and from its summit a glorious view is to be descried. On a clear sunny day it is sometimes possible to see distant Corsica in the glittering sea. All around us lie the localities of the ancient Latin Confederation, whose "Riitli" maybe found in the waving groves of Marino near the sweet waters of the Ferentina. Near Ariccia, close to the lovely little Lake of Nemi, was worshipped the moon-goddess Diana Nemorensis, who yet on summer nights contemplates her own fair image in the waters of the lake, called, as we have said above, Speculum Dianse, or Diana's Mirror. Yonder stands the Arx, the citadel of the old Confederation, now called Rocca di Papa. ROME. 219 Amongst the other Latin towns are Ardea, many-watered, richly wooded ; more inland, Tusculum, founded by the son of Ulysses and Circe ; further westward the proud Prameste (Palestrina), ancient city of the oracle; on the Via Prcenestina Gabii ; and on the soft, vine-covered Sabine hills, the beauteous Tibur (the modern Tivoli), with her silver girdle of waterfalls, and evergreen groves where the prophetic nymph Albunea wandered by the Anio's banks. Here was the sacred wood of the founder of Tibur, the holy Tiburnus ; and here the most ancient rites of Hercules were celebrated. But Lavinium ROMAN FORUM. is the real holy place and unique symbol of the Latin Confederation. Alba Longa was for some time its chief town ; but after Rome was founded and was growing ever mightier under the rule of the Tarquins, great Jupiter descended from the Capitoline hill of Alba Longa, and emigrating across the plain, enthroned himself upon the Roman Capitol, where a splendid temple was built and dedicated to him ; and so the earlier shrine fell into neglect. The Romans and the Latins continued for some time to be distinguished from each other as separate peoples : but only as one sees two rivers that have flowed together keep each for awhile his own hue and current, until at length the mightier of the two absorbs the lesser, and they are mingled into one homogeneous stream. The elder stream of the Latin race was soon lost in the great ocean of Rome. And thus it comes to pass that in the twilight of myth and legend the Latin and Roman histories are constantly en- twined with one another, like two laurel-stems springing from one root. The ancient legendary story of Rome meets us in various enchanting aspects throughout the limits of Latium. It murmurs in the white-foaming waves of the sea F F 2 220 ITAL Y. that break in their monotonous rhythm upon the desolate sandy shore ; it sighs in the shuddering pine trees standing like grave sentinels to guard the coast ; it whispers among the reeds of the Anio and the Tiber ; its breath rises in the mist upon the sultry Cam- pagna ; the she-wolf lurks in the rocky caverns overgrown with ivy — faithful companion of the legend always, — and with prickly bramble bushes ; in sunny woodland glades, gay with golden gorse, and draped with the graceful wild vine, the bird of Mars, the party- coloured woodpecker taps and hammers his ancient uncomprehended oracles ; soft south winds blow from the sea and lisp melodious Grecian names into the listening ear. And the air and the odours, the movement of the breeze, the murmur of the leaves, and the solitude of the forest, take prisoner our soul, twine around it the fascinations of a fairy tale, carry it far away upon the wings of a dream, — far, far away from modern times and people, into the old enchanted realm that we loved in our boyhood, ignorant and innocent of keen-edged criticism ! The land is empty and barren ; its coasts are sandy, or covered with thorns and dwarf myrtle shrubs. Dark woods clothe the inner country. A rude race dwells in its caverns and rocky clefts : " Gensque virum truncis et duro robore nata." They know neither restraint nor culture, but roam aimless and lawless through the woods, nourishing themselves on bitter acorns and the raw flesh of animals killed in the chase. But a better time, a golden time, was to come. Jupiter had thrust out his father Saturn from the celestial heights. The latter, wandering in search of an asylum, seeks refuge in this poor earth among the unhappy sons of men. The old god lands upon the desolate shores of Italy, and hides himself timidly amidst the recesses of her mountains ; and names the district Latium : the land of concealment. But he could not live inactive, and the Golden Age began on earth. The blessed sickle began its reign ; the exiled god taught the wandering tribes to cultivate fruit trees and the vine ; gathered them together within walled towns upon the hills even as far as to the river Liris ; and was, in a word, their Saviour. The wretched and care- laden found peace with him. There was neither service nor slavery ; but all enjoyed cheerful peace and happy liberty. Saturn is not a king ; he is the pious father of the shepherds. In the end he disappears in a cloud. His son, the first king of the law- abiding people, is Picus, — the mysteriously prophetic woodpecker, the king of the woods. From him descends Faunus, who loves the charming nymph Marica. Marica dwells amid the forests beside the waters of the Liris, and is a grand-daughter of Circe and the Sun. From her divine blood and that of Faunus, springs Latinus, who, proud of such ancestry, wears the glittering diadem. This Latinus gives his name to the Latin nation. His people lifts itself more and more out of the darkness of the tangled woods, into higher, clearer paths ; but its sacred trees, its consecrated groves, bear witness that it retains some memory of its Olympian ancestry. Thus, Laurentum is built around a sacred laurel tree, and King Picus, changed into the mysterious woodpecker, utters oracles in the Laurentian woods. The manners of the people are pious and simple ; and the daughter of Latinus, Lavinia, grows up a pious and simple princess, amid these solitudes, of an age to be a happy bride. About this time it comes to pass that ^neas, tossed hither and thither by winds and waves, approaches the Latin coast with his high-beaked Grecian galleys. In the golden light of morning he beholds before him a great dark wood, between whose tree- ROME. 22 r roots flows a broad, swift stream, turbid and yellow with sand from the distant hills. Thick reeds nearly choke up the entrance to it, and many birds flutter around it, cheering WELL NEAR ARICCIA. with their songs the home-sick hearts of the Greeks. This river is the Tiber, and on its banks /Eneas lands. He and the other chiefs of the wandering band pitch their tents under the shadow of the oaks at the forest's edge, and prepare their meal. But the food is scant ; and at length they are impelled to eat up the flat loaves which have served them 222 ITALY. for table and platter. But in this very circumstance ^Eneas sees the fulfilment of a pro- phecy of his father, Anchises, which has hitherto appeared incredible to him : When, oh my son, in a strange and foreign country Hunger shall force thee to eat the board as well as the viands, Then, after weary toil, expect thou to found a dwelling. Draw the lines with thine hand, and plan out, thyself, the entrenchments. /Eneas blesses his true Trojan Penates, and sends a hundred youths, their brows bound with the olive branch of Minerva, to the royal dwelling of Latinus to beg leave to make a permanent settlement in his land. But in the night a new prophecy is revealed to him. SANTA CROCE IN GERUSALEMME, AND NERO'S AQUEDUCT. He has fallen asleep, troubled with many cares, lulled by the murmur of the stream. The waters part, and between the poplar trees that line the river banks uprises the god, and comforts him with a promise ; " Take this as a token : where thou shalt find the wild sow of the woods, lying beneath an oak with her thirty young ones, there, in that spot, be the place of thy settlement." Next morning brings the fulfilment of the token, but it brings also the disturbing tidings that Turnus, the mighty Turnus, the bridegroom chosen for her child by Lavinia's mother, learned in magic lore, is in arms against y^neas and his com- panions. In his anxiety /Eneas seeks for allies. Travelling along the banks of the river about mid-day, he espies under the flaming sunshine, seven wooded hills, and on the summit of one of them a castle with towers and turrets. The houses round about are poor and humble. Here reigns Evander, who receives his high guest with royal honours, gives him to eat and to drink, and promises him his help. He wanders with /Eneas and his companions along the steep paths, along the hills all overgrown with shrubs, and in the midst of cheerful converse, shows him the " traces of man's disposing hand " amidst the thicket ; — the remnant of a past time. There, where the masses of rock are wildly strewn about, and where furze and thorns grow rankly, in that rocky dwelling once lived the hideous Cacus, whom Hercules slew in ROME. 223 his divine wrath. Here is the Porta Carmentalis, built in honour of the prophetess mother of the king ; there the gloomy woods of the Palatine. This weed-grown, water- dripping cave is the Lupercal, dedicated to the Lycsean Pan ; yonder is the Tarpeian Rock. He tells of the Capitol, surrounded by an impenetrable thicket ; Jupiter dwells there, and many of the country folk have seen him standing amid the trees and swinging the dark JEgis in his hands to call down awful tempests. Up aloft there rises the Janiculus, and there Saturnia ! Fallen masonry, grey fragments of old time, tell of the days of Janus and of Saturn. Fair white herds of cattle graze in the meadows, and sun-browned herdsmen stand PORTA FURBA, IN THE ROMAN CAMPAGNA. near them leaning on their staves. The old king leads his guest past them into the shelter of his hospitable roof. The gods give him aid, and, though the conflict is fierce and furious, Turnus and his unwilling ally Latinus, are conquered. /Eneas makes a treaty with Latinus, weds the fair Lavinia, and founds and fortifies the holy city of Lavinium. But at length ./Eneas is removed from this changeful life, and Lavinia, fearing her husband's son Ascanius, flies to Tyrrheus. Tyrrheus, the faithful servant of the royal house, dwells deep amid the woods, and watches over flocks and herds. Here stands his rude hut guarded by huge dogs, and the wild woodland folks come hither with their children to play and sport, whilst the axe of the wood-cutter, felling the knotty oak, awakes the echoes of the mountains. In this forest solitude Silvius sees the light ; and is therefore the " wood- born " son once promised to /Eneas. He is bred up in the forest, and in time comes to rule over the town of Alba Longa, sharing his throne with Julus, the son of Ascanius. Then ruler follows ruler. In the daring Romulus Silvius the old hereditary Titan 224 ITALY. nature awakes again. He defies the gods, and strives to equal them, dreaming how to obtain mastery over the lightning and the thunder-bolt, so as to make them obedient in his hands; until at length indignant Jupiter darts an angry flash and destroys the royal rebel and Titan together with his stronghold. At the same time the Lake of Albano rose and swelled until it covered with its silent waters the proud castle whose Cyclopean walls the legend says may still be discerned beneath the lake on moonlit nights. After him follows the good Aventinus whose tomb gave the name to the hill near the Palatine ; and then come Procas and his two sons, the virtuous Numitor, and the wicked Amulius. Numitor's daughter is the beautiful Rhea Silvia, an Albanese vestal. Silvia goes down from the holy temple of Vesta one evening to fetch pure water from the spring. The shadows are already dark beneath the trees. All is silent and still. The sun sets, and the twilight rapidly descends from the mountains, whilst an evening breeze goes shuddering through the foliage. Suddenly, in the path of the girl returning home- ward, a wolf appears and frightens her into taking refuge in a neighbouring cavern. Here the god Mars is awaiting her and compels her to his embrace. The god comforts the weeping Rhea Silvia by promising her immortality for herself and her children, but the vestal is terror-stricken, for she knows that for her — a sacred priestess of Vesta, — love means death. When the birth-hour of the twins arrives, the holy fire in the temple goes out, the altar of the goddess quakes, and her image angrily hides its countenance. Thus Silvia's fault becomes known to Amulius, who without hesitation condemns mother and offspring to death in the river Anio. The god of the stream receives the sinking princess in his arms, and makes her his consort. Meanwhile the two children, exposed in a wooden shield, are borne on and on by friendly currents towards the sea. The Anio gives them to the Tiber, and the latter — whose waters are overflowing at the time, — carries them into a quiet haven amid reeds and foliage between hills. A wild fig tree growing at the foot of the Palatine spreads out its roots compassionately, and holds fast the frail bark that bears the children of the god. Then the waters subside from the shore ROME. 225 and leave the weeping infants among the roots of the fig tree. A she-wolf, whose young ones have been taken from her, hears their plaintive cry, and hastens to carry the forlorn babes into the neighbouring cavern of the Lycaean Pan. Here she tends them and suckles them, and lays them on a bed of leaves and moss. The sacred woodpecker, their father's bird, the magpie and plover, famous in auguries, fly to them with fruits and sweet berries, and singing birds flutter round the mouth of the cavern. This crowd of feathered creatures attracts the attention of Faustulus, the guardian of the king's herds, as he passes WELL BENEATH OLIVE TREES NEAR TIVOLI. by that way, and hastening to the cave he is astounded by the strange spectacle of the two babies sucking the she-wolf. He takes them home with him to his humble straw- built hut on the Palatine Hill. His wife receives the little ones, and is a faithful foster mother to them, and so they grow up strong and healthy amongst the twelve sons of Acca Larentia. Early accustomed to deeds of daring and the use of arms, they hold their own and defend their rights against man and beast, — against robbers, or the fierce creatures of the forest. And sometimes, with a foretaste of the true Roman nature, they make might do duty for right. At other times they lead the life of their supposed parents, watch the herds and Hocks, cultivate the soil with the gifts of Ceres, and make offerings in brotherly unity to the good gods, with wreaths of wheat-ears bound with white ribands on their brows. The followers of Romulus are called Ouinctilii, the friends of Remus Fabii. Then arise dissensions between these and the herdsmen of Numitor and Amulius ; and at the harvest festival of the Dea Dia, the hostile neighbours fall upon Remus from an ambush, seize him, and carry him to Alba to Amulius. The bold Romulus calls his 226 ITALY. followers and friends around him, hastens to Alba and kills Amulius, whom he does not know to be his mother's slayer. Numitor, reinstated in his rights, assigns to the im- cascades At tivoli. petuous youths a tract of ground beside the Tiber, there to found a permanent abiding place. But two hills appear to offer equal advantages for the building of a city, and the ROME, 227 choice of one or the other of them gives rise to a fierce conflict between the brothers, until fratricide terminates the dispute, and the city is named Roma ! OLD TREES IN THE VILLA d'eSTE, Romulus, gazing with his eagle glance from the towers of his Rome, looked through the purple veils of sunset towards a great time, and a golden future : saw g g 2 2 28 ITALY. the turret-crowned Rome clad in the Imperial toga, and borne aloft upon the car of victor)'. " Blest in her Godlike sons, embracing a hundred descendants ; Celestial citizens all, and dwellers on heights Olympian !" And so Rome grew — grew— grew. Centuries have flown past with sounding pinions. Their mighty wings have over- thrown temples, walls, the city, and the throne. The spirit of Old Legend sits half hidden in a grey veil, timid and silent, amidst the ruins of the Palatine Hill, and bows her face on to her knees. The ivy creeps noiselessly around her, and the pine trees sigh to her in the south wind. Centuries have flown past, and we of this modern generation stand and gaze among the ruins. Our wandering feet stumble amid the fragments of a great past, and Fancy endeavours with child-like hands to reconstruct from fallen pillars, crumbling marbles, and blackened masonry, the ancient Rome, the seat of all the gods. We walk as strangers along the paths of Legend and History, and guess at bygone glories. This is the Palatine. Yonder, its course marked by thick-growing reeds, the Tiber still flows. Houses and ruins are crowded together in the valleys and on the heights. The mighty dome of St. Peter's dominates the city with Christian serenity ; and it, too, is growing old. This is the Palatine ; and above there, on yon smiling sunny eminence, is the Auguratormm from whence Romulus spied the prophetic vultures. The place is tranquil, and one in which to interrogate Nature, and enquire into her holy secrets. But she remains mysteriously silent ; no breeze moves the dark branches of the ilex ; the flowers are motionless ; bright lizards marked with strange hieroglyphs lie upon the broken marbles ; the heavens are deeply blue, but empty, — empty and void ; no eagle, no dove will give an augury thence for evermore. All seems dead, — dead ! Rome has fallen, and is falling slowly ; she falls like the dying gladiator whose sword has dropped from his hand, and whose mouth is closed in silence. The proud head has not yet touched the earth, but it is bowing lower and lower towards the dust. Yes ; all is dead ! And the sorrowing Spirit of Legend nods a grim affirmative with her veiled head ! But the bright summer sun shines calmly over all this. The flowers rejoice, and the white butterflies flutter gaily above them. Nature is beautiful, and heeds not our regrets ; she sends her Spring-time, and strews the graves with odorous roses, with violet and myrtle. "Thou smil'st on ruin and despair, Great, eternal Nature, fair As at the first creation ! Thy calm eyes see everywhere Only renovation. " Whether to the troubled breast Thy smile bringeth pain or rest, That thou hcedest never. Thou, in changeless beauty drest, Smil'st serenely ever."— H. Lincg. Yes ; fair is the sunshine, the sky, the atmosphere, of Rome ! They refresh the heart and elevate the mind, transporting it far beyond these crumbling ruins, into the contemplation of the mighty Spirit of the universe. Rome is a great poem, of which we possess only the broken tablets and half-burned parchments in the ruins amid which LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY : ILLINOIS ROME. 229 we tread on the Palatine. But we build up a whole world of thought out of these frag- ments, and rejoice in the depths of our soul when the mighty spirit of the past is revealed to us even though but in a transient glimpse. The hand of a god seems to touch our brow, and consecrate us to live in Eternity, and to retrace the course of long centuries in hours of wrapt and delicious contemplation. And this god dwells only in Rome. Feel him, acknowledge him, open thy heart to his influence, and thou shalt return to thy cold northern clime, changed and elevated, and initiated into the worship of the Eternally Beautiful ! The Palatine Hill is, more perhaps than any other spot in Rome, rich in historic charm, and is a delightful place in which to while away the silent hours of a summer mid- day. We descend from the Auguratorium to the edge of the steeply-sloping hill, all overgrown with rich southern vegetation. We see the locality of the steps of Cacus, and beneath us there, where ivy and clematis, blackthorn and wild roses, cluster amid tall, palm-like reeds, — there, where the air blows cool and moist, is the cave of the she-wolf, the Lupercal ! There stood the sacred fig tree. Look to the left : here, under the oak trees in a thicket of brambles, once stood the humble hut of Faustulus, which was pre- served and tended late into Imperial times. Guide posts bearing inscriptions mark the place. We will approach them unquestioningly ; we will read them as credulously as children read a fairy tale, and dream undisturbed by criticism. For the rest, as regards all the ruins and fragments recently brought to light, their " name is but sound and smoke." We will rejoice in what remains, and ask no questions. We mount the broad flight of steps to the height whereon a great temple once stood, and let our eyes wander beyond the peaceful waters of the Tiber, to the remotest distance of the Campagna : — to where the Tyrrhene Sea is glistening, and the horizon is a deep purple line. Then, turning away, we approach the neighbouring Aventine Hill, once covered with the traces of busy life, and bearing temples, tombs, and monuments dating from the remotest antiquity. Now it is silent and deserted ; and out of all the past splendours there have arisen three Christian convents. The largest of these is called Santa Sabina, and it stands beneath the trees with the two lesser convents near it, like a pious mother leading her children to worship. This convent-church and its surround- ings form a perfect picture ; the tower, the roof, and white walls are admirably relieved against the green foliage, and one part of the building is half-hidden by pines, ilexes, and cypresses. It is surrounded by vineyards and cornfields, where on this heathen soil the materials for the Christian's sacred and mysterious sacrifice are growing. We turn and seat ourselves upon the steps of the Academy, once brave with shining marbles, and enjoy, as did the old Romans, the soul-stirring verse of some classic writer. Before us lies the city in her wide extent, and as far as the hill of the Vatican stretches a pure deep-blue sky, whilst the sun's rays are tempered by the shadow of the tall, black, aromatic cypresses that lift their proud spires above the wall. This was a spot for assem- blies of the noblest and most cultivated, and here the grand lines of Virgil seemed to take bodily shape and to be realized : " .... inclyta Roma Imperium terris, animos a?quabit Olympo, Septcmque una sibi muro ciicumdabit arces, Felix prole virum ! " Yes ; splendid, glorious Rome, thou whose power was only limited by the limits of the world, whose daring knew no ruler under Heaven, whose Seven Hills were circled by 230 ITALY. one wall, rejoice, and be proud of thy heroic race ! With what exaltation did that race once celebrate the day of the uniting of the Seven Hills ! Fires rose from every height and filled the dwellings of the gods with the smoke of incense. What a beautiful festival was this of the Septimontium ! But to-day we celebrate a yet nobler one : the festival of the Venti Settembre, — the 20th of September, the date on which this ancient seven- hilled city after long waiting and hope deferred, was placed as the noblest jewel in the royal diadem with its hundred pearls of Italian cities. Not only seven hills, but all mountains and valleys, from the distant Alps to the Adriatic, rejoice upon this day. The Present shines with a bright and wondrous light, and sky and sun, land and sea, seem to sympathise with its gladness. Lo, there, an aged, venerable priest descends the temple steps ; he unlooses the sacred fillet from his silver hair, and disappears with bowed head, and lingering step. But on the Capitol is seen once more the purple-bordered toga, and it is worn by the King of Italy. No sacrifice smokes on the altars, but the shouts of the people ascend to the vault of Heaven. They shout and exult manfully, "Evviva la Roma miova!" And high in the clear firmament shines a radiant star, " la Stella d'ltalia!" ROMAN GIRL. THE ETERNAL CITY IN A MODERN TOGA. 231 IN THE VILLA EORGHESE. THE ETERNAL CITY IN A MODERN TOGA. " Thou lcad'st us back into the upper world, O spirit of this nineteenth century ! Thou tellest of new races that arise, Of noble edifices springing up From ruin, and of holy temple-columns Built for eternal worship of the gods." — J. D. Falk. HIS wonderful modern time of ours puffs and thunders along on his fire-horse over iron roads that cross the ancient Roman ways, on, across the bare, brown, uncultivated plain, past the antique milestones, towards the Eternal City. The rolling Campagna spreads to the right and the left of the railway like a petrified sea whose swelling waves have been suddenly arrested in their movement. The Tiber flowing between grey willows, lingers lazy and sullen far behind the flying train. A purple mist hangs over the horizon, and the heavens are as brass above us. Light and heat reign here, unchecked and untempered, with tremendous power. No sign appears to betoken that we are approaching the former mistress of the world. We dream ourselves back into the time of Lvander, when only a wild population of herdsmen trod this plain, and the landscape lends itself completely to such dreamings. Now, as then, white herds of cattle roam over the brown hillocks, followed by a sunburnt herdsman mounted on a swift horse. He reins in his steed as he looks with a scowl after the train, — no friend, clearly, to modern " Progress ;" — and then with a shout and a flourish of his long lance disappears in a whirl of dust across the Campagna. A herd of young horses stands 232 ITAL V. down yonder by the water. The handsome beasts stare for an instant with raised heads at the steaming locomotive, and then fly like the wind from the river's brink over the parched plain. At every station you see the rural population of Latium, browned by the sun, or blanched by fever. Onwards ! Here on a hill stands an old ruined tower overgrown with ivy ; — there is a miserable dwelling, smoke-blackened and windowless ; — huge hayricks and wheat stacks ; ■ — melancholy remains of a long-ruined aqueduct ; — long stretches of uncultivated land ; — onwards, always onwards across the plain, and always the same pictures ! The traveller stretches his head out of the carriage window and peers eagerly into the misty horizon : surely he must soon get a glimpse of the city ! Ah, see yonder ! Is it an illusion ? Is it a cloud rising up from the sea ? — for the sea lies over there. He looks more keenly. No ; it is no illusion, it is in very truth the great dome of St. Peter's that he sees ! There is Rome ! His heart beats faster. There is Rome! He can no longer bear to remove <_> his gaze from that direction. But the dome disappears, hidden by hills ; it rises again to view, still apparently at the same distance ; once more it sinks, and his feverish impatience must endure yet a long delay before the whole picture is fully revealed to the traveller out of its veil of mist. Yes ; that is Rome, surrounded by softly-rounded hills covered with pine and cypress. White villas stand on the outskirts of the city, around which the grey wilderness of the Campagna flows, even to its very threshold. With a piercing shriek from the steam-whistle, the train rattles into the new Roman railway-station, adorned with paintings typical of many of the chief Italian cities. There is a loud babel and confusion of many tongues all around, even as in the old Imperial days. No trace remains, truly, of many ancient peoples whose language was once wont to be heard here : the proud Syrian, the rude Sarmatian and Sicamber, the sun-ripened Ethiopian, the dignified Egyptian, and obsequious Greek, — all, all, have disappeared. But in their stead are the stalwart sons and fair daughters of the blond northern barbarians, whose strong forefathers did battle with the conquerors of the world, or rendered service as soldiers and sentinels, — a kind of antique Swiss Guard to antique Bourbons ! Here they come in crowds, easily recognisable by the scarlet-bound volume of the well-known cicerone of Coblenz. There descends from the carriage, nil admirari in his eye, the proud Briton looking silently upon this world of ruins. His fair-haired wife is on his arm, and they are followed by a Junonian troop of daughters. Yonder a son of Gaul flits through the crowd, as lithe and sinuous as his own flexible tongue. But they all pass on unhindered. No threatening police officer of the all-powerful Sejanus enquires their name, their rank, or their business. Modern Rome keeps open doors, and the stranger wanders through the city as freely as the wind. The air has grown lighter here, and we seem to breathe more easily, we who remember the manifold obstructions and vexations of a tyrannous government which the traveller had perforce to suffer with patience in former days. The whole town has grown airier, cheerfuller, and more habitable ; but as to the imperial purple hem on her new toga,— that has yet to be sewn on by some tailor of the future ! The town is, as yet, in a state of growth and transition. This is obvious the moment we pass out of the precincts of the railway station on to the wide piazza in front of it. The trees and plants in the newly laid out garden are in an embryonic condition, and the pavement consists more of good intentions than solid stone. It is difficult to say of the masses of cut and uncut stone piled up all around us, whether they have already served for old buildings, or are waiting to serve for new ones. To the right is a mass of Of THE UNIVERSITY 0" '■' THE ETERNAL CITY IN A MODERN TOGA. 233 ruinous constructions : — the gigantic Baths of Diocletian, in which, and out of which, numerous modern churches, convents, houses and halls, have been built. And these latter again, — as though infected by the contact of ruin, — are already themselves almost ruinous ; as may be seen by their dusky, dusty hue, their cracks and crevices, their blind windows unopened for many a long year, and their rotting doors. Here, as at the Porta Viminalis, Rome consisted solely and wholely of ruins but a few years ago : — ruins SEGGIOLA DEL DIAVOLO IN THE ROMAN CAMPAGNA. antique, mediaeval, and modern ! Nothing but ruins. And the population born and brought up amid these ruins let things perish as they would. In papal Rome no hand was stirred to repair the universal decay with hammer or mortar. But in every corner of the city, in every courtyard, on every piazza, the fountains plashed with so sweet a lullaby, the three hundred and sixty-five churches offered so welcome a refuge where weary souls might sleep and dream, that in this atmosphere of secular slumber men were scarcely aware of the decay around them, and wandered like somnambulists amidst the ruins, leading an existence scarcely more animated than that of the ivy which covered them. Then came a fresh breath of autumn, and one morning the cannons thundered at the gates of the city. Their sound overpowered the plash of the fountains, the bells of the churches, and the voices of the chanting monks. The smoke of the great guns entered in at the open doors of the temples, and was more powerful than the sensuous sweet odour of incense. And the Roman awoke ! H H 234 ITALY. He awoke, rubbed his sleepy eyes, and perceived that he was dwelling amid ruins ; he perceived that his paternal roof-tree was ready to fall on his head and crush him, and he aroused himself thoroughly. He addressed himself manfully to the task of preparing a new garment for the old city, and the time will soon come when the wealth of water and the superfluity of churches will cease to be the only distinguishing characteristics of Rome. In a few years Rome will stand on a level with the foremost European capitals. But as yet she has not reached that level ; — a fact of which we may convince ourselves by our very first walk through the city. In the course of time the wilderness had invaded her VILLA LANTE ON THE JANICULUM. very streets, the waste landscape of the Campagna pressed close around her gates, like a swarm of beggars before the marble steps of a palace ; so that the proud old patrician city with her palaces of counts and dukes, her villas of barons and cardinals, was absolutely in danger of becoming utterly ruralized, and of being over-run by rude shepherds and cattle- drivers. Had not the buffalo and the white ox long since been seen — growing bolder and more numerous day by day, — on the Forum, in the Capitol, desecrating the sacredest ruins? " Picturesque ! " you say ? Yes ; picturesque enough, but scarcely in accordance with modern conceptions of the civilization of a great metropolis, such as Rome desired to appear before all eyes ! Grass grew on every piazza, goats were pastured in front of the Lateran, and the lazy, dirty, insolent beggar of the Campagna encamped himself with wife and children wheresoever it seemed good to him. " Picturesque " also these street groups ; — admirable compositions for the pencil of a sketching tourist, but — everything in its place ! And such like vermin are not for a city about to don her modern holiday attire. Whosoever does not attend to the workman's cry : " No more of slothful leisure ! Hasten, quick, Bring stones and lime, bring here the binding mortar ! " whosoever does not follow that behest, let him go hence, out of the city. Rome must and will be remodelled by the spirit of the times ; her obsolete toga will be exchanged for the THE ETERNAL CITY IN A MODERN TOGA. 235 costume of the Boulevards and the " West End." But never fear ! She will still be Rome, and her ruins will not be painted red, white, and green, but will keep their hoary time-stained colour, such as we shall continue to see in numerous streets and alleys of the town for many a year to come. Do but plunge into some quarter where the fresh air of the Venli Settembre has not penetrated, and you will be unable to find any difference between Rome and the obscurest little hole in the Volscian or Sabine Hills. It seems strange that artists should under- take inconvenient and costly journeys to those mountain places in order to bring home, after months of labour, a sketch-book full of old doorways, crooked staircases, broken window-arches, and other subjects stamped with the mark of destroying Time, when they can have all that and more, still older, still more ruinous, and therefore still more H H 2 236 ITALY. picturesque in the obscurer quarters of their own holy city, together with all the Volscian and Sabine smells into the bargain ! Look as you walk, and wonder at the homes of industry amid the filthy narrow lanes of the metropolis. Gaze in astonishment at the black edifices with rusty iron gateways, whereof you are puzzled to know whether they have been splendid palaces or gloomy mediseval prisons. The foot stumbles over slippery and uneven pavements, the eye turns with disgust from dark window-holes draped with miserable rags hung out to dry, with a shudder you hasten past the cavernous-looking dwellings of the poor, past the botteghe, — the wretched shops, — where the people buys its food and drink. Surely all this is at least as "picturesque" as the pig-populated street- corners of Subiaco and Olevano ! But let even these quarters be pulled down : let light and air make a triumphal and princely entry even here, nevertheless Rome will still be Rome, — beautiful, mighty, wonderful, picturesque Rome ! The ordinary traveller, who neither comprehends the greatness of the past nor can conceive of the future from that which he sees around him, is, for the most part, disap- pointed in Rome, and is enthusiastic only about St. Peter's, or the general view of the city as seen from a distance. But whoso has ears may hear the city growing. Whoso has eyes may see shining in the eyes of the Romans the promise of a sunny future ; and above the prosaic odours of broccoli and maccaroni, you may scent the breath of a newly awakened Spring. But another breath floats above the city even now as it ever has done, — the sweet, soft atmosphere of philosophic repose, the ease of noble contem- plation, the serious and attractive beauty of intellectual labour. For these no town in the world affords such opportunities as Rome. And the stranger who in Rome can follow the path of common frivolity, can stand idly amid this spectacle of life with his hands folded, or can use them only for trivial toying with some form of Art, — such a one deserves not to be in Rome at all. The silent past teaches us with the melancholy eloquence of its ruins to turn our eyes within ; and no noisy diversions, no unworthy excitements need trouble our spirit. In these garden-houses into which no murmur of the tide of daily life can penetrate, where the winds from the Campagna whisper low, in whose courtyards clear fountains trickle softly, — in such places as these, dwells a peace which might be vainly sought for elsewhere throughout the world : a peace unknown in the remotest and most solitary island : a peace worthy of the gods ! Whoever wishes to devote himself to serious brain work, whoever desires to penetrate into the spirit of the Beautiful, or to live amidst the enchantments of a stupendous past, and bask in the magic light of history, whoever seeks happiness in the serene regions of intellect, should live in Rome. But even to those who have known sorrow in the cold dreary world, to those whom the dark waves of misfortune have nearly overwhelmed, Rome offers peace of mind, and consolation for woe and tears. For what is our love betrayed, our heart deceived, upon a soil whose very dust is the ashes of great nations ? And what are our tear-drops compared with the torrents of blood shed in the gloomy night of Rome's decline and fall ? " Behold the Pantheon, and think : in Rome The death of one man is of small account." Aye, truly is it of small account ! The soul learns here to comprehend the great afflictions and miseries of the world, and to forget her own pettier griefs. The sweet celestial-hued blossom of Lyric Poetry blooms not on this soil : around the ruins are twined the tendrils of the solemn passion-flower. This sombre historic colouring must for THE ETERNAL CITY IN A MODERN TOGA. 237 evermore belong to the city ; it will not change with the changing banner that flaunts from the Castle of St. Angelo. Let the aspect of the modern city vary as it will, let them alter the transient adornments, as they once were wont to change the head-dress upon the IN VILLA MASSIMO. marble busts of Roman Empresses, — still, still the solemnly beautiful features must remain the same, immutable for ever ! The Rome of to-day is divided into two conflicting portions, as in a huge balance : one scale contains the Vatican, the other the Ouirinal, and History stands like Nemesis holding the balance aloft in her mysterious hand. The scales waver and fluctuate this 2 3 8 ITAL y. way and that ; perhaps the iron sword of some modern Brennus may once more decide the question and turn the scale. V& victis ! But we will hope that civic virtues may prevail. O Rome, Rome, all too long hast thou been lying Low in the dust, a by-word, and a jeer ! But now once more upon thy forehead clear, Gleams thine old crown, all enemies defying. Fair wert thou in thy woe ; but weak as fair. Now is thy beauty joined with noble strength, And after patient suffering, lo, at length Thy tear-stained eye a cheerful beam doth wear. And now, down-swooping on thy sacred soil, Should some transalpine horde in arms assail thee Seeking to spoil thy harvest, 'twill recoil Met by stout hands and hearts that shall not fail thee ; And Tiber's wave with alien blood shall flow, Ere thy bright sword of Freedom shall lie low ! The spirit of Antiquity and History — which here are one and the same, — has incor- porated itself in this Roman People, and made of them, not merely the most handsome physically, but the most intellectually capable, and worthiest race of the Peninsula. The Roman People has comprehended the high responsibility laid upon the foremost city of Italy, and is thoroughly capable of fulfilling its task : the task, namely, of giving a good example, of taking the initiative, and of championing and maintaining the national dignity even with its blood if need be. And whoever unblushingly maintains that this people is degraded and corrupted to the core, speaks falsely, and is utterly devoid of insight into the popular life and sufferings. During long dark years of miserable misgovernment, the German People, also, had much to suffer, and to shed much blood and many tears ; yet it retained its vitality, and awoke, when the time was ripe, to a new existence. But such sufferings as were endured by the Romans, who were stricken even unto the soul, the Germans have never experienced : and the fact that the former still live and live worthily, is a testimony that they too possess a robust vitality, — even more robust than that of the Germans. If hitherto they have deserved our pity, now, when in their suddenly acquired freedom they display so excellent a behaviour, they certainly merit our highest esteem. " Or che del proprio brando ti sei cinta, T' ammireranno le straniere genti Vincitrice del Mondo, e non piu vinta ! " One leading characteristic is indelibly stamped upon this people : their deeply serious outlook upon the world. Rome never was a frivolous, wanton city, living gaily through the sunshiny days, and caring for nothing but merry-makings : and now she has somewhat the air of a convalescent looking hopefully towards the rosy spring-time, and feeling the healthful breeze of heaven dry the tears of pain on his cheek. This trait of seriousness is found in the lowest peasant of the Campagna ; but the long centuries of barbarous misgovernment and ill-treatment have not been able to destroy the original, grand, and noble type of the race, and the antique traditions still live even among the lowest of the people, who all know something of the great ancestors whose pride they inherit To the present day the Roman race is as distinct in form and type from its neighbours of Upper Italy, Tuscany, and Naples, as the population of some remote island, and shows the un- mistakeable impress of the antique Romans. Their frames are powerful and well-knit, 01 THE UNIVERSITY OF HJJNBB THE ETERNAL CITY IN A MODERN TOGA. 239 the head round, the eyes and hair black, the complexion slightly bronzed. Their limbs are in admirable proportion to the body, but their hands and feet are small and fine, denoting a high-bred race. The glance of the Roman is fiery, lively, and penetrating as his speech which he uses with agreeable and facile eloquence. Removed alike from obsequiousness or affectation, his manners are remarkably graceful. His carriage dis- plays a certain solemnity, such as he might have worn when his Seven-Hilled City was mistress of the world. Is this air the result of the sombre surroundings amid which he has lived, or is it innate in him ? Certainly the melancholy of the ruins around him may have contributed to it, since it powerfully impresses even the stranger who is a temporary sojourner in the city. With a mixture of this seriousness and a strong sense of self-esteem, the Roman contemplates all events from a high and dignified point of view : and with the same dig- nity he opened his gates to the new order of things and offered to its ambassadors a princely hospitality. Such feelings are not confined to the dwellings of cultivated citizens, they may be found beneath the open sky upon the waste Campagna, and the poor shepherd preserves an attitude of dignity even beneath the ragged folds of his miserable mantle. It was this sense of self-esteem which kept up the Romans during times of darkness, and preserved the main mass of the people sound, despite the deplorable education which was always endeavouring to chip the fine marble into paltry puppets. This self-esteem kept him from vain and weak complainings, restrained him from cowardly revenge, and taught him to despise death. Even to-day the Quirites know how to die as proudly and tranquilly as their forefathers, who ever looked Death manfully in the face. You may call it rude harshness, that the Romans of to-day, as those of old, are destitute of the amiable germanic sympathy with nature, that they are ready with the knife as their fathers with the sword, that they have little feeling for the sufferings of the brute creation :— but there is character in all this ; more character than in the effeminate youths who turn pale CHURCHYARD AT MONTE SERRONE. 240 ITALY. if a pigeon has to be slaughtered, and break out into cowardly lamentations, if they feel the least pain. The Roman Republic cultivated and created this stern character, and through it old Rome grew strong and mighty and able to rule the nations : through it she may again become strong and powerful, when once the effect of the years during which this natural quality was forcibly repressed and perverted, shall somewhat have passed away. For between a Decius Mus rushing upon death for a noble cause, and the youth who sacrifices his life for an unworthy one, there is only the difference of education and aim. The Roman women offer an equally fine picture. They are the direct opposite of a German Gretchen whose blond tresses are wound round a gentle dreamy little head, and whose blue eyes look even by day as though they were full of the soft glimmer of moonlight. The Roman woman typifies clear decision. She is the representative of serious and majestic womanhood. Her beauty is celebrated all over the world, and has no rival throughout the rest of Italy. The Milanese may be amiable, the Venetians graceful, the Florentines fascinating, the Neapolitans animated, but they none of them possess the antique calm and classic beauty of the Roman women, nor their high soul and strength of mind. It is possible that those who admire only the Greek style of beauty, and who identify the beautiful with the graceful, may contest the Roman woman's right to the palm of superiority ; but the fact is that the Roman beauty differs from the Greek as much as the language and poetry of the two great ancient peoples differed from each other. The Roman female countenance displays none of the gentle softness, the lyric tenderness, the attractive loveliness of a Greek head ; it is more firmly moulded, stronger, more epic. The Greek form of the girlish Venus has ripened on this soil, under the sun of Italy, into the fully developed woman behind whose broad brows lie, not merely love-dreams, but the consciousness of a certain spirit of sovereignty : the woman whose splendid frame and ample breast were framed to bear and suckle a Romulus and Remus. Those full round arms are able, not only to wind themselves in an affectionate embrace around her husband, but, if need be, to wield sword and lance, and avenge an injury without man's assistance, like the grand Camilla of Virgil. The Roman woman has never been a slave. In her house she rules royally, like the spouse of Ulysses, free and self-asserting. Her large beaming eyes have nothing of that soft appealing expression of timidity which seems to implore the protection of the stronger sex ; her features are devoid of the sentimental tenderness which seems to invite love. When I have learned to understand the Roman Woman " then first I understand the noble marbles." Goethe's favourite Juno of the Villa Ludovisi, before which he stood in wrapt adoration so many a morning, has much of this grandeur, in the firm, goddess-like, enchanting mouth, the decided chin, the broad forehead, and the nostril slightly raised with a touch of disdain. Goddess and woman at once, and both in the highest perfection ; Say, which is chiefly divine, — where reigns the woman supreme? Feminine beauties attract and charm thee to warm admiration, But, lo, the goddess prevails, and silent thou bendest in worship ! Fair-haired Roman women are very rare. But the wealth of black locks suits mag- nificently with the rich brown of their complexions mellowed by a southern sun, and with the pomegranate-flower red of their lips. Such liveliness as that of the Neapolitan THE ETERNAL CITY IN A MODERN TOGA. 241 women, and coquetry, are foreign to Roman female nature. These women move like queens, with fine broad-shouldered and broad-hipped figures, well-proportioned throats, and flexible waists. They do not bend, or wave from side to side as they walk, but glide STELLA, A ROMAN MODEL. along with sweeping draperies, like so many wandering goddesses. In them we find united, — like the seven hues in the rainbow, — the seven beauties of which the popular rhymes sing throughout Italy : " Scttc bellezze vuolc aver la donna, Prima che bclla si possa chiamare : Alta dcv'esser senza la pianella, E bianca e rossa senza su' lisciare. : Larga di spalla, e stretta in ccnturella, La bella bocca, e il bel nobil parlare. Se poi si tira su le oscure trecce, Dccco la donna di sette bellezze !" T/^ri, Canti popolari Toscani. I I 2 A 2 ITAL Y. Which may be roughly but faithfully rendered thus A woman, to be truly beautiful, Must have seven beauties which I now recite : She must be tall of stature, and her skin Must bloom with Nature's colouring, red and white. The shoulders wide, the girdle small and thin ; Her mouth, well-shaped, all hearers must delight With noble speech. Now add thick raven tresses, And all the seven beauties she possesses ! These physical attractions are accompanied by a dignified, gracious bearing ; and the "be/ nobil parlare" the noble speech of the Roman women, is peculiarly fascinating. No one who has once felt the charm of this eloquence whose deep full tones and flowing vowels are as harmonious as fine music, can ever forget it. The Italians have a proverb which shows that they themselves consider their lan- guage to sound best in a Roman mouth : Lingua toscana, in bocca romana ! And amidst all this dwells a noble soul, an aspiring mind, long repressed, but des- tined yet to soar high in the rosy light of the new dawn. Of course the possibilities of all these beauties, mental and physical, are only in a latent con- dition among the poor peasant- women of the Campagna, and the female population of the Traste- vere (literally ' Beyond-Tiber,' the quarter of the city which lies on the same side of the river as the Castle of St. Angelo and St. Peter's) ; who seem like fine plants checked in their growth by unfavourable surrounding conditions. The rich high-born beauty blooms and flourishes like the flowers and shrubs in the luxuriant Roman gardens : the wretched peasant woman of the Campagna is poor, haggard, tanned by sun and weather. But her gait, too, is proud, her eyes also flame brightly ; — they flame, alas, with hunger and fever, two maladies hereditary in her blood ! There is character in her features : and even when her countenance shall be utterly withered and wrinkled, and discoloured by years, hard work, and weather, it will yet be full of character, though it be as ugly and hag-like as that of an old witch. The blunt- ness, or disagreeable sharpness, which age impresses upon the women of other European countries is not seen among them. They are all fit to serve as painters' models. And let it not be supposed that the gaily dressed, dark-eyed girls, and the sham shepherds with dishevelled locks, whom one sees in the Via Sistina, and on the steps of the Trinita de' Monti, or theatrically grouped in the neighbourhood of the painters' studios, are the only models worth looking at. Indeed the best, and most really beautiful, are not to be found among them. Roman girls are utterly devoid of sentimentality, and women of the Roman populace talk as familiarly of the latest tragical stabbing-case, as our women PEASANT OF THE CAMPAGNA. ROMAN FLOWER-SELLER. OF THE UHlYERSmt OF THE ETERNAL CITY IN A MODERN TOGA. 243 talk of the last new novel. And whenever a man has been killed they immediately take the part of the wretched assassin. There is nothing to be done for the dead man, but the other, interesting, much to be compassionated criminal who has had the ' misfor- tune' to kill somebody, he, indeed, may have need of help and sympathy. For the accursed carabinieri are after him, and he must not be let to fall into their hands. Wheresoever he goes and relates his bloody story, he is sure to meet with shelter. The women press round him full of pity and curiosity, the children stare on him as a hero, the men admire him, and help him as best they can. But even in this apparently cruel and bar- barous trait there is a certain, — how shall I say ? — a certain prac- tical way of viewing life, which directed to proper ends might lead to good. For the rest, the people is really harmless and good-natured, and we state this opinion after a pretty close acquaintance with them. They never lose sight of what is naturally fitting and be- coming. Everyone will readily acknowledge this who has watched them in their popular festivals, or at their games either in the city or outside the gates. The. foreigner is never insulted, and all women, natives and strangers alike, enjoy a peculiar amount of consideration from the men, in ' WOMAN OF TRASTEVERE. word and deed. This is no light praise to give a people, and justifies, if there were nothing else, the highest hopes of its capacity for receiving education ; for where nature has bestowed tact and good feeling, the task of education will be comparatively easy. A tendency to satire is observable among the educated classes ; and three figures, which have come to be absolutely popular characters, were for a long time the bearers and representatives of this satiric spirit. Every city has such a one : in Naples it is Iu cuorpo de Napole, in Milan l'Uomo di Pietra, in Venice Sior Nioba, and in Rome Pasquino, Marforio, and the Abate Luigi. These are three decayed stone statues, of uncertain origin, which were for centuries as well known to the populace as the Apollo, the Capitoline Venus, and the Antinous are known to lovers of Art, and which served for satires of all sorts to be stuck on to. The streets where they stood were called after them, and you may still find the Via di Pasquino, the Via di Marforio, and the Vicolo dell' Abate Luigi. Pasquino originally promulgated the well-known mot " Quod non fecerunt Barbari, id fecerunt Barberini." This was levelled at Pope Urban the Eighth of the family of Barberini, who plundered the venerable monuments of Rome right and left in search of building materials, and was truly in his way more destructive than the barbarians. 1 1 2 244 ITAL Y. On another occasion, when an insignificant priestling had been turned by a stroke of the magic-working Papal sceptre into a Cardinal, and his sister, a poor washerwoman, released from her tubs and soap-suds, Marforio one day appeared bedaubed with dirt from head to foot, and Pasquino enquired of him " Why are you so dirty, Marforio ? And, what do I see ? You have not even changed your shirt !" " Be quiet," answered Marforio. ' Yesterday they made a princess of my washerwoman." When Gregory the Fourteenth had set off on a journey through the provinces, and left behind a govern- ment of regency composed of much- hated individuals, Pasquino asked Marforio : " Why are you weeping ? " And Marforio answered : " How can you ask ? Have we not lost our shepherd ? " " Blockhead ! " answers Pasquino, consolingly, " don't the dogs remain behind to look after the fold?" These, and a thousand similar utterances, serve to show the secret hatred of the then existing order of things, which must find vent in some way. It was impossible that it should do so by means of the press, for the one or two public journals that existed were mere pale shadows of news- papers ; and no book which excited thought, or broached new ideas could hope to receive the "Nihil obstat" of the all-powerful Censor Theologus. Thus the freedom of the press had to take refuge on the marble breasts of the old statues of Pasquino and his friend Marforio. Now that is all changed. Thousands of printed leaves flutter about, political birds of every feather, satirical bats, and quarrelsome sparrows, fly around the windows of the Vatican, the exclusive mansions of sullen pride, and the dwellings of the cit. They croak, and screech, and pipe, and chirp, and flute, in the morning sky. Many a one stops his ears, but the sound penetrates even through his dreams. In these days the black robe of the priest is seldom seen amid the crowd ; the carriage of a cardinal rarely rolls along the Corso (never with pomp and state), and a promenade on the Pincian Hill is no longer agreeable to high dignitaries. They used to take such pleasure in listening to the French military bands there, — and it is a year or two since the French have made music among the laurel trees of the Pincian ! Another circumstance has given a new and not unbecoming colour to the aspect of Rome : the increase, namely, of trade and commerce and civil industry. The Roman is not slothful by nature, but his all too huge calendar of festivals placed itself like a barrier as wide as a church door between him and his work, and accustomed him to spend his THE ETERNAL CITY IN A MODERN TOGA. 245 time with folded hands, or in some trivial game. The Piedmontese invaders have cut and curtailed the aforesaid calendar in all directions, and no one seems to long for its restora- tion to its former completeness. Labour has already put forth a hopeful blossom, and ROMAN MODEL. Rome may expect a rich harvest. But serious labour " suffers not the lyre's sound," en- dures not dance and song, and some day we shall see play wholly driven out by work, as the varied national costumes of Europe have been almost utterly superseded by French and English printed calicos. Our children's children will read wonderingly in some old book of travels that there once was a Carnival, horse-racing, and a Tombola in Rome, 246 ITALY. and that the games of boccia (bowls), pallonc (a kind of tennis), quoits, and mora, and the national Saltarello, were rife here. But then they will be permitted to see, what we can only faintly guess at and imagine, — glorious old Rome in her Modern Toga. AMONG THE RUINS. " Deep is your sleep, ye centuries, how deep ! Departed years, how sombre is your night ! These columns, once with regal splendours dight, Are prisoned now as in some dungeon keep, Sharing the fate of stars whose light is gone. Greatness dwells only in the soul, whom Fate, Though it afflict, has made immortal. Great Are human souls. Ye centuries, sleep on !" H. Lingg. TEP softly, oh traveller, for our walk leads us to a great graveyard : to the Roman burial place of classic art ! The spot on which thou standest is sacred soil. Here, where once the Highest and Noblest was revealed visibly to the soul of man, we still feel the breath of the gods upon us, and can reconstruct a world of beauty by earnest contemplation. One thought grows clear as we gaze : how grand, how infinitely splendid and luminous, must this dead antique world have been in the fulness of its youth, when even the broken fragments of its tomb can so impress us ! Still stands the goddess Roma on the Capitol, but she is the queen of a desert, the mistress over an empty kingdom. Proud columns, mighty walls and arches, towers and gateways, still surround her, but they are all shattered, fallen, broken, and blackened by fire, smoke, and blood. History, bent beneath the weight of thousands of years, sits in the Pantheon, and dreams of the divine sunset-light of the past, and stares with hollow eyes into the gloomy world of ruin. The terrible words of the prophet are realized here. Her glories are departed with the sound of her harps. Her bed is on ruins, and her covering is of ashes. " How art thou fallen, oh Lucifer, Son of the Morning!" And yet, — if nothing remained of all the former splendours, save the Pantheon, the Apollo, and the Capitoline Venus, there would still be enough to enable us to conceive the ancient beauty, to reconstruct the city, and to people it with a god-like race. And had we nothing but the mountainous mass of the Coliseum, it would suffice to give us an idea of the vastness of that antique world. Greatness and beauty are stamped upon all the works of ancient Rome. And greatness and beauty harmoniously combined, are in truth the ideal of the human mind, ever striving at once upward and onward. This world once possessed them, but they have departed ; we seek them painfully amid the wrecks of classic art, and all our prying and peering, all our modern criticising and burrow- ing, all our efforts, in a word, are like the wanderings of a sleep-walker. The gates of that irolden house are closed against us cultured moderns ; we wait and watch in the atrium, like door-keepers in a royal palace, who peep through the golden gratings to catch a glimpse of the gods enthroned within. Evening has just extinguished the bright torch of the sun, and is descending on dream-like purple wings, from the glimmering heights into the streets of the city. With light, soft hand, he effaces the bright transient tints of day from palace and painting, from UPR4RY OF THE AMONG THE RUINS. 247 flower and tree, and darkens the last white gleams upon tower and cupola. Wherever he wings his flight, loud life is hushed. His companion, the moon, comes forth with soft TEMPLE OF MINERVA IN THE FORUM OF NERVA. illumination, and beneath her rays the scars of a thousand years are healed. The splintered column rises again proudly as of yore, and is linked to its solitary sisters by a silver chain of light ; stone is joined to stone, and all the monuments live anew. The green moss, symptom of solemn age, becomes a golden decoration upon roof and cornice. 248 ITAL Y. The moon rises higher, and the streets grow more silent : only the tireless fountains plash coolly through the night, filling their marble shells and basins. Moon-rays and star-rays play upon these waters ; they creep over garden walls and mingle with the mysterious breath of flowers. All the city sleeps, and night is here. The night has glided on us so softly and so sweetly. What ails thee, oh soul ? Why art thou so sad ? A caged night- ingale is singing yonder : — it is like the heart imprisoned in this mortal breast, that beats restlessly and would fain sing away its sorrows. Nothing stirs in the streets but the silent breeze of night. It blows white mystic clouds down from the moon to earth; they glide over the roofs and come nearer, — the purple hems of their long robes sweep majestically over the broad steps, — golden diadems glitter, — is it a dream? Behold them, the immortal gods, all, all assembled to take their places in the mighty temple dedicated to them. Here is the Pantheon, noblest dwelling of the gods, rising, itself almost god-like, out of the darkness. No longer sad and mournful as it appears in the bright light of day, like a forlorn stranger in the midst of a new, many-coloured, unknown world, but a giant full of majesty, a mythic hero, unwearied by his two thousand years' combat against the storms of barbarians, and the rigours of the hostile sky. Here dwells for evermore Jupiter Tonans ; here stands his brazen altar, and from hence he rules over the world. He knits his dark brows, and the ambrosial locks fall over his royal forehead, mighty enough to bear all the crowns of the earth. That is the Jupiter of Otricoli ; we know him Avell. But all the divinities approach : — V enus comes, ancestress of the Augustan race, and Mars girded for battle, and Apollo the protector and helper, with his sounding bow, Juno and Vesta, Ceres and Minerva — all, all are here. The gates of the Pantheon are opened wide, and Hebe, the ever youthful, marshals the silent Olympians to their golden chairs. The moonlight, as it plays between the gigantic columns, weaves strange myths out of light and shadow. Ye gods, permit a mortal to approach ! " Lo, what wondrous bliss vouchsafed to me, a mortal ! Dream I ? Or am I a guest in Jupiter's house ambrosial ? Here I prostrate myself, here at thy knees, oh Father, Stretching forth suppliant hands. Jupiter Xenius, hear me ! " — Goethe. The old gods have disappeared, but before they departed they gave into the hands of one of the later born of Time all their celestial grandeur, their beauty, their mystical charms, and the secret of Olympian poesy. And since they could not endow his perishable body with eternal life and youth, they granted them to his spirit manifested in the works of his hand, and, as a last boon, permitted the great master to sleep his long sleep within their temple. Raphael's bones repose in the niche by yonder chapel, and his tomb makes the Pantheon once more a place of pilgrimage for future generations. Let us hence from the temple once more into the night. The nightingale is still singing, the fountains murmur in their sleep, the white clouds are floating away to the sea. We wander through the deserted streets, past sentinels, past the consecrated doors of many a church and chapel, past the flare of yellow street-lamps, past dark alleys, where a glimmering light shows us the image of the Madonna of many sorrows, with a handful of fresh flowers before it, through the deserted streets we wander — and suddenly find ourselves on the wide moonlit space of the Forum Romanum. A fresh odour of leaves, and grass, and flowers, is blown across it from the Campagna, but it is the clamp cool odour of a graveyard. Do you seek the sarcophagus of ancient Rome ? Behold it ! Her head reposes on the Capitoline Hill, where the Dioscuri, and a brazen emperor high "V AMONG THE RUINS. 249 on his horse, and two great lions, are keeping watch. Tall pillars stand like funeral torches around the bier, but the tapers are burnt out, and the noblest candelabra over- SCENE IN THE RUINS OF THE TEMPLE OF VESPASIAN. thrown. The marble cerements have been torn away, and the corpse lies all uncovered in its mouldering coffin. But at midnight life returns into its heart. The dead one stirs not, but she hears the great bell of St. Peter's sound in the silence. The Apostle is enthroned upon the Vatican hill, and his handmaidens, the Christian churches, decked K K 250 ITALY. with modern splendour, press around the graves of ancient Rome, whose temples are forlorn and dedicated to decay. The priests sing hymns to Mary in the choir, and chattering ciceroni come at every moment, telling the children of a northern clime old legends of Roman beauty, and prating of Roman art. Barbarians have seized on her heritage, broken open the casket, and scattered gold and marbles, beauty and wealth, abroad throughout the world, or placed them as remembrances of the great Mother in cold museums. Alas, poor Rome ! "Another has won the sceptre, And thou art Queen no longer, And thine eye is dim and torpid, And thy lily-white arm is nerveless, And thy vengeance can never reach them, The blessed Maiden Mother And her wondrous Son Divine." — Heine. Yonder stands the Coliseum. How grandly gloomy it is ! A ruined mountain — a crater of the terrible burnt-out Roman volcano, split by the thunderbolts of Heaven — great enough to hold the night and all her terrors within it ! It is like a broken sacrificial vase, once filled to the brim with blood of men and beasts, now overflowing with the scent of flowers, and lighted by the gentle moon, and the tender pitiful stars. But in its midst, thrust into the soil like a sword with its hilt uppermost, stands the Cross, symbol of conflict and of peace. All the huge lonely arena is consecrated to the passion of the greatest Conqueror of the world, the Crucified Jesus. " Thou hast vanquished, Galilean ! " We wander in shadow through dark vaults and corridors, and a cold shudder thrills us. Something seems to glide amid the blocks of stone, swift and noiseless — up above there how it sighs and whispers amid the tendrils of the sombre ivy, waving ghostlike to and fro ! The stone benches are being filled ; a pale silent crowd presses through the eighty arched portals : — the soldiers of the legions with rusty weapons, vestal virgins wrapped in mouldering veils, priests, senators, they all climb into their seats, and stretch their arms, and hastily arrange their garments, grey with the dust of centuries. From the sand of the arena — see, see ! — they rise up slowly and painfully, wretched, haggard, hollow-eyed men, pale women, innocent little children — they drag themselves to the cross and embrace it with their arms, " Morituri te salutant, O Christe /" Then the bell of St. Peter's sounds solemnly, and the bells of the other Christian churches respond to the sound. Their voices go trembling through the dark corridors of the Coliseum, and one great gleaming star shines high above the cross ; it is the same that once stood above the humble house in Bethlehem, the star of Love Eternal. Ave Maria I The murmur of prayer is mingled with the sound of the bells ; a troop of monks, the soldiers of modern Rome, advance to exorcise the ancient spectres. In fourteen chapels, dedicated to the sufferings of the Saviour and of His most faithful followers, the incense smokes, and the people kneel, scarcely understanding how much blood their Faith once cost in this place. They mutter their child- like prayers with child-like thoughtlessness ; and the words of the preacher, telling how transient are earthly things, and how abiding the divine ones, echoes every Friday from the hoary walls. Thus, at least, a Pope ordered it should be a hundred years ago ; but now that too 01 THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS AMONG THE RUINS. 251 is over. Science has excavated the arena, inquiry has invaded all the vaults of the Coliseum, and the sermon is silent. But what matters this change ? Greater changes still attract our gaze, — wondrous changes ! The proud emperor who erected this mighty show-house for Rome had destroyed a city which was flourishing many a century before Rome— Jerusalem the Golden. He built the Coliseum, and it, too, was conquered and destroyed by Time and Christianity. And Christianity piled high into the heavens the modern Pantheon, a monument of imperishable faith for all Catholic nations of the earth ! Yet the day will come when the gigantic dome of St. Peter's must fall in its turn ; and later generations will wander amid its ruins, and listen to tales of its old splendour, and gather coloured fragments of marble from the rubbish. Then St. Peter's will be admired as the Coliseum of Christianity, wherein neither sword nor lance, but the spirit 252 ITALY. of a world-subduing idea, did battle. And as the names of powerful Caesars cling to heathen ruins, so in the marbles of this edifice are engraved the proud and ineffaceable traces of men who ruled here in Faith, and in whose hand the humble cross of Golgotha grew mightier than the earth-compelling sword of Antique Rome. By faith, and faith alone, men are able to accomplish great deeds, let it be in the ARCH OF TITUS. temple of Jerusalem or the Pantheon, in the church of St. Peter's or the cathedral of Cologne. And our own times ? Our times, too, fight with the sword of the Spirit, and struggle on, hopeful of a glorious freedom. And our temples ? We care not for temples, but let us erect what we may, our Faith and cry shall be, ,£ Room and Light for All ! " LFBR4RV or THE UNrVE^snry of !! PIOUS PILGRIMAGES AND PROFANE PROMENADES. 253 PIOUS PILGRIMAGES AND PROFANE PROMENADES. " From peace to war the unstable nations turn, And carve their deeds on many a monument, So that the latter times their fame may learn, Reading these records as a testament. Fruits ripe, and rot, and crumble back to earth ; Heroes march proudly past, and disappear ; But blossom, growth, and fruit, and foliage sere, Are one in Life's great story, — Death and Birth." H. LlNGG. T is a dull, rainy, April day. Clouds of mist brood over the Tiber, and veil the towers of the churches, from whence no bell may sound to-day ; for this is the day on which the Crucified Redeemer was laid in the tomb. How dreary is Rome on such a rainy day! How dirty, and how dull! Nowhere is the filth more abundant, or the misery, forlornness, and lifelessness more strongly marked, than in that portion of the shore of the Tiber which lies between the bridge of Fabricius, opposite to the island, and the Pons Aurelius, opposite to Trastevere. This quarter of the city is low, and unprotected against the muddy waters ; its streets are the narrowest, its houses the darkest, its dirt the most overpowering. Nevertheless it holds within its gloomy precincts the most ancient of all Rome's antiquities — one that has outlasted all changes, braved all deaths, and preserved its existence amid the fall of thrones, temples, and palaces, amid fire and slaughter, and beneath the yoke of the bitterest oppression and fanaticism ; one that still walks among us like a living mummy, like Ahasuerus treading over graves and corpses, and smiling at death ; one that will still live on, even when the proud dome of St. Peter's shall have fallen in ruin — the com- munity of Roman Jews ! And here is the Ghetto. Yes, this quiet, obscure community is truly the most ancient of Rome's antiquities, older than the wall of Servius Tullius, and it is fitting that we visit it first As children, long before we made acquaintance with the heroes of Roman history, we had wandered beneath the palm-trees of Sichem, had journeyed from Jerusalem to Jericho, and had diligently learned the songs of the inspired singer, which he sang in the golden house at Jerusalem upon the psalter with ten strings. The God of Jacob was also our God, and his people had become our people, and their sufferings our sufferings. How deep are such early impressions ! No wonder, then, that we still preserve an intense sympathy, nay more, an intense admiration, for this people. Where is another race to be found, where another faith, which, oppressed with a thousand woes, amidst grief and lamentation, trodden down into the dust, cursed, and frequently almost destroyed, living in an eternal martyrdom, considered lower than the beasts of the field, deprived of wife and children and Fatherland, its possessions scattered to the winds, yet never relinquished hope ? The hope of the promise sustained them ; they wept and wept, but still they hoped ! Years went by slowly and sadly, hundreds, thousands of years, and the con- solation and the Messiah came not. Yet at every Paschal feast, on the vigil of the 2 54 ITAL Y. fourteenth day in the first moon, when the liberation from Egyptian bondage is celebrated, are heard from the lips of the father of the house the words, " Behold, this is the food which our fathers partook of in Egypt ! Let everyone that hungers come and eat. Let everyone that sorrows come and share in our feast. This year we make the feast here, but next year we shall make it in the Land of Israel ! This year we celebrate it as bondsmen, but next year as sons of freedom ! " A GROUP OF HOUSES IN THE GHK'ITO. Thus sounded the comforting words of hope, whose arid buds have not yet been quickened by the Spring. The waves of the Tiber rolled on indifferently towards the sea ; dirt and misery grew in the narrow alleys on the shore, watched narrowly by hate and covetousness ; and still the " chosen people," the people of the inheritance, lived on. History, with shame upon her brow, has graven with a bloody stylus the story of the Jews upon the marble pillars of Rome. We can read it from the proud Arch of Titus to the Portico of Octavia, a story of shame and violence. What sufferings ! What a Titanic struggle, in a silent resistance of mingled defiance and humility, against the kings and gods of the world ! What an appallingly dreary stretch of road in the history of a nation's life lies between the Babylonian Captivity and the present time ! We behold the wild Of THE PIOUS PILGRIMAGES AND PROFANE PROMENADES. 255 Antiochus Epiphanes erect an image of Jupiter Olympus in their holy temple, in audacious scorn of their God ; what tears and anguish of heart ! Then follow the days of Judas Maccabeus and the Jewish heroes, days full of noble striving, and resounding with the clash of swords ; what blood and cruelty ! Pompey vanquishes the holy city, and the Roman toga sweeps over the altar of Jehovah ; Marcus Licinius plunders the temple with robber-like hands ; and lastly comes the decisive period of the stern Titus. Jerusalem ENTRANCE TO THE GHETTO. falls, and Israel, homeless, but still not hopeless, is carried into exile upon Italian soil. During the triumphal procession in which Olympian paganism celebrated its victory, the last hope of Israel, the bold leader, Simon Bar-Cochba, was strangled in the Mamertine prison at the foot of the temple of Jupiter Capitolinus. And then the Arch of Titus was erected as an eternal shame and stigma on the vanquished. Later on there followed the oppressions of Trajan, Hadrian's fresh destruction of Jerusalem, and the subjugation and utter treading under foot of the Jews' native land : it is laid waste, and the people have no longer a permanent abiding place. After Constantine, a new and hydra-headed enemy attacks them ; fanatical Christendom, which clothes them with the robe of the Pariah in jeering scorn, and brands the mark of Cain upon their brow. More terrible even than to 256 ITALY. be thrown to the beasts in the arena was exposure to the fury of the zeal-inflamed Christians, who raged with fire and sword against the homeless ones for centuries long, and attacked their trembling communities either by means of odious laws or utter law- lessness. And yet they lived on and on, full of hope, in the foul and ill-famed alleys of the Ghetto ! With pathetic tenacity these outcasts, to whom no Heaven peopled with angels smiled consolation, clung to life. It is the same profound love of life which speaks from the shade of Achilles in the joyless Orcus : — " Rather in daily toil would I till the fields as a hireling, Poor, and needy, and stripped of heritage and possessions, Than rule over all the host of the shadowy dead, in Hades." They have seen the temples totter, the pillars crack, and paganism fall ; they have seen thrones overturned and sceptres broken ; they have seen the Roman power decline, and Christianity, — the teaching of the Carpenter's Son, — grow up into a mighty church ; they have seen a temple erected by this church greater, loftier, more magnificent, than the temple of Solomon ; — and they have seen, too, how in the middle ages, the walls of this splendid temple were split and shaken by the hammer-strokes of a northern monk. They live, and will live ! — Will the papacy offer so stubborn, so iron a resistance to the course of time, and the onward flight of the intellect ? A feeling of wonder overcomes us when we behold at this day the unmixed posterity of those Jews whom no persecutions have availed to extirpate ; — a living page of Ancient History. We cannot but admire and sympathise with such indomitable strength amidst unspeakable sufferings. Verily I say unto you, such faith is only to be found in Israel, and their Jehovah is no vain imagination. In this frame of mind we stand musingly in front ot the remains of the Portico of Octavia, the proud sister of the Emperor. Here, eighteen hundred years ago, Titus and Vespasian offered up a prayer of thanksgiving previous to that triumphal procession in which the captive Jews were the principal figures. Here, at the present day, the foulest dirt of Rome seems to be concentrated. The Pescaria, the evil-smelling fish-market stands here close to the Ghetto, with its often overflowed, and muddy streets. Here, too, is the notorious church of St. Angelo, into which the Jews were driven to be "converted" by zealous monkish preachers, like beasts into the shambles. Here is the " Place of Tears," — the Piazza del Pianto, reminding us of the words of the Prophet Jeremiah, " I stretch out mine arms and weep, I weep and mine eyes are filled with water, and there is none to comfort me." We wander through the Ghetto, and see the pale descendants of Abraham cowering before their dark dens of dwellings, bargaining and working. They deal in the antique shreds and fragments of a brilliant by-gone world, and patch with parti-coloured rags, the garments of the modern one. Deep-set, melancholy eyes look up at us. No one smiles. From a gloomy corner house comes the sound of a cracked guitar, and a nasal voice singing a monotonous, fragmentary song. We cannot hear the words, but we think involuntarily of the sorrowful verse of the psalmist : " By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept, when we remembered thee, O Zion. As for our harps we hanged them up upon the trees that be therein." Many generations have disappeared and been buried ; and up yonder, in the Circus Maximus, which once contained an exultant crowd of a hundred and fifty thousand men, lies the Jewish burial-place. It is a solitary, cheerless spot. Here the muddy waters of the Marrana flow lazily between sighing reeds ; and wretched stones overgrown with sun- PIOUS PILGRIMAGES AND PROFANE PROMENADES. 257 browned weeds and grasses among which the cicala sings, show the places where the dead repose. But the hour of consolation has at length sounded, even in the Ghetto : United Italy reaches forth to them a humane hand, and offers them equal air and light, and equal laws, with her own sons. The Jews of to-day are free. Have they as yet accustomed themselves,— will they ever accustom themselves to the new light ? Their eyes have grown weak and are dazzled by it, and they still hold a shielding hand over them. " When the Lord shall release the captives of Zion, Then shall we be as dreamers." It requires some little trouble to discover the next oldest monument of the past which Rome has to show : the small remains of the fortress wall of Servius Tullius on the southern slope of the Aventine. Not that they are, in truth, parti- cularly well worth looking at : for we see only a fragment of hoary wall, grey with age, built of large square blocks of tufa, and overgrown with brambles and all manner of weeds and creeping plants. The direction of the wall may be traced by a continuous mound of rubbish, which divides the alleys of the dirty quarter of the Velabrum from the Tarpeian Rock. More interesting are the records of the old Priest- King who built it and reigned over it, and who may be compared in so many points with the first king of Italy in our own day. Servius Tullius was elected by a plebiscihtm, by the will of the people, without re- gard to the customary formalities, to be the national king. With a strong hand and ripe experience he set about making thorough reforms in the constitu- tion, and was the first who made patricians and plebeians into one united people. He was the darling of his people, Avho gave him the name of " For tancc filins" and attributed his constant good luck (always excepting his tragic end) to the favour of Fortune, who visited her protege every night in the royal palace. The plebeians were admitted into the national assemblies, and mild and benevolent laws established the rights and duties of all the citizens. The blending of the Seven Hills into one whole, and the establish- ment of a common system of defence for all, were due to him ; and he was also fortunate in war. That was two thousand five hundred years ago. Exactly two thousand years after Servius Tullius, there sate in the villa among the vineyards above the wall of Servius, in the spot where the colossal statue of Minerva stands under the shadow of black cypress trees, another powerful man, who was preparing himself to bear the dignity of a Priest- King. This was the Cardinal Montalto, originally Felix Peretti, a poor herd- L L ITALY. boy on the pastures of Montalto in the March of Ancona, who, as Pope Sixtus the Fifth, became one of the most powerful of all the wearers of the triple tiara. Gifted with an iron nature, a character of adamant, he imbibed from his contemplation of the ruins of past greatness, that spirit of insatiable ambition, that ruthless sternness, and that practical intelligence, which once distinguished ancient Rome, and which he manifested on every occasion when he saw an opportunity of glorifying God's Kingdom, — or his own. In this spirit he erected the mighty obelisk of Heliopolis upon the Piazza of St. Peter's, caused the vast dome of that Christian Pantheon to rise into the air, and created the aqueduct which he named after himself, "Aequo, Felice." He was resolved to make all things conduce to the glorification of Christianity over paganism, and over every classical tendency. For this reason he wished to destroy the fine tomb of Cecilia Metella on the Appian Way, and was only restrained from that barbarous act with infi- nite trouble ; for this reason he wanted to cast the two most important representatives of pagan art, — the Laocoon, and the Apollo Belvedere, — out of the sacred halls of the Vatican. On the same vine-covered slope stands a humble little church. It is called Santa Prisca, and according to the old Christian legend, is built on the site of the dwelling of Aquila and Priscilla, a married couple of Jewish race who were friends of the Apostles, and lived here, and followed the trade of carpet weaving. Paul found them on his travels in Corinth. According to the Acts of the Apostles, they were newly arrived there from Italy, because the Emperor Claudius had ordered all Jews to quit Rome. Paul laboured with them. Peter dwelt in their house during the period of his captivity in Rome, and' baptized the converted Christian couple in the fountain of Faunus. Here, and every- where in Rome and its neighbourhood, we meet with the legendary footsteps of St. Peter, and can trace them even to the gates of his cathedral. Even amidst the chill darkness of the Mamertine prison, hard by the Forum, sounds the name of the poor fisherman's son, Simon Peter. In this most horrible of all prisons Manlius was once confined, the ad- herents of Caius Gracchus, and the fellow conspirators of Catiline were strangled. Forty- three /Etolian princes, Jugurtha, the bold Numidian, Simon Bar-Cochba, the Jewish leader, were all put to death here. In these dungeons Sabinus was beheaded, and the all-powerful favourite of Tiberius, the handsome Sejanus, languished ; blood flowed upon blood, and Despair dashed its head against the impenetrable walls and expired amid curses. But look on this widely different picture : we see Peter, first of Martyrs, prepared for death and preparing others to meet it, announcing the Gospel of Love to a small com- pany of his fellow prisoners. By the power of his faith, a silvery stream of water trickles out of the stone walls, and in it those who already stand on the threshold of death, bow their heads and are baptized into life eternal. The fragment of a pillar, a little altar, and a stone basin, remain as memorials of that day. We climb up again from the darkness into the light, overleap in thought the long space of eighteen hundred years, and raise our eyes from the depths in which the mustard-seed of the Gospel was planted, to the lofty cross that surmounts the Church of St. Peter. " Tutti convengon qui d'ogni paesc !" — Dante. We are upon the Piazza of St. Peter's. The colonnades of Bernini embrace the wide space like an angel's outspread wings, where the people may be gathered together as chickens beneath the wings of their mother. But all is still and silent ; the vast piazza is INTERIOR OF ST. PETER'S. PIOUS PILGRIMAGES AND PROFANE PROMENADES. 259 filled with the sunshine of an autumn afternoon, and the fountains plash sleepily as though in a dream. Groups of weary, dusty peasants who have made a pilgrimage hither from the Sabine, Volscian, or Hernician Hills, lie in picturesque groups upon the broad steps in front of the church. They have come, full of faith, to kiss the brazen toe of the Apostle within there. They bring their little children and their sick with them, hoping for comfort and healing from the hands of him who was once poor and barefoot, who wandered hither THE CONFESSIONAL. from the fisherman's hut by the far-away Lake of Genesareth, a beggar and an outcast, and to whose glory the most splendid temple of the earth has been erected. " Tu es Petrus /" Here once stood the Gardens and the Circus of Nero, the blasphemer of Christ, who caused the martyred bodies of the Christians to be dipped in pitch, and to serve as torches to light his orgies. He deemed his power and his kingdom to be eternal, and looked on the wretched Christians as dust before the wind, as a fleeting shadow in the desert. How- could these ascetics who despised death, and relinquished pleasure, be of any importance in the eyes of him who made it the study of his life to enjoy to the utmost every sensual delight, and to deny all higher love ? Peter comes to Rome borne on the wings of Truth, upheld by the power of an idea that reconciles the human with the divine, and dies a martyr's death in the Circus of Nero. But the seed has fallen on good soil, and springs up plentifully watered with blood. His body is laid by pious mothers and sisters,— with tears, but still in the hope of a joyful resurrection, — within the dark catacombs. Twenty-four years later, Saint Anaclete builds 26o ITALY. a small subterranean chapel on the spot of the Apostle's martyrdom. Later still, the body is removed from the catacombs by the care of the pious Emperor Constantine and his mother Helena, and above the sacred bones is raised a beautiful basilica, which the piety of those days hastens to adorn, in chapel, altars, roof, and pavement, with the richest ornaments of gold and silver, marble and mosaics. The Christian Empire is removed to Byzantium, and the old heathen glories of Rome sink day by day into deeper decay. Silence spreads over the City of the Seven Hills, the valley of the Tiber, and the deserted Campagna. And then amidst this forlorn solitude, no longer dazzled, no longer injured, by Imperial splendours, the Papacy slowly grew and grew. Soon it rose to a lofty height, draped itself in the sovereign purple, seized, together with the Keys of Heaven, upon the sword of Peter, and commanded the world ! As, during the interval, the original mag- nificence of the shrine of St. Peter had been sadly dimmed, it came into the mind of one of these vice-regents of Heaven, to build a worthy temple to the Saint, — a temple which should stand through all time, and receive all the nations of the earth within its walls. Nicholas the Fifth was this Pope. He ordered that the ancient basilica in which Charle- magne had been crowned by Leo the Third should be destroyed. Then followed a hundred and thirty years, during which many great masters worked in faith, and not for show. During this time eight-and-twenty Popes succeeded each other on the throne of St. Peter. And, contemporaneously with the completion of the Reformation on the northern side of the Alps, Raphael, the great reformer of art, was working. What times those were ! Julius the Second and Leo the Tenth were the chief patrons, and Bramante, Raphael, and Michael Angelo, the chief architects of the edifice ; but countless others with hand and head contributed to set aside the original design, and to dissipate its unity by their subsequent execution. Platen was certainly quite right in saying of St. Peter's - " Mighty masters designed me for earth's most glorious building ; But soon 'neath bungling hands my noble form was distorted. The Greeks did well, who erected no such colossal temples : For the work that is spread over ages can never be truly harmonious." One idea, however, is thoroughly and brilliantly expressed in this edifice, — the idea of the Papacy. Yes, the Papacy has expressed itself here with all its world-swaying pride. It is not Christianity in its sublime humility, it is not even Catholicism ; both are buried under these huge masses of stone. No ! the church of St. Peter's is a work like the Coliseum, like the gigantic Egyptian pyramids, sprung from a haughty spirit of ambition, and not from the wish, the will, the heart, of a believing and devout people. We cannot pray here, beneath this cold gilded vault : we cannot open our hearts to a Saviour who writes up in gold letters above the door of His Father's house, the proud words : " Christus vinxit, Christus reguat, Christus imperat ! " A far different inscription should adorn His temple ; and how much sweeter would it be to read there, " Christus amat, Christus docet, Christus cxaltat ! " We can pray in the poorest village church, wherever the soul, undisturbed by wonder, can lay itself humbly before the Highest. But here — there is wonder and nothing else ! We admire, we measure, and compare, but those depths of the heart which ever keep some memories of our childish faith, the simple hymns of Christmas-tide, the joyful Easter chimes — these sacred depths of the heart remain unstirred. The solemn self-communings of the spirit, which transport even the most sceptical back for a time amidst the rosy paths of innocent childhood PIOUS PILGRIMAGES AND PROFANE PROMENADES. 261 never visits us in Rome. The exaggeration of luxury drives out faith, or changes it into superstition. " In Rome, in Rome, in the holy town, They are singing and ringing loudly. Here comes the procession trailing on, And the Pope in the midst walks proudly. " 'Tis the pious Pope Urban ; on his brow The triple tiara he's wearing ; His purple vestments amply flow, And Barons his train are bearing."— Heine. " My kingdom is not of this world," saith the Lord. And yet these men, aged for the most part, approaching the verge of the grave, sometimes trembling beneath the weight of years, clung fast to the earthly kingdom. They wrapped the imperial mantle around their feeble bodies, girded themselves for war and conflict, and the whole vast circle of this globe from sunrise to sunset — heaven and hell, death and the devil — the realms of darkness with purgatorial fires, and deliverance from them, ban and blessing — all the thunderbolts of Zeus to pierce the souls of the living as well as the departed, to strike at the head of the most distant rulers, and at their people — all this, and yet more, was grasped in one hand, the Pope's ! He was to be as a god, even though he were the greatest of sinners. He was emperor of the world, even though he were the son of a beggar. The furies of war as well as the angels of peace were his obedient messengers, whom he sent forth with sword or olive-branch as it seemed good to him, without right or justice, amongst the nations cowering at his feet. He was a prince of this world, and his temple was his throne ; but Christ dwells not in that house ! A walk through its pillared aisles lead us as along a " Via Appia of the Papacy," past many tombs of these rulers who preached the vanity of all the things of this world, and whose names call up associations little adapted to the sanctity of the place. All of them awaken historic interest, some of them artistic interest, but not one of them delights a thinking mind. " 'Tis true, were the mind not free, then, perhaps, the idea were lofty, That a monarch of thought should rule supreme over every spirit." Yonder, above the door of the chapel of the choir, stands a simple marble sarcopha- gus ; it awaits the successor of the Pope who last died, and bears the name of the latter, being intended merely as a provisional resting-place for the body of the deceased until his successor also shall descend from the throne. A powerfully eloquent Memento mori ! An appeal, too, for brotherly love ! — But who has learned from it ? The tombs of the two Popes most distinguished for their intense love for, and zealous patronage of the Arts, — Julius the Second and Leo the Tenth, — are not amongst the dead in St. Peter's. The first, the bold champion of the unity of Italy, " the liberator of Italy from foreign and domestic tyrants," whose strong character sympathised with the titanic genius of Michael Angelo, and to whom we owe the foundation of the cathedral, the paintings in the Sistine Chapel, the Loggia of Bramante, the Stanze of Raphael, and many more things of beauty, lies in the church of San Pietro ad Vinculo,. Leo the Tenth is buried in the church of Santa Maria sopra Minerva. He was of the House of Medici, devoted to the worship of the beautiful, and loving Raphael above all artists, as the high priest of beauty. Leo's motto was, "Since God has given us the Papacy, let us enjoy it !" And he did enjoy it with every refinement of pleasure. 262 ITALY. The eighteen years which elapsed between the accession of Julius to the death of Leo, contain whole centuries of progress in Italian art and culture; and indeed form the most brilliant epoch in its history. We would willingly give to these two patrons of art the most splendid tombs in St. Peter's, which, however, are occupied by comparatively insignificant pontiffs. But it is not only Popes who rest here. Protestants may well contemplate musingly the tomb of Christina, the apostate daughter of Gustavus Adolphus, who died for the CLAUDIAN ACQUEDUCT IN THE VILLA WOLKONSKY. cause of the reformed faith ; — the heedless queen, and accomplished woman, of the seven- teenth century. Germans will find food for thought in the bas-reliefs with which Urban the Eighth has adorned the monument to the Countess Matilda, on which they see one of their native sovereigns represented in the deepest humiliation, bare-foot, and clad in a penitential garment, — Canossa ! Musicians may interest themselves in the tomb of Pales- trina, the great reformer of music. Artists are delighted with the early effort of Michael Angelo's genius in front of the chapel near the entrance, which is named after the master's work, " la Pieta." It seems to have been sculptured by the chisel of a Greek who had embraced Christianity. The faithful can stoop to kiss the foot of the bronze statue of the Prince of the Apostles, worn and polished by the lips of generations of believers. And those who love the pomps of the Church should come here on the day on which the Papacy still displays all its mediaeval splendour ; — -the holy festival of Easter. Those of a romantic temperament, whose heads are intoxicated by the fumes of the incense, and whose senses are transported by the splendours around them, may perhaps think of Tannhauser, how he appeared in the sacred edifice in the days of Urban the Eighth : they may recal their own perils from the demoniac power of earthly beauty, and exclaim : " Like Tannhauser, my ancestor, Around my brows I'd twine A thorny wreath, and wander forth To Rome's immortal shrine. UMIVERC"! ' n m PIOUS PILGRIMAGES AND PROFANE PROMENADES. 263 " There would I fall upon my knees, And humble prayers would falter, Imploring God to show me grace Before St. Peter's altar. " I'd kiss the Holy Father's foot, And pay him homage duly, And ask him if the withered twig Could ever blossom newly." The New Tannhciuser. But the branch of Mother Church itself will grow dry and withered now that the waters of life no longer refresh it with a pure stream ; and even as the arch of Titus commemorates the fall of the temple at Jerusalem and the triumph of paganism over Judaism, — even as the arch of Constantine commemorates the fall of the temples of Jupiter, and the triumph of Christianity over paganism, so, to-day, when the free spirit of the nineteenth century has prevailed over the old bondage, the Porta Pia* has become the triumphal arch of the new epoch, and St. Peter's is shaken to its foundations. A real sense of careless enjoyment, the full and free pulse of life, is not to be felt in Rome. Easy gaiety does not belong to this atmosphere. We wander among tombs, we tread upon the resting places of the dead. Let us turn which way we will, our thoughts are inevitably diverted from the images of vigorous life. How different it is farther southward in Naples ! There, no man thinks on death ; amid the roses and vines of to-day, the tears and sorrows of yesterday are forgotten ; there men live in the moving present, and leave the dead to bury the dead. In Rome, even when we would fain rejoice and make merry, it is in vain : the glasses do not clink, the wine does not sparkle, the very roses look pale ; — they have been growing out of the ashes of broken urns ! Monte Testaccio is the paradise of the Roman populace. Here are vast cool cellars full of great casks of wine, — the finest wines of the Romagna, the delight of topers. In front of the cellar-doors spreads a sunny meadow with shady oaks and plane-trees scat- tered over it, under which benches and tables are placed, and these are always well-filled. For, notwithstanding that the city can boast of excellent water, and despite the tempting murmurs of the Fontana Trevi, your genuine Roman much prefers the poorest wine to the best water ; and the wine here is excellent. On sunny summer days, and at the time of the ancient feasts of Bacchus, in the genial October, this " Prato del popolo Romano " resounds with song and dance, the loud voices of the players at Mora fill the air, and the red and white wine flows in streams. The wines of the Roman Campagna suffice to supply the citizens of the town, as well as the peasants of the neighbourhood. Genzano, Frascati, and Albano, but especially Genzano and Velletri, afford excellent vintages, and are, so to speak, casks which one may tap the whole year round. The vineyards on the hills of Albano receive the most diligent and careful cultivation from their owners, and the vine-dresser is a persona grata in every house. The Roman wines are not extraordinarily powerful, nor apt to overcome one suddenly ; but they are agreeable, pleasant to drink, and soft to the palate. Besides the above-mentioned, there is the Montefiascone, which enjoys a distinguished reputation from of old. It grows upon the slopes of the hills which are mirrored in the lake of Bolsena, and is known under the legendary name of * It was by a breach in the city wall, close to the Porta Pia, that the Italian troops of King Victor Emmanuel entered Rome on the 20th of September, 1S70.— Translators note. 264 ITAL V. Est-est. All connoisseurs in the noble liquor agree in declaring that the town takes its name, not from the people called the Fisconi, as the learned pretend, but from the flask, — -fiascone, — which is its chief glory ! And they cannot refuse a tribute of sympathy to the prelate Johannes Fugger (of course, a German!), who tarried under the verandahs of Montefiascone to sip this noble wine, and who sipped and sipped till he died ! The wine of Orvieto is scarcely less excellent. It, as well as the former, is the product of a VIA APPIA. volcanic soil, and joins subterranean fire with the sunny perfumes of the upper world. The same may be said of the Aleatico, and of the vino saulo of Ascoli. But however great votaries of Bacchus the Romans may be, they voluntarily give up the palm for drinking powers to the fair-haired barbarians of the north. And although the German language is in general too rough and harsh for their tongues, yet they have learned one word from it which may be heard in every tavern to the further slopes of the hills ; the word " Trinkeris Wein ! " Every Roman, — from the Pope down to the beggar who lurks and loiters near the tables of the jolly topers on Monte Testaccio, — under- stands " Trinkais Wein ! " But the words have a Roman addition tacked on to them : — " alia Tcdescal" In the German fashion! The complete phrase is " Trinkcn's Wein alia Tcdesca ! " and it is to be met with even in a popular rhyme : — Sora Franccsca ! Voglio venir alia cantina vostra Per far un Trinkcn's Wein alia Tcdesca.'' PIOUS PILGRIMAGES AND PROFANE PROMENADES. 265 A German poet who followed this invitation but too often, and whose poems " Flowers of Idleness, from Rome," were too often gathered on the summit of Monte Testaccio, is not far from us here. Up above there, where the dark cypresses peep over the wall, is the Ghetto of the Protestant dead ; — not a churchyard, not a cemetery, for churchyard and cemetery are not permitted to heretics. In this burial ground, at the foot of an old pine tree, stands a broken pillar ; the grave which it once adorned has become quite neglected and weed-grown, and beneath this pillar sleeps Friedrich Wilhelm Waiblinger, who died, aged only twenty-six years, on the seventeenth of January, 1830. Possessed of a poetic nature, which but too easily runs into wild scepticism and cynical enjoyment, he hastened his own death by dissipation. His poems, at least the greater part of them, are real pearls of German poetry, and are too little known. He understood Italian life better than any other, and has expressed better than any other the various fluctuating feelings to which it gives rise. How did his soul exult when he beheld visions of the past in the gold of sunset, the rosy light of the morning! When his gaze wandered over the laurel groves to the storied mountains and the shining sea ! And as he sings : " When newly wakened from a dream By sound of many a jubilant voice, I hear the clash of tambourines, I hear the happy folk rejoice ; And when upon the sunny mead Where golden grape-vines richly glow, There dance, all crowned with rosy wreaths, The loveliest women earth can show. " Then would my panting spirit learn How on their clear Olympian heights, Careless of Fate, in youth eterne, The gods enjoy supreme delights. Then do I deem those only wise Who reck not of the dark To-be, Those only blest whose childlike eyes The present hour alone can see." Such was the philosophy of Waiblinger ; and so we can scarcely sorrow over his grave, nor over the graves of any of those who have found a resting-place in this lovely spot. It seems, in truth, to be the sweetest spot on earth, a real Poets' Corner filled with the murmur of waving trees, the song of the nightingale, and the odour of flowers. Surely it must have seemed thus to the Ancients also, and Caius Cestius must have had a poetical nature, to have erected his pyramidal monument just on this spot. Besides Waiblinger and Cestius, however, others of far higher renown lie here close to the ivy- grown wall of Aurelian : the poets Shelley and Keats, Emil Braun the archaeologist, the painters Reinhard and Elsasser, and two persons connected with one who loved Rome above everything : — Goethe. These persons are his son Julius Augustus Walter von Goethe, and the son of " Lotte," the Hanoverian Minister President L. Kestner. To Goethe himself the prayer which he made to the gods was not granted : " Jupiter, let me dwell here ! And lead me, O Hermes, hereafter Onward past Cestius' tomb, lead me down gently to Orcus ! " Thus we are once more among the graves, and our way leads from the flower-grown " Protestant Ghetto," to the lonely Via Appia, where the crumbling ruins of antique tombs M M 266 ITALY. line our path on either hand. Yet we do not feel sad. These departed ones were fortu- nate, in that they lived in Rome's great days ; and their last abiding place is so beautiful that the living might almost envy it. The Via Appia has been called the regina viarum, the queen of roads, and so it truly is ; not merely on account of its majestic grandeur, but far more because of its landscape beauties. And then, what road inspires such thoughts and dreams as this one ? We leave Rome by the Porta Caprea ; one association follows close on another all along the route. Here once was the grove and temple of the Muses. Here are the remains of the Arch of Drusus, the tombs of the Scipios, the few fragments of the temple of Mars, the tomb of Priscilla. Here, to the left down in the valley, once flourished the ancient grove of Egeria, so rich in legends, where Numia was wont to meet the nymph, and whither the Emperor Domitian once exiled the miserably poor Roman Jews, who formed a sort of gipsy settlement here. Onward ! We come into the open country and feel the fresh scent of grass and herbs on the Campagna. Nature, ever cheerful, has long ago overpowered the odour of the tomb with flowers. We have arrived at the tomb of Cecilia Metella, that stands like a sentinel overlooking the Campagna, and from whence there is an enchanting view. The green plain stretches away to the Sabine hills ; the aqueducts stride across it like cohorts in broken lines ; here and there an isolated group of trees crowns some low mound, and yonder lies fair Tivoli in the sunshine. Numberless other localities may be seen and recognised from hence ; mountain tops crowned with golden light rise into the blue sky ; deep shadowy valleys open. Then comes a rain-cloud, and shifting streaks of colour glide over the plain. How it changes ! Yonder the Albanian mountains look black as night, whilst the Sabine range is smiling in sunshine ; now the ruined aqueducts show pale yellow on a dark background, and anon the background grows light, and the aqueducts take a deep colouring, whilst the windows of Albano and Frascati glitter in the sun. Herds of cattle roam across the plain, followed by mounted herdsmen, hawks wheel in the clear air, and croaking ravens fly around the old stones of the massive tower- shaped tomb of Cecilia Metella. What a delicious stillness all around us ! At our feet are marble monuments relieved against the green, or burial mounds overgrown with aromatic mint and myrtle bushes. Laurels shoot up amidst the fragments of fallen capitals, vases, and urns : — laurels growing, perhaps, on the grave of some classic poet. A cool breeze murmurs plaintively in the cypress-trees, and gaily painted butterflies, happy children of the sun, sport among their dark branches. Lizards sun themselves upon marbles covered with half defaced inscriptions, or slip through the chinks into cool- ness and shadow. This stone seat here was sacred to the Diva Quies, the kind goddess of rest, and peaceful withdrawal from the cares of life, and the weary bustle of the city. Here we will sit down, surrounded by whispering voices of the past, and re-people in imagination the now solitary Appian Way. A cloud of dust arises before the city gate. We hear the sound of flutes and of women's voices singing the namicu, the mournful dirges for the dead. The body of the departed one is accompanied by his relatives draped in mourning garments, by his friends and fellow-citizens, and slaves. The dead man lies upon a bier, adorned with flowers, with his face upturned towards the sky, dressed in his richest robes, and surrounded by the last gifts of those who loved him, — wreaths, locks of hair, flowers, ribbons, images, and coins. The procession makes a halt : this mass of masonry is the Ustrinum ; and here the funeral pile is heaped up, strewn with flowers and twined with ivy. The eyes of the PIOUS PILGRIMAGES AND PROFANE PROMENADES. 267 corpse are opened once more, and it is prepared with sweet-smelling ointment and spices as if for a festival. Festal robes cover him, ornaments bedeck his arms and forehead, — and then the torch is set to the heaped-up pile, and the dirges, weeping, and lamentations resound again. Meanwhile, the ashes crumble and sink lower and lower, and a libation of wine extinguishes the last glowing embers. All that remains of the dead is gathered into GAME OF MORA. an urn ; the living hasten to return to the city, and give the last greeting as they look back once more : "Salve! Ave! Vale!" Upon a fragment of marble lying amongst the weeds, we can read the pious inscrip- tion : "Ave, anima Candida!" On another: "Terra tibi levis sz'l!" Who wrote it? And for whom ? The earth has been but too light above these dead ; the wind carries it away mingled with their ashes, and scatters it in grey dust over the leaves of the laurel and thorn and wild rose bushes. That height yonder, above the main road that leads to the Neapolitan provinces, is Monte Cavo, where the temple of the Latian Jupiter once stood. Those to whom a triumphal entry into the capital was not granted, might, nevertheless, celebrate their triumph on this mountain. Then the road echoed with the clash of weapons, and the M M 2 26S ITALY. shouts of soldiers and civilians. The glitter of armour and golden embroidery could be seen from afar off. Clouds of incense curled around the ivory chariot of the victor ; and he himself was the most splendid of all in his tunica palmata and purple toga. He was preceded by the Tubiciiies — trumpeters blowing a warlike blast ; by the bearers of the trophies, standards, and spoil won on the field ; and the white sacrificial bull that had often bathed in the waters of the Clitumnus. After the chariot came the singers, the musicians, and the legions wearing wreaths of myrtle. The victor himself here wore only a crown of myrtle. The laurel -crown was denied to him, eagerly as he might desire it. ON THE CAMPAGNA. Ah, how many a one has eagerly desired and striven for the laurel in mighty Rome ! Above all, one poet, whose grave we will now visit. Flora, the flower-garlanded goddess, seems almost to have abandoned Rome since the destruction of her temples, so few are the gardens and flowers that bloom here.* If we would refresh ourselves with the perfume of flowers, and at the same time enjoy the fine panoramic view of Rome, we must ascend the slopes of either the Pincian Hill, or the Janiculum. The latter rises on the southern side of the Tiber ; it was once the place of sacrifice to Janus, then the tumulus, or burial-mound of the holy Numa. Later still, it bore the luxurious gardens of Ceesar ; now the convent of St. Onofrio stands on it, and within St. Onofrio there is a grave that holds beneath its marble the mortal remains of one whose fame lives immortal in the realm of genius, — Torquato Tasso. We cross the Tiber, and proceed through the quarter of Trastevere, in whose dark and narrow streets mediaeval Rome seems to have taken refuge from the glare and gas- light of modern Rome. We admire here and there a beautiful woman, clothed in the rags * It is true that a passer-by will not see many flower-gardens in the city itself ; such as there are being hidden behind stone walls. But the supply of flowers in Rome shows no falling off in the favour of the goddess Flora. Not even in Florence — the Citid d£ Fiori — are they more beautiful and abundant.— Translator's note. PIOUS PILGRIMAGES AND PROFANE PROMENADES. 269 of a beggar, but with the bearing of a queen, in whose eyes the beams of that sun which once shone on antique beauty are brightly reflected, and pass through the Via Lungara, which is, truly, remarkable for nothing but its length, to the heights of the Janiculum. A vigorous vegetation sprouts from every chink in the walls, and overspreads the gardens and all the place. Flowers give out their sweet smells everywhere. This is an advantage CYPRESSES BY THE WELL OF MICHAEL ANGELO. which the Janiculum enjoys over most of the other hills ; the marble-dust of ruins is not favourable to flowers. They grow abundantly on the graves of the beloved dead, as if the loving thoughts buried with them rose again out of the tomb at every spring-time. But let us cast our eyes down from this blooming world of flowers on to the city, and behold ancient, mediaeval, and modern Rome as in a picture. There are the storied hills, which seem to reach each other the hand, and encircle the city ; there was the plain of Mars ; there Tarquin's field traversed by the Flaminian Way ; yonder lies St. Peter's and the great mass of the Vatican, and to the right and the left on the shores of the Tiber spreads the Rome of our own day, crowned with church towers, and dressed in a priestly garb. How the windows glitter in the sunshine, how the bells jangle, how the noise of the streets ascends to our ears, mingled with the ear-piercing trumpet notes of the ITAL Y. gladiators of the Italian King as they march along ! It is a sea ; and one individual human life is but as a drop that falls into its depths ; sometimes a tear-drop which grows into a shining pearl, precious and beautiful for all time. The convent of St. Onofrio once contained such a pearl. Many thoughts arise in our minds as we stand before its portal. We recall the image of Charles the Fifth waiting before the door of the monastery of St. Just, having just withdrawn from an empire on which the sun never set, and resigned his proud crown and sceptre in humility and weariness of spirit. We seem to see the unhappy poet, sick in mind and body, flying from the heat of the day, abandoning a realm whose eternal possession, whose eternal sunshine the Muses had once bestowed on him, leaving every- thing behind in the city, in the world without there, and seeking no light save that of the torch reversed and soon to be extinguished. It was in the winter of 1594. The young spring was preparing to revisit the Seven Hills, just as Tasso sought refuge here, a weary pilgrim. Even so a child, tired with the glare and noise of day, seeks rest at twilight in his mother's bosom. How sultry had the poet's day been ! How eager his race in the dusty arena of life ! How his heart beat, how his cheek glowed ! Love smiled down on him from its lofty balcony ; the laurel of victory tempted his ambitious soul ; fame beckoned him.